I study hallucinations
scattering all over my eyes
Everything you see
you know its not as it seems
looking to the sky
at the stars
maybe get high
hallucination in the mind
trippy feeling vibrations
freedom in america is my song
until man brings us down
stay free in america
*** mitt he's already drowned

A gloom night looms, inside her sweet dark tresses,
No one thing survives the trippy nerved crevices,
No one knows what shadowed secrets, she suppresses.

She comes,
and she goes.
She comes,
and she goes.
And I just seem to stay,
in the same exact place everyday.
While she goes off to see the carnival show.
A life full of joy.
Cotton candy, stunt performers, and trippy tents.
Won't you please soften the blow?

She comes,
and she goes.
She comes,
and she goes.
Spin the ghost of time around,
like a revolving door.
What has this all been for?
All the days bought and spent,
wonder just where those kisses went.
Hope they leave home before the Sun will glow.
And the stars hide behind it's rays.
And fall into false days.
Won't you please soften the blow?

She comes,
before she goes.
And before she comes,
she dances beautifully on her toes.
She's alone and she's cool.
She's enough to make you feel a fool!
Words being said.
Flightless birds sitting in bed.
Wonder if she will go,
or if she will stay.
Guess I won't know until a day oh so far away.
Wont't you please soften the blow?

Over a cup of morning java
Scanning my daily mail
I came upon an advertisement sheet
That exclaimed in BOLD rainbow pastel

Grand opening of a store that has everything
On the corner of Daisy and William Tell
The one thing I saw that interested me
Is they were having a back to "60's"  Hippie sale

Of course I stopped what it was I was doing
Hopped in my Lexus and left right away
The excitement had my heart all in a flutter
This I guarantee is going to be a good day

They weren't kidding when they said they sold it all
I'd been wandering the store for quite a while
That's when I came to what it was I had come here for
Before me in trippy little colors, the hippie aisle

So I bought me a couple colorful hippies
With my 25% coupon I was able to save
The Hippies even  came with a bonus
Fresh cut flowers and Jefferson Airplane tapes

When I got home I showed them to their room
Black light posters and colored beads hung from the door
As luck would have it I bought an Indian hemp rug
From Pier One just the day before

They taught me transcendental meditation
While I taught them both how to bathe
Their lessons broadened the mind
My lessons the nostrils saved

I soon had a groovy little hippie pad
In which organic vegetables and enlightenment grew
We'd sit around crossed legged in a  purple haze at night
Playing psychedelic tunes on our Kazoo's
And I was pretty good too! Who Knew!

Yes, a house of happy hippies
Is a happy hippie house indeed
Especially when Wendy Crystal Sky...Yes, that's her name
Brews her famous dandelion tea

I highly recommend the purchase of hippies
I couldn't be any happier with mine
Sure beats the punk rockers I got on close out last year
But that my friend is another tale for another time...

Butterflies in my head

like percolating coffee suds

i walked a little faster

to catch up with my mind's anachronisms

future like a prism in high def

building castles of cotton candy vapors

smoky salt tears whisper out loud

like a hot knife through butter foam

dancing in enraged twists of prophetic cyclonic squalls

shindig of cobalt's eclectic leaves storming fiercely down

wading in puddles of refractive delirium's trippy next dip

ugh
you have me
all up in this
trippy tangle
of impulses
thoughts
walks
you make me want to have ***
scream
touch you
you make me so
frustrated
every time you squeeze me
in a big hug
kiss my
forehead
you make me wish
you weren't such
a nice guy
i have some other things
on my mind
love me
roughly

...please?

.but i wasn't obviously going to go far down this "worrisome" route for too long, maybe like ten minutes... i had to think of something relaxing to do... i looked in the mirror: ****! the wild-man of Essex! beard, shaggy, the neck barely visible... hair like Mozart composing, or as the Poles say: hair like a wkuriony Chopin (******* Chopin)... ****... better do something about it... ah... there's only one thing that can lighten my mood and this whole, tirade... a visit to the local traditional Turkish barbers... so i ****** off... in went the wild-man of Essex... out came well-groomed human being, not a sign of his werewolf past to be seen on him... ah... this is the 4th time, proper, that i visited the barbers (prior to? long hair... after? a shaved head like a Buddhist monk)... god... just sitting there with closed eyes... i'm starting to think that going to the barbers is better than ***.

i was never into blocking someone,
esp. if someone is liking your stuff,
but it happened to me with
that poetess on here,
       i wanted to know how it feels,
to just randomly block someone
who really enjoys your stuff...
             and then... ****! gone, never
to be seen again...
   Wattpad is basically a fascistic website
to boot this thread of thought...
who the hell gets booted off a platform
for starting a cordial conversation?
- but i really did wake up with
a moral hangover...
   excuses?
             irritability...
           there's just a certain level of
conversation i can take,
                              i can't get the pedant
out of me... i really can't...
i tried and i tried,
  notably because when speaking
to natives, i see them lazily doing this
or that, while i come with an acquisitive
perspective, hence the furthered
acquisitive impetus to further this
acquired language... while the natives
are like: blah... it has been given to them
from birth...
     and conversations,
after having completed a...
    well for me it was an exhausting poem,
the desire to finish it before off
the rails with the bourbon instigated
a thirst, matched with irritability...
               ****, i hope i can unblock the guy
and apologize...
spare of the moment thing...
            well... if i can't...
i know what it feels like:
           not being on the receiving end...
so... that's one plus from all of this.

p.s. that sort of direct messaging language,
aged... 40?
             how can i talk to someone
who's older than me, on that level...
(looks up his profile page)...
huh?
             so i didn't block him?

Dennis Willis's profile is not
visible because they have blocked you.

and i still have the block option
handy...

mind you... i didn't wake up today
recollecting some pretty
   trippy *******).

"Being a whale would be so trippy."

