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Only the moonslice
once a Pacman Bobbysands
understands.

Wintervista vitrified
from the outside,
ectoentad encroached
the psychosocial frostbite,
the conveyorbelt of qualia
the pushupbra of propaganda,
bruited snooty God omnipresent daddy of all NIMBYs.
All that incoming removed distal news
kibed me into a thalidopus monk.

Zampa di elefante on the keyboard,
decayed beyond a criticalsituation.

Samsara spider, laughingbuddha abdomen
Doctoroctopus's docker's omelette ambertrapt.  

Octo-Atropos did achopof
mooredlimbs problimbs chitterlimbs, left an
acolousbido, anthropomorphic monocled *******
l/ Baronvonstrucker's dastardly costard,
an empirinik ball of no bearing.

Bittersweetly breathing Thing-
addams in pilliwinks,
nullified l/ a wiseman w/out Wikileaks.

Vitruvius De-
milo ,who struts l/ an armoire,
falls l/ a stone.

Petit legume puce w/ bourgeois bruises
in a black lagoon benefits backroom.

Analogue saprobe
21st Century Life firewalled
l/ Fritzl's tamagotchi.

Hamlet in his equivocastraitjacket,
yet also inarticulate.

I'm not going anywhere in this condition;
I can't stay l/ this.
Not even some strong stump of headless elanvital
am I. The point, the point is squeamish.
mark soltero Oct 5
what keeps you free?
i know you very well
but what makes you feel
as if you’re in hell?

is it the trepidation
of your minds’ own creation
to fuel you further to
your true disposition
of what you want?

the concupiscence for me
beaming throughout the space where you live
inside this biosphere of my heart
where you lie barren

fermenting your own despair
i truly appreciate your time
can you continue to only be mine?

it’s selfish
but this world is too cruel for your beauty
shielding you has become my duty
god cannot take me from you
eva Aug 24
the future is a recent concept to me.

i spend my entire life looking backwards, to worlds and people that left me behind long before i was born.
reaching into water i can't see the bottom of, down on my knees in the mud, just close enough to the edge to sweat.
i thought of futures sometimes, occasionally, sleek and chrome with wires peeking through each rusted corner.
but they were never futures i was a part of. always for a generation whose parents were yet to exist, a century i couldn't even count to.

i didn't imagine my own adulthood at all until a week before my 18th birthday.

when i was a child it never crossed my mind. i didn't realize yet that youth was a state that all except the tragic move beyond.

i pried a disposable razor apart with nail clippers when i was twelve, and pulled it through my skin.
once the anger drained itself dry i stared at the scratches, the edges, the angles between them,
as if i was investigating a cave painting, making guess after empty guess at meaning and motivation and reason.
until i remembered that skin would scar.

and suddenly every year of an average life hit at once, and i panicked.
it was long, unbearably long. minutes stretched into days and a decade sounded unending.
so i resigned myself to simply
                                  
                       ­                                         not make it.


and i told myself that, often, for years.
i would set a date, tidy my room, make sure i had all my arguments settled.
then i would cry, and fail, and come up with an excuse to postpone it a few months.

i tried twice, on the same day, four years apart.
i even tried to go to school the morning after each overdose, but i never made it past midday.
i ran off the morning bus the first time, puked and cried and stared at strangers who walked past thirteen year old me, unflinching, until i was done.
i was half dragged, half carried, half conscious to my classes, until i got sent home. but i said i was tired, and nobody asked questions.

when i was seventeen i made it to the alleyway by the school gate before vomiting, eyes watering from the force and the fear.
a man in a van bought me water and offered to drive me to hospital. i wondered what he was doing four years ago.
but the hospital told my parents, and gave me a counsellor, and a month into therapy she asked me why i had nearly thrown away an entire future.

i couldn't answer her. i cried, and we were silent, and she changed the topic.
what could i tell her? that the future always cut off a few vague months ahead whenever i tried to look at it? that i had never even expected myself to get this far? that my entire life has felt like borrowed time? no, then she would only ask more. and i just wanted to leave.

