sometimes i sit and text women messages free
of any ****** connotations.
other times i come across a chopped & *******,
slowed + reverbed out version of a neoSoul song that i love.
she’s blonde and has a dumb thicc *** and
she’s a woman of few words and she was born
under  a constellation of fire.

like i was.

her eyes are nearly unblinking
and they say less than her mouth
but i know
there is a sea
of symbol-sets
beneath those televised eyes.

how am i supposed to weave or write
when the joy is coming for my neck.
time is the measure of energy in motion

so i turn the dial wayyy down.

God is not a time-piece.
God is a flour mill -
shaped like an inside-out hourglass
in the background of XI Jinping’s latest video on
Tik Tok.
“Violent anarchists held a ‘Night of Rage’”
“Violent anarchists graffitied the Hatfield Courthouse.”
“Violent anarchists continue to attack law enforcement with lasers.”

gravity is ******* the feet and
hills are ******* the walking.
graveyards are a hard one for the memory
(if you believe your family is another pile of bones).
at least we have our three deaths to draw on and die.
1st when our last breath leaves us
2nd the last time someone speaks our name
3rd when Zuccman the Reptilian deletes our postumus, memorialized FB account.


where lies the heart of the enlightened without a mirror?
or when the three deaths are drawn and
it hangs suspended in purgatory like a
pack of Newports in the freezer?
or like a stylized hospital mask produced under
contentious labor practices and
shipped to America via air freight
passing over the Xinjiang province where crimes against humanity
are being committed on an industrial scale ----
The Uighurs NEED OUR HELP THEY SUFFERING A GENOCIDE
THEY ARE BEING ETHNICALLY CLEANSED!!
https://www.vox.com/2020/7/28/21333345/uighurs-china-internment-camps-forced-labor-xinjiang

I have spent my life so far
looking through a window
as the parade passes
searching for a door
some way in

to date this hasn't happened

stuck in purgatory
awaiting an official decision
of my fate

I patiently age
beyond recognition
having little of myself
left to give

I will know the sign
like an aneurysm in my brain
bursting to let my spectre escape
a change is  a-coming
but will I survive
my coming out

Like a serpent
  it tears through me;
Conducting
  my body in turns
  and twists, as it pleases,
  as the warmth pools in pits
  in my stomach, my gut
  tells me to *****.
I feel detached.
Forever lost in a void,
  the empty space of a thought
  that I truly am alone. "Help!"
  I yell, over and over and over
  like a damsel in distress.

I am too tall, too dull.
my body is too far
  for me to reach and grip
  and curl up and pity
  who I used to be
  and who will I become,
  after the blue light of my phone
  dies down and falls
  down through the sewer hole
  in London Soho.
And all the while I stand,
  unforgiving of the past,
  erasing my name on documents
  but still looking back at Them.

I'm always gonna look back.
I'm never gonna escape Hell.
  and while Hell is Paradise
  and Paradise is Purgatory,
  and the choice is mine,
  but I will never be able to decide;
Is it better to die
  or to die and keep dying,
  until I am reborn and never
  seen again by the Neighbours
  next door
  who last saw me drinking coffee
  and reading a poem.

I want to be anything
Criminal stealing hope
Saint giving peace
Tyrant breaking skulls

Anything to vanish
To escape this flesh
Forget the trauma
Dissolve the fingerprints
Leave tears behind


Bars of nerves and veins
Walls dripping blood clots
Floors of rotting black gelatin

A bleeding heart
is neither blessing
Nor curse
Simply a purgatory
For the weak fool

It had to super secede conscious thought.
To be biologically absolute.

Overthinking is a non conundrum.
Fight or flight, that’s all that’s left.

Removing choice, perhaps the key,
Though it’s no clear cut sanity.

Precision is swift, through non mortal blows,
Just within the fringes of lethality.

On the edge of life or the brink of death.
Let the flesh decide for itself.

The Patient, with one name after another branded, like a hot iron on the roof of his mind, roams around a lonely populus; continuously giving but being capable of receiving that which he gives.

It smites like a snout in the fog.

Difficult to make out but impossible to deny its existence. The snout becomes clearer as the mist fades away, the grey fur glows, and then, with one single ****** of motion the whole wolf appears itself with the dynamism of a lightning bolt striking violently. It refuses to remove itself from the Patient's view as it stands there stubbornly.

The Patient gestures, nudges, speaks and screams yet the Wolf's head can never, will never and, finally, should never, ever truly turn.

And so from the first chemical secreted in his brain till the last the Patient lives.

Scared.
Confused.
Unloved.
Unknown.

Alone.

Peel back the layers
of my rural purgatory.

Figure out
the critical junctures
of where I once stood,
with this one,
now on TV, and this one,
surfing in Hawaii.

I was a **** girl, spreading
my legs for sailors, and
getting crucified for it.

I am guilty
of still imagining
our beautiful possibilities.

Death may yet
claim him, and my ****
are still round
and firm.

Is this real,
or is this fake?
Is this a dream,
where I cannot wake?

Am I doomed to eternity,
of repeating sin?
A purgatory of do-overs,
again and again.

Purge it once,
rinse and repeat.
Tie up the strings,
and make it neat.

Reality,
is not what it seems,
but which side’s the waking,
and which side’s the dream.

I guess it don’t matter,
if you can’t tell.
Cause neither side’s good,
they’re double sided hell.

I’ll keep moving,
and try not to see,
the fluctuations,
surrounding me.

So if this is real,
then I’m sorry Dear,
but I doubt it is,
cause nothing is clear.

Either way I’m doomed,
to an eternity,
of repeating days,
and insanity.