Took me a while to join
Had to learn all the security settings
I've heard about the weird on the net
I need to protect myself from all that ****
I won't friend you if I don't know you
If your not a family member
I'll ignore all random messages
And ads that give the universe
And all my friends I tell them
My mum is on my list
So take care with where you tag me
Or you could **** me off
Your loss I'll unfriend you
Just send me cool warm fuzzys
Thats what I call a buddy
Lolcat positivity
Affirmation awesome trippy
I f*cking love science
Mega Success stories
Against overwhelming odds
Photos of your son
Pet day at school with his lamb
Your new makeup
Your family outting
Theres no better way to keep in contact ...

I Am Very Refugee
We protest and communicate
We back off and disingenuously disjoint
“You have potential.”
He says as he smokes a joint.
“Where has that revolutionary spirit gone today?” It is victim to my apprehensions
I must suppress them.
I must suppress my apprehensions
And the electrifying feeling of anger surging up from my stomach; but never out
My anger is a fiery, vivified ball of red and black electricity surging,
Heaving,
Every bone and nerve ending coming close, to stumbling,
Burning out in the intoxicated hope of it all, but never touching
And the trippy glow, the burning fireworks climaxing perpetually never ends,
it is subdued without the chemical element to release my apprehensions, the doubting gone.
The wheels must turn; the machine keeps turning
Does it matter? NO!

The policeman looks at me and says: ‘’a ******* refugee. You don’t get to be angry at your host.”
It hit me.
I see activists
Typing , gathering, yelling,
Barely smiling,
Privileged

While excluding me, of course.

I wanted to scream:
Please consider me another fixture of your time here
I am the battle every day. I die every day.
I am searching for words to describe how you, citizens of the land, reject me
Much like the letters I will receive from the journals I send this to,
I want the marching, the marching,
walking in everyday and touching my feet in my black secondhand fake leather shoes
I want to march in and step in and feel the constraint of my blue ID
Telling me that this land isn’t mine
“How will you change your life, Islam?”
I ask  myself how am I spending my time?
rushing
fleeting
drinking
contemplating suicide
paranoid,

I am tired, scared, weak, flawed, human, a desperate refugee intertwined with the poor hopes and regulations of humanity, and I am dying,
You are dying!
I will die soon,
Go ahead! Smoke your oxycodone pills,
you are dead, you are dead, you are dead! You are all dead!
My father killed himself because of me and so I will blame the system.
You are dead, from the moment you confine yourself to the poor reality that there are just too many of us and that nothing will change!
So yes I will leave the protest.
I will sit within your dreary cubicles walls stained with the fabrics that I horrifically glance at, sneaking, beating the freedom,
Embracing constraints of social and financial necessity.

I
run, run, run, run,
screaming madly about our dissatisfaction and our satisfaction?

my anger is dulled;
nullified intricacy, blazing, twisting and winding its' way down my heart,
to the frayed edges of my perceptions, drowsing off into the last fixtures of the solidified realm
in which  I find myself; and eventually.

Can I  say something?

I am a refugee. I am so refugee, refugee, refugee, refugee.
The vast expanse of illusory getaways are the only thing for me.
There's nothing else but to escape this vast and dreary landscape of perpetual minutia, to escape my insanity.
Time stretches on and on, I am very tired.
Palestine still occupied.
Yes I’m screaming, screaming, till there is no me, and my voice will not reach you

I will never reach to you. I will never touch you, hold you, love you, I will never have the opportunity to feel the electric race of mindless sensation make right the ticking

A white friend asked me on twitter
“What’s  it like to be a Palestinian refugee in Lebanon?”
It means that you cannot do anything but carry on pathetically, with a drastic furthering of lust and selfishness, into your devotion. Psychopathy is more common than you'd think.

I want more to talk to you but there is reality, and the sea is not green
It is red.

The beach is cold and the sand sifts beneath your wait, it is tan.

Dear,
We are all comrades when it is our rights for which we ask. We are all comrades when it is basic rights for which we ask.

I don’t know if my words make sense because honestly they shouldn’t.

I am manic. I am loose. I am dangerous. I am high.
And I am terrified.

Took me roughly five years to get past a past I despised…
He cheated, he lied, he left me high and dry.

Now I’m trying to get by the image of you,
Holding me in such a way,
Where the whole world stood still,
And watched…

Watched and saw how amazing we could have been…
So sue me…I MISS YOU!

I miss how you actually were approved by BOTH,
My Catholic parents…

I miss how we’d laugh,
Falling asleep to trippy movies in your room
With no air-conditioning.

I miss how you were the first person
To teach me how to roll a joint properly.
So we went out to your front porch
And smoked a J to ourselves.

And mostly I miss you,
Because you were the first guy,
To break my heart…in the most perfect way.

Let me cry on your shoulders
In East Towne Mall’s parking lot
For at least a half hour.

You told me I deserve better…
As you wiped away my tears,
But what you don’t know,
Is I don’t want any other…

Cause none of them,
Can add up to what WE could have had.

Cause baby I loved you…
Like a dying breath,
Loves that last bit of air
That helps you to tell the ones you care about,
You will always, always love them.

Call me crazy,
But you broke me so well,
That no doctor can fix me,
Not even the one’s on TV.

So shoot me…I LOVED YOU!

blushes
tips, brushes and spills and the willingness of physics
dip the quill
blending a full face of colours trippy
tipping my crown, my head,
my thinker becomes      creation winning
inks
i wink   faithfully lacy    into the universe    pirouettes and eddies
tinkering
i divide myself    couple and quad and oct..
flood my breeding into the cosmos
spoon-feeding      peddling out into the mutter
the great relax of the creative meddle

Hey, hey you.
Yeah, you kid.
Want some crack?
Why not? You don't do drugs?
Think you're too cool? Too rugged?
Let me tell you kid, drugs are devine.
Even better than christmas eve, vintage wine.

Smoke some ***, you wouldn't notice if you were shot.
Drink some bourbon, whiskey, a few shots of *****.
The poison is so good, you'd ask the bartender to top ya.
Sniff some coke, ****** you must inject.
**** gets you so trippy, you cannot reject.
Pop some acid, crush some ****.
You'll be immortal, there will be no death.
Sniff some glue, Inhale some petrol.
You won't be addicted. Everything's under control.