so i left, and somewhere along the way i stopped going back, stopped answering her calls, her letters, her voice asking my mother if i was still alive.
it was a week before my 18th birthday when i realised i would actually live to see it.

but i've made it through a whole year of university so far, despite never thinking i would leave school. it's been one year and four months of winging it now.
time still passes when you aren't looking,
and somehow i made it this far.

i've accepted the rest of my life, however long it is. i hope as much as i fear. i'm tired, mostly. i'm angry at myself for wasting so much time. but there's nothing i can do about that now, i just have to move forward.

i wonder sometimes, often, if i will ever get to a point where i will be okay forever. where i can take the sad little piece of myself that i carry each day out of my pocket, put her down, and walk away.
i don't think i will, but i'm trying to make my peace with that.
if u actually read the whole thing number one thank u and number two pls tell me so i can thank u
eva Aug 21
it's too late to call you, but i stare at your number anyway.
with a picture that no longer looks like you staring back at the dark,
clouded by a fuzzy head and wet eyes.
as i desperately try to tell myself that it's okay to be strangers sometimes.

but i'm lying.

i can't live as a stranger to you. i don't know who that leaves me to be.

i want you to look me in the eye and see me down to my soul so i don't have to embarrass myself by telling you,
because i always sound pathetic out loud.
i want you to know me so i don't have to know myself
i want you to love me so i never have to look my reflection in the eye and feel my insides turn at the sight.

every time that i tap into the sadness it threatens to pour out of me at once.
and i cannot touch the wave that crashes inside my chest for fear that i will splinter,
and everything will fall until it is broken.
and i have nowhere left to hide.
and you will see me.

as i am, anything other than as i am.
i feel like i have been waiting for something for my entire life.
i have been waiting for an okay that will never last
for something to break
something to give
to fix
feel
wait.


                 breathe.


i will be okay.

in some hour of tomorrow who feels so impossibly far from now.
and i will be okay until i am not.
again and again until the cycle comes to me like water
the hardest part of getting better is realising that 'better' is a lie, and working towards it anyway.
but there are times when i want to be alive so much it makes my lungs ache.
so i will carry on for the me who lives in those moments, fleeting as they may feel.


it will pass.
i wrote this in one go while crying. it is not good, but it is a lot.
evil thing came
wrapped up six
years hither

slithering hidden
with the sickness
bug-eyed in the brain

illumining my depths
with luciferian light

jetzt er ist tot i have killed it with a stick
with a baseball bat in the middle of the night
July 2020
Sylvia didn't waste time

She kept time

In a bell jar

On her nightstand

Next to the blissfully whirling blackness of eternal oblivion

All in the hopes it might one day grow wings

And lift her beyond the owl's talons clenching her heart
for Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)
As you lay asleep-I recount each word, every
sound and syllable,
I memorize them;

and despite my plans I still spill out
over these words
and all across my page, that
As you lay asleep-
I am left to my imagination
and in a failure
or another life,  
rhyme and rhythm
take priority,
and
my imagination settles.

as you lay asleep, I wonder

then regret.
Zuzu
Murakami Jan 17
I find out what I knew I shouldn't
I should have stopped at the door
but I stumbled in. I knew I shouldn't.

Amongst the honesty of a simple friendship:
casual honesty,
And I loved him.

But I wanted to be loved, does that make sense?
They wanted me
Why should they? He asks.
I'm not a model

Hell, she's not even as cute as Her.

She agrees.
Well... she's cute, but not drop-dead gorgeous
They did though,
loved me like a rose
under the sky they fell.  

But he agreed.

I should have walked out
basalt secrets
on the edge of me

But I stayed. And I knew I shouldn't.
Not as cute as Her.
l0ser Dec 2019
C1
i stay up late to
sleep in.
heavy with hate and
hope in
unequal parts 'cause
hoping
is simply a mode i'm
broke in.
wanted to write something tonight and had no idea that it would wind up being this.
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