The rush, the high.
It'll be amazing, it'll help you bare life, son.
The speed, the hush.
It'll make you feel sly, son.

The kid, innocent of puberty said,
But sir, that's what accomplishing my dreams, feels like.

cigarette smoke
empty balconies
trippy lights
one band
and it can only be crime funk

I'm a traveller,
I travel through this universe,
14 billion years ago,
When the big bang happened,
My atoms were burning,
Somewhere, in a distant star or galaxy,
I was roaming freely in universe,
For so many years,
I was orbiting the sun,
Floating in the cosmos,
Diving in the sea of hydrogen,
Sailing towards my destination,
Drifting alone, witnessed the infinity,
My compound eye
Was seeing the colors of the universe,
I saw the formation of the
different celestial bodies
The sun, the moon, the stars
And all of the galaxies,
I saw everything
It's my universe,
diverse and colourful.
I'm it's eternal part,
It's incomplete without me

I stand solid, the fabric flows against the folds of my marble skin
I watch the fires of angst burn this beauty away so -
Now I am a black, burnt crust from forces that force my feet into the floor and,
As I sink against the fluid tiles and the trippy nightmare of reality
I ask, have you ever seen a statue cry?


M.

The quiet guy in the corner
with  his trippy eyes
and a face full of mystery
and silence

In his bubble he lives
quietly inside his dark shell
thinking about life and death
n' the 'in-between'

With his thin bones
and skeletal face
behind his raven eyes
there's a light

The purest heart
reside within
within the guy in the corner
as silent as the wind

How can he know
that another corner boy
would give his tears and heart
just to see his smile?

How can the other one
have knowledge of the
feeling his lover have
as pure as his? For him

But they never spoke
and in silence they lived
till the day
of their young death

Marty the Mellow Mushroom
Far out in left field
Growing ever strong and tall
With cow manure his favorite meal

Everyday he contemplates
Life under the sun
That is until the fateful day
The hippies all showed up

They took Marty out to party
Now the only part of Marty left
Are the trippy little colors
Inside the happy hippies heads

This spoken word.
I want to talk.
Folks'll put you
In a box.
It has six sides.
There's lots in stock.
Works just like a
Broken clock.
It fits in life
Two times a day.
Once the cradle.
Once the grave.
Then they'll fix
A label, TOO.
Once it's on it

STICKS LIKE GLUE.

There's a man
Down on the street.
Not someone you'd
Want to meet.
Drinks his meals
So he won't eat.
Shuffles 'round
Sits on the curb.
He's a "mumbler".
He's "disturbed".
Talks to self
Because he's shunned.
Got a label...

He's a ***.

There's a woman
Has no phone.
Has twenty cats
'Coz she's alone.
She talks to them
When in the mood.
She's so poor
She eats their food.
Yup. She has an
Attitude.
Has no husband
Who'd get paid.
On HER there are
Labels laid...

She's a SPINSTER.
An OLD MAID.

There's a teen
Who is arrested.
He's a menace.
It's attested.
Nope. He's not
Very nice.
He is into drugs & vice.
Is this "DELINQUENT"
Past retrieval?
Is he past knowing
'Coz he's evil?

Tie die. Peace sign.
Kinda trippy.
He's a "LONGHAIR"
He's a "HIPPIE".

Is she lovely?
Or "STUCK UP"
He's a "DOG"
The laughter's ****.

[chorus]
They aren't "NORMAL".
They're "unstable".
Slap 'em with a
POST-IT LABEL.

There's a girl
Who eats her pain.
Downs her food
Unrestrained.
She's bulimic
So she's "CRAZY"
She may be "FAT"
So she is "LAZY"
Another on the
"crazy" list...
His anger's inward,
He's depressed.
He may drink
So he's a "******".
Here's another label...

"LOSER"

Then there's the boy
Who lashes out.
Beats kids up.
He's a lout.
He is wild and
He is wooly.
He is labeled as a
"BULLY".
There's another
Kid who's shy.
So he gets the
Blackened eye.
He is "sraight"
He don't get high.
Nose in book,
He goes unheard.
What's his label?

He's a "NERD".

[chorus]

There's a one
We ALL know's BAD.
She was *****
By her own dad.
At age thirteen
She's "knocked up".
We ALL know her...

She's a "****".

There's a man
Who wears tattoos.
Labels he will never lose.
"WHITE TRASH" 'cuz
He owns a bike.
She likes women.
She's a "****".
She smokes fatties
So she's a "stoner"
He's just "weird"
'Coz he's a loner.
He loves men,
So he's a "***"
She loves him
So she's a "hag"
How'd YOU like
That odious tag?
Let's all do
The Label Rag!
Don't it make the
Tongues just wag?
It's enough to
MAKE YA GAG.

[chorus]

Tribal nation?
I'll be brief.
He's an "Indian"
Call him "Chief"
Does it make
White egos bigger
To call a black man
"BOY" or ******"?
Is that wisdom
Do ya figger?
Whatcha think
THAT'S gonna trigger?
Will the term "*****"
Do the trick?
How 'bout "******"?
How 'bout "****"?
How 'bout "****"?
That ***** Jew.
Well.
Let's take a look at YOU.

Look in the mirror.
The view is free.
Look in there!
What do you see?
Do you see yourself...

Or ME?

Is there smoke?
Are you deceived?
What's th label
You've received?


Look out dere!
HERE COME DA JUDGE!
10 feet tall & has a
GRUDGE!
And since we're getting
Really formal
Got another label.
NORMAL.
You judge someone
With capital blocks
Cuz you can't read
A CEREAL BOX?
Is prejudice the
Meal you eat?
Label on that
And it ain't WHEAT.

[chorus]

Yes. I'm white.
And I am sixty.
I ain't young. I ain't ****.
But I'm a POET
I can TALK.
I have been
Around th block.
You don't like it
You can WALK.
YOU WON'T PUT
ME IN A BOX.
I wasn't a "******".
I wasn't a "tweeker".
Was a "CRACKHEAD".
A ******* seeker.
Finally got it in my head.
There's another label.

That is DEAD.

Yeah. I'm a Christian.
"Jesus Freak"
I'm not ashamed
Because I seek!
Believe'n sure don't
Make me WEAK.

I'M DONE WITH
THE DISSIN' AND
THE TRASHIN'!
Got a concept called

COMPASSION!

Yeah. I know it's
Not in fashion...
But this no joke.
It's not a GAME.
I got a label...

It's my NAME.

I got another
Worth the seeing.
Another "label"...

HUMAN BEING.

Yeah. I'll preach.
I'm gonna shout.

My name is

CATHERINE.

Over. OUT.


SøułSurvivør
(C) 6/13/2017

When I'm with you, I feel like a child
Just like a wee little child
Whose very best friend is you

If you must ever leave me,
leave a trail of breadcrumbs
I'll make it to that place where you're leading me to

When I'm with you, I feel like a puppy
Warm and fuzzy, playful, trippy-jumpy
Whose very best friend is you

If you must ever leave me,
I'll be lost and sad and lonely
So I'll wait and wait and kiss your face when that day is through

When I'm with you, I feel like a posy
Sweet and fresh and in your hands
Who wants just to be held by you

If you must ever leave me,
I will wilt and shrivel away
So come tend me in your garden when the spring rosebud is new

Now, if you think I am the only writer or poet of my kind in this New Age Millennium, you are mistaken

There is me that is, Sammy Kendricks and my crew of reject ragtag writers extraordinaire who are going to change this world

First on the roster we have Haden Zanders, a poet who tackles topics from a humorous but  intelligent and eloquent way

Then there's Zach Nichols my personal shaman, he's into paganism, mysticism, alchemy and spirituality as a whole
His writing is out of this world, literally and add to it he's a musician who is single handedly innovating the neo tribal music genre

Next In Derek Neman, a poet and musican close to my heart, a bit younger than the rest of us but still hold his own
He is loving, caring and has a strong spirit that I know will take him wherever he goes
His words can make mountains weep

Then there are Kaspar and Otto
Kaspar is a poet of the romantic variety, hopelessly devoted to love
Otto is a writer who can sum up any topic in a matter of a few lines
But powerful lines they be
Short, sweet and to the point

Up next is my good friend Jeeves, Jeeves isn't his real name
His real name is Nat but that was too boring so we all call him Jeeves
He is one of the mad ones, stricken with a severe case of wanderlust and wonderment
He served in the navy for three years
Now he's back and writes of his travels and his loves and losses
He paint, plays bass and philosophizes the human condition

Of course how could I forget Pete, a clean cut good 'ol boy
Always down to meet woman and have a drink and make a night out of a day
He writes rhymes like I've never seen
So vibrant and addicting

We all have that friend we **** heads with and Sonny is that friend for me
We're opposites in every sense of the word
You all know me so imagine the reverse
But his writing is political, realistic, stoic, emotional and completely him
I love him to death, there will come a day where we throw down

Now finally last but not least
You know him
You love him
You hate him
It's the Don Juan of Dumont
The one and only
Quincy Valero
His writing reads as fast as he lives
A mile a minute
Girls, cars, drugs, food, parties
Excess and excitement
Memories and mistakes
Highs and lows
Yes

But of course we have other non writing friends
Zeik Adams my engineering friend whos gonna be rich someday
Nyal Jensen our dancing friend who always brings it to the floor in every club we hit
Ahio Rikashi our best bud from the far east, romantic and deep
Kyle Filmore my trippy drummer
And Mike Neman, Derek's younger brother and one of my closest friends

We've all shared pain and laughter
Trips, drunken evenings
Road trips, meals
Quarrels and misunderstandings
But we all care about each other
And all of our writing and our goal to always be there to check the pulse of this world
Hell, even start it up when it wains off every now and then
We're here to give this generation a kick start
A reminder of what we can and will do
We can revitalize our world with knowledge, understanding and unity
We are the pulse generation

at what point wasn't it a way to bypass
the editorial scrutiny...
to directly engage with a reading
public...
why did i think this might be: any good?
i guess i only thought:
i need this out and i can't stash it
like a corpse...
into some damp cellar... like a morally
relativistic monstrosity of a sociopaths'
analogy of: "feels"...
   well, no **** Sherlock!
how i made the following reply...
is beyond me:

- believe me... i had more to write but i felt a sense of restraint... i'd like to see what a terse reply would make you focus on... so i'm scrapping the concept of handicap: heads up... now it all depends what you'll be choosey about... or not... because there's plenty in you reply i could quip about... well... then again: is being witty synonymous with being satirical? i'm not for intelligent / condescending humour on my part... personally i love the dryness of sarcasm... but then again: what's to like about the bluntness of nail-heads? just my take on... what exactly not to like about schadenfreude (what's not to like about schadenfreude)... i'd much prefer a humiliation of a leather gimp suit... so it seems: honesty is the best joke in play... there are too many stereotypes in England too... the best one i heard was by my Glaswegian english teacher in school... ahem... how was copper wire invented? two Scots arguing over a penny... like the stereotypical arsenal of deciphering the Jewry run wild in the realm of the gentiles... with the Scots... being our prized asset of: reverse stereotyping... i guess because knowledge of poor Hebrews is either a mystery or taboo... worse still... a mythology... and here i promised myself restraint... yet i'm experiencing something of a writing block and i... most probably found the most surprising alternative outlet... the eroteme lady - ms. query... so there must be nothing concrete about you... well... i too remember being a teenager prior to 2000 on those hotmail chatrooms where the acronym ASL could get you... all hot & bothered... don't take this the wrong way but i've heard that most writers, poet (i'm a chicken scratching doodler at best) reverted to the medium of correspodence... lucky you, "lucky" that i'm testing the waters on you... but don't worry... i've tested the medium with other people and wondered about their stamina... you are starting to gravitate toward psychiatrist status...  it's so strange though... not writing on abstract... blank... rather: inform sender... it's to them... all that *******, romantic or not... about writing for that one person... sure... **** it... write 'em a letter... don't mind about that trippy-*** poem of yours... you know? apologies if you come across as something of a punching bag for sounds... i hope no typos... well typos can be excused... ah these ****** articles about... wait wait... momentary lucidity... i was going to use some of this in my way of combating my writing block... the troubles in the english language... spelling... "approximation" drop the vowels realise: that's how the Hebrews wrote all along... treating their vowels like diacritical markers... the ****?! i feel like i'm being robbed in plain sight... because Copernicus didn't ******* realise jack-****... they pile it up with their Pope and the execution of ******* Galileo...  ugh... it takes some ******* nerve for these days to allow for this ****-centred kindergarten of events in man's... non-evolving history to continue like some: no ******* dodo exctinction ever took place... (agreed... the following are all faux pas... "invigorations") honey? babe? ms. anonymous gender fluid pronoun neutral... what's the informal, best? ms. avatar ms. harleyquinn the world's stupid? what are american stereotypes of europeans? come to think of it... that cookies is too big to take a bite from... you can't exactly base stereotypes having only seen tourists... since a tourist is a stereotype per se... i'd have to go to california... to get a californian stereotype... to georgia for the georgian stereotype...  wait a minute... Costa Rica... "hint hint"? Latino? that wasn't exactly... it was a fork in the road... the Sephardi... you're working from an avatar canvas... you're making allusions to... what i look like and it's like i'm a mesmerising doppelganger of al pacino... is there a chicago accent? i heard a lot of the ****** diaspora was lodged in that *******... i was terrible at accents... almost always a chamaleon... people still ask me where i'm from... so like this one-stand-up comedian in Edinburgh said... when he was quizzed about the geography of his accent... 'you might recognise my accent... it's... educated'... now that's that... isn't it? i could fake you an indian accent if i wanted to... perhaps a german accent too... but i could fake it... by the way... in these parts... biligualism can be treated as schizophrenia... just saying... somehow integration is not fully deserving the status that: not integrating decides... because... not integrating is... "safety first"... the dodo project alliance...  least of all... i've been dying to by a baseball cap with the Cleveland Indians old logo with chief wahoo... so stereotyping americans... it's beyond hard... it's like stereotyping Russian that are not in the vicinity of Moscow... some are probably Mongol remnants... their own idiosyncratic solipsists to their own... i'll take up my bicycle tomorrow and this drunken tirade will most probably fizzle out... i truly couldn't make up giving a toss about what's internalized americana stereotyping... not that i don't care... i just don't know... the currency of the nation sends me years and years of Ed Gein reinterpretations... what am i supposed to "say"? tomorrow i'll be up early and bothered about my bicycle as if it were a horse... but i'll still want to retain gravity with leaving you with this frankness of a reply... lobster-red probably implies if not simply implores: ginger and freckles... i like to think of suntans as serpents shedding skin... i suntan i'm a copperneck... i like the german sound on this... plus... it's readily available as compounded: kupfernacken... what's better? auburn-tease? kastanienbraunecken? i like the joy you feel with what you already prescribed me with.. that i know so little about you... that while i'm prodding you withhold giving me concreteness.... concreteness would allow me... disadvantage me to focus on "things" that are absolutely not necessary... so: i can focus on whether i'm not being pedantic enough and: misspelling...so... what's the stereotype surrounding Alaskan gurls?!

- thanks for being ascribed in getting my "mojo" back...for now...

- What do you mean? I'm surprised this is the shortest message you've sent. I was getting used to your drunk musings. [I say this with a smile but I know you don't like emojis or silly acronyms, and writing out "laugh out loud" sounds ridiculous... after all, you know how important sounds are to me].

- you just asked one of those questions that... is aligned with asking... 'what are you thinking'? the moral 'ought compass waved me a goodbye and if i haven't broken any laws to pursue the sort of freedom of though i currently enjoy... bypassing the need so stress a "freedom" of speech... writing is an extension of thought: not a prompt / invitation to speak... i'm surprised that you scrutinise the length of my replies... and were we to begin with? in the "easily offended" pile-up? well i'm still getting drunk... you're still an avatar mystery... but at least i'm waging a war on prosaic sobriety to boot... i guess i had to come clean at some point... i never write sober... i don't see the point of being: disengaged from the genuine (a longer version of a one word would have sufficed... but i'm lazy about the spelling... while at the same time... there's this critical theory approach done in some of the newspapers about english spelling... let's see if i get it right... dis-in-genius... for starters... disengenous.. horrid... aaah so terrible... dis-less-advantageous... disadvantageous... oh **** me... i wriggled into that one: all sound and proper...why ask me: what do i "mean"? - it's not that i don't like emojis (well, i don't) but... what the hell... there are better hieroglyphs to focus on than chiseled into pyramid stone: own... happy face... the Chinese were doing ******* x-ray gizmo **** at almost the same time... it's a focus loss... don't even get me started that *** = a Parisian hello with tendering the cheeks with... a labyrinth of smooches... my lips are my pouches blah blah blah... you seem to be enjoying my rants... i gather? i don't even know why to bother with an ask (question doesn't even do justice to how i'm framing this)...  you want to write as little as possible to properly excavate me... well no surprise... if light can't bend around corners... i'll have a look: none-the-less... emphasis on the hyphens... this poor down-trodden word could be helped with some "breathing space"; no? i "mean": 霜... shoo-aang... frost... i have dancing skeletons throwing toothpicks at chopsticks pilled up in an area of pine wood... look at this sort of *******... and here we are... cradling one of the old languages with "holes in letters"... to peer through... O now i see... B: otherwise: ha, ha ha ha... what's **** in Chinese? the Greek prized π... but what P & I look like for a farting, mandarin? hey presto: "@"... not even a western concern for "patriarchy" could have complicated: what's already too complicated... a billion people... a wall... that didn't keep out the Mongols from invading... yet a phonetic encoding system that... would topple each and every pyramid... from Giza to the cleaving of South America from Africa that can be staged at some Aztec "miracle"... i am writing (to) you like a bewildered person... because: why wouldn't i otherwise not be? so what do i mean? hmm... what's that holy trinity of statistical terms... mean... meridian... mode? i think i remember correctly... thank god i'm not going to apologise for being drunk... i've heard the stereotypes of drunkards with no future for thirst... the other thirst... the thirst for something beside their own handicap... i'd also duly convert to Islam too... i was cycling past a mosque and heard the most impossible sound of praise that will never escape me... but by the bottle i did: closer to the Jewry i am... contradictory how that is... don't want to stop drinking... uncircumcised... it's a really magical juggling act that's littered with self-deprecating humour interludes... aligned with norse mythologies... grr... **** me... now i'm attempting to "sell" you a makeshift tinder profile sketch... don't know... never will... never used: don't ask...  but i forgive you... for asking me: what does "it" all mean? it means we're for the thrill of it... it makes sense if we're still gagging for it... and we're not exposed to old-age closure cinematic scripts of solo cinema of memory... i like typing because i have itchy fingers... you'd probably like to hear me speak... no? it's exactly 20 minutes past midnight and i have a date with a bagel at 9am tomorrow morning... i still want another injection of truth in me before i do the  lady nox some justice and sleeping with her fiendish daughters... i mean... who does that... wake you up with a hard-on? never mind... i don't even know how to end this "convo": it can't be with a farewell... or an adieu... or a サヨナラ... oh wait... that's "goodbye, forever"... how does one end a half-way between a musing and a real person on the replying end of "things"... i guess like this: NARA... ナラ... short for narazie...  translated from my mutterzunge as: perhaps loosely... for the time being... for now... how else... to end my tirade?!

- So let me get this a bit straight (as straight as a stray arrow, that is): you only write when you're drunk (I'm the luckiest one to be at the listener - or reader in this case - end of your tirades as you call them... I call them musings); you have a fixation with words, even the ones that you don't know how to spell correctly (except maybe in a language I don't know so I can't really tell), you didn't answer why I'm ascribed to getting your mojo back (where did it go?), and you wake up with a hard-on. Got it!

- i've been lodged into a backlog: ******-town sort of: stalling... give me a few hours... although: ever wonder what: giggles sounds like... in the deafness of the night? i do... i want to reply you like so... like now... like this... maybe i will... maybe i will not... i'm gaging to buy one of those cleveland chiefs baseball caps...the grinning siouxsie chieftan....perhaps i want to relearn "how to": take the GRIN... a little bit more... seriously... no? **** it... i'm drinking as it is... i want to reply you in full throttle... straight arrows... and the welsh V of the longbow-men too to boot... chopsticks straighter... "straighter"... i tend to only write when i'm drunk... i abhor sober prosaic intimidation and... all the lies, subsequently...sober people don't get "drunk" on moral relativism of white lies? and i'm born yesterday, no? you openly venture into... a quest of question within the regards... of being... this only.... i almost wanted you to feel this sort of... an alienating increment... of... how i might pile on more detail... they are musings... i don't take them seriously... about as much relax as is a required: necessary.... i have a fixation with words... jurisprudence to me is merely a game of thesaurus ploy-tow... i spell i don't spell... i'm overtly pedantic... i also felt queasy when testing my eyes at an authentic testimony of the "law"  being "exaggerated"... "tested"... "proved"..i must have: lying eyes... no other eyes do see... no? i have a fixation with "things" beside the usage of ***** and strobe lighting...

you have my attention... don't you? you know... the last time i attempted having a conversation... i was too naive...too young... everything "everything" applied itself to being too predictable... i want to love again: but being in love is almost a weakness... i don't feel like being weak... i guess this is where the rekindling of my "mojo" ends... hello cul de sac...

new paragraph... ever hear(d) of the alpha and the omega "man"? i'm pretty sure you heardf of mr. beta... for all the worth of a totality of... man... i'm last... i'd forever be... last... i don't want to be first... i also don't want to be 2bd sniffing **** and crab-meat-... either...

give me the totality... i'll be satisfied with a "question" of
last... hence the expression: omega man...
didn't hey-zeus say?
i'm the alpha and the omega?

i don't write sober, i'n afraid i might lie...
you're not lucky,..
but you're also not... godzilla....

i "somehow" haven't ascribed you with the sort of details of: explanation that would allow you... to satiate yourself with answers... as to how... why... yllu managed to "mojo" probe me back to life? you.. the Faroe Islands to begin with? you know... they have this gimmick... on the Faroe Isles... it's not a gimmick... it's called// i don't know what's it called... skúvoy? but i'm happy to tease when the whales are slaughtered... the the blood comes a running: the lions also... apparently tease with a yawn... look at this word, though: grindadráp....

ever catch the giggle im der nacht? nein? too italian... no? ******* borrowed pollack: the self-depreciating... loan... not load... of bollocking...

don't believe yourself as being the sole recepient of a reply...

you're not lucky... you're just... available...

terribly botherome... isn't, it?

- i thought i'd make this a two tier reply... it would be a shame to reread what i wrote on one of my "escapades"... perhaps this... hanging-over... ha'h... more like hung, drawn & quartered some time to time... but believably sane, pleasantly morose - at evens with masochism... so reclining into a moral trip-up... i probably mentioned grindadráp - since i still have the window open on the phrase i'm familiar with... Sámal Joensen-Mikines... i most probably ended up giggling in the night... god... i'm just skim reading what i wrote... well good to know that i can only the best thing and sober up: simultaneously returning to a more rigid, conventional... formal use of language: that i might suppose i'm in a confessional booth... a welcome mirage for the time being... while i decide to wither away watching the old firm (a derby soccer match between celtic & rangers)... of note... i had this argument with the natives so time ago... the... Celts... but it's the Boston / Glasgow Çeltics... no? you're a girl that likes sounds... i've been following this current discussion that has reached the heights of printed newspapers... citation, sian griffths (gwif-if-if-ififs) education editor: new spelling ROOLS to make english more predictable for pupils... "we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the feelds..." see... i really admired Charlie Bukowski for a while... until he came out as a lazy slob who would require an editor to correct his spelling... there's dyslexia and there's just plain: hash-browns... for all my worth of idiosyncrasy that i wriggle in as i go along, most of which will not find common ground and a cosmopolitan outlet of users... for me, as someone who acquired this tong'u: i've grown fond of how aesthetically messy this toong can become and how readily available this messiness is... even London can become a ****-joke: Loon'dune... in my mutterzunge sounds are more distinct... apart from the graphemes sz, ch, cz, rz (ż) - i'd have to borrow from a Czech a caron to hide a letter or two: š (sz / the equivalent SHarp in english) and č (cz / CHatter respectively)... all these unique sounds... ą, ę, ć, ń, ó, ś, ź - Wombat ł... anyway... i just thought, sobering up... that you'd like to have a certain bulging volume of fudge to return to... before i take another dive into ms. amber and pass another night as w. h. auden wrote: only the hitlers of this world write at night... sure... herr auden... because the day is for watching football and / or cycling.

- à propos: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-L5iefl2QtA

- If you share music can I? I'm sorry that I didn't reply sooner. It's been a **** last week and this week isn't any better yet. I like reading your messages, drunk and sober. When I write in my native language I use the accent over the vowels to emphasize the second-to-last vowel of a word. I love speaking, reading and writing in my native language, though I'm sure that I know much less than you would about languages. Shall we continue talking about sounds? How about sounds in my language? Of course, you have to guess if you haven't already.

- mind you: i had second thoughts about writing this reply... perhaps you can judge for yourself... i'm just not into having double-mystery encounters with an "avatar"... plus i made an emphasis on the point... what music were you not going to share?

sure... but first share your music... i have this thirst for Nick Hornby's high fidelity and being a teenager again... a teenager in love, again...i was probably the most happy-go-anywhere sort of person when i found a vinyl copy of Wardruna's kvitravn in my local HMV... which is: sunrise records and entertainment ltd trading as hmv & fopp.... given i already have the other chapters on cd - copied into mp3... (runaljod - yggdrasil & gap var ginnnunga)...  and given it's so rare to fnd a vinyl of this calibre... that some vinyls comes with an mp3 link... i thought: hell... i'll give this record the proper 3D aura treatment and not listen to it on headphones... or utilise it to "conquer" space... & just walking with it across a market sq. without a plastic bag to stash it in... i might as well have walked with a cat on my shoulder... because... who the hell still buys... well... invests in vinyl? now... coming to the language...second-to-last vowels of  word... you know... you can keep me interested without overplaying this "mystery" game... isn't the use of an avatar enough? i really can't comprehend a language that focuses on second to last vowels... without focusing on vowels: per se... just to reiterate... you didn't share a link to some music... you pitted yourself as American... i can continue being interest without having too many enigmas to sort... i have yet to find a language that only applies accents to, e.g. suppOsE... or maybe i'm just too ignorant to have come across a language that behaves in such a way: unless it's some idiosyncratic variation (of it)... you don't have to remain a complete mystery to me for me to keep engaging... there can be some sort of rooting in reality... otherwise i'll just return to my original purpose of writing: staging myself against a blank canvas and a barrage of sounds that i'll need to "un-spaghetti" into linear streaks.... i'm not going to guess: you'll either tell me or not... i'm currently listening to snake-pit poetry: einar selvik... any one can have a ****** week... for a while i was anticipating you testing whether or not i'd reply not getting a reply from you... and that, somehow, miraculously... i'd continue to creep-up to teasing you again... perhaps that's me dabbling in misnomers... no... you'll need to give me something concrete... i'm already starting to itch with a sensation that i better return to the canvas than keep this conversation... no offence... it's just draining me when something abstract could also be doing: likewise... but it wouldn't end up being a ****-tease... i could possibly create something out of it... not just so more: oh... oh? ** **: what's next?! i know when it becomes a brain-drain... a side project... it has to come with an excuse whereby you'll probably recoil with: but i had a ****** week... granted... but who hasn't...  you could have waited another week until participating in the timeframe of the passing of weeks started to feel good once more... if you only dropped a music suggestion... otherwise... thanks... but... no... this conversation is going nowhere... i think i'm just relocating my writing block elsewhere... all the best: in keeping an aura of mystery... within the realm of avatars and non-accountability... come to think of it... no... this is as fair as i could be.

this supposed "unique" specimen... not really...
i want to focus on what allows me to belong:
beside the unfathomable landmarks
of trees and mountains:
roaming stars that even my demented
grandfather corrected himself on...
satellites... no... roaming stars?!
well... i didn't conjure this **** out of my own
*** for pleasure, either...

back towards... falling asleep while listening
to the Hellraiser soundtrack:
hellbound...
because eerie is how:
i how how: "things"...
i'm so alone at times that it's beyond making
sense: it's about infringing on a god-stature...
status... this omniscient
contradiction that some Elijah bundled up
into... two crows croaked...
the tower of London can entertain 6:
so the king's ******* and the queen's
jewels are left intact...
for the successor to worry about...

we have these conversations but too bad
the girl is playing timid...
and i'm... gargantuan...
the length of a tongue that turns into an eel...
hands like octopus extension...
i could wrap her up in... bubblewrap
and start the puncture pinch-pinch ceremony
of not seeing the bubble float: up-up...

i have a sense of ego like...
a bad l.s.d. trip?!
****-guage-abuse? gauge? sort the ones
for the snoozing zero-toasts
and you have yourself
a new jersey smart: bite-off... not bit... though...

i could never have children:
not because i could never be a good father:
but i'd be a terrible husband...
how do i "know"?
i would never allow myself
to earn the amount:
she'd want to spend...
via solo: i'll spend on ms. cojack amber
and some ******* liquorice vinyl...
and a bicycle...
rubber-teasing: ****-teet-****....
when using the brakes...
when minding my ******* "luck"
on a roundabout with a massive twuck...

plus i'd love to **** more...
i'd love to **** as much more as
the thought-"taboos" discourage me
from doing... so it's a nice adventure: thinking
the next: moral antagonist, antithesis
of "could i"?
central theme? Lo-li-t'ah...
and i'm the second from third removed
uncle of the marquis de sade...
you want... you need... you have to orientate
yourself around the last taboo...
the one that's not associated with...
crispy clean antics of those *******
in their savvy leather gimp suits etc.

"power to the people": *******...
power to who owns what...
i'm starting to conjure up
profanities akin to:
but at least when they owned slaves...
they took care of their slaves...
they wouldn't want a slave to be rotten...
to be despondent...
trouble with freedom is...
my own, self-made... man...
if i were a slave...
i'd learn to bend the rules...
i'd entertain the fantasy of freedom...
while being constrained with...
all the benefactor securities...
i'd be owned but i'd also be:
obligated to a social contract of some sort...

so freely as to nothing be:
so averaging assumptions...
presumptions... so by nothing i unfree myself:
to... sort of quest to: "be"...
while the priestly class held back literacy...
within the timeframe of when
a new literacy emerged... of coding...
so double-up-on-surds... no?

herr gizmo l:)(}{
the realm of the three brackets... )}]...
one literacy replaced the old literacy
but in terms of retaining the old type...
the new type is... not exactly allowing
for movement of... hearts? is, it?
i still have to retain punctuation...
i still need need to perfect it...

but this is not conversational linguinie,
is it?
i stand firm in, stressing:
writing is an extension of thought...
writing is an extension of thought:
it's hardly an invitation to speak...
the past centuries haven't taught us
that literacy is a constraining beast of priests'
fancy?
let me... detail my limbs for you
in stressing this point further:
what good came from the project
of literacy en masse?
graffiti scribbling on brick walls?
out of what beside desperation?

such constraints were employed as
to: the person exercised in completely body:
usage... wouldn't feel like
a ******* hamster of a ******* ferris wheel
when push came to shove...
somehow everything physical became
lesser class: demeaning...
somehow we all turned into *******
fluorescent
      telepathic / telekinetic Chernobyll
monkey sorts...
and the fat "stigmata" is a what?
                  
  this world is gagging for something tragic...
this world is gagging for a world war III...
but... it probably will not...
"advise" itself to experience such a disatrous take
on prospect...
nuance in language can go **** itself...
application of misnomers for added fluidity can:
go **** itself...
you ever come across a choir...
and a great wind...
see a ******* shrink...

don't look at me for inspiration:
perhaps some jokes...
i've been more honest these past two minutes than
i ever was in the passing of a decade...

death the limbo of "sanity"...
esp. when someone memorable has taken off...
who am i left with? "perspectivelly accountable"?
grey-matter fiddle-through middle-man
*******... no?
i'm not sifting through that, murk?
perhaps i'm sieving... sifting... sieving...
sifting... sieving... get a dog! she says, mother, dear...
i tell her: it's legal in Belgium...
her father already cited his complaints...
i'm tired of the ******* optimism...
i'm tired of this "adventure" some cling to when
deciphering "life"...
an overrated statement of too many facts:
that's life...
it's not a ******* frank sinatra:
come as we are... would be: mea culpa...

troublesome sufferings of a tired brain...
too many pop ref. points worth of closure...
i bought a vinyl today...
i walked it down a market place
like it was a puppy...
in a rucksack...

that there's a hope... my mother is crying
this silent agony of truth...
i tell her: it's sensibly legal in the Benelux...
England is ****** by all accounts...
a dog will save me?
i'm becoming rigid... brick-esque...
tide-prone...
moon is the mother of my skies...
i might might what?
fall in love: to fall in love is to allow
oneself to be weak; to be... dependent on
someone: the concept of "other"... no?
recurrrency is pricing on how many times
that's... sensible to try out?
before it fails?

i fall asleep listening to horror movie music...
i'm best coupled to a ******* hyena than
i am to a woman...
to live under a false sense of hope
is a: welcome bypass to otherwisse living
under a truancy of truth...
as the life around me shrinks...
the abounding shadow of me grows...
and not as a patriarch...

oh ****... "i simply, somehow...
just so it happens... fowgot to... encapsulate this
offload whiff a wyme".

hey Dad

there really were some good times way back in the beginning ........
weren't there ?
before things got so ******* up
yeah
I know you really meant well
didn't you
but you just couldn't
stay outta trouble
could you
you did a whole lotta
bad things Dad
it really made us all so
sad

still I remember you
taking us to the lake
to feed the ducks
and those trippy old musty
antique shops in downtown
San Francisco ......

you taught me many things
Dad ........ even though you
turned out to be so bad

I think I must have been
the only 9 year old girl
who knew how to load bullets
and was a regular
at the rifle range
discern the grain  of walnut
from that of cherrywood
or birch
the only 9 year old who new
how to drive an old army jeep
you taught me to appreciate
music and made me laugh when
you played your trumpet
to your big band era 78's
and had us dance along ........

so today Dad
I remember you
for the first time
in a very long time
and I stop
to give you credit
for trying ........

there was a time
I thought you were
the smartest most lovable
and down to earth man
in the world Dad
all those years ago .........
Happy Father's Day

BCA
06/15/14
All Rights Reserved

My truth is that I teeter atop a constant precipice of blazing boldness and utter fear.

I tip toe a fine line of longing to be unapologetically passionate, raw and subversive - and comfortingly cordial, gentle and "nice."

My favorite colors are witchcraft black and angel pink.

I unabashedly groove to both bass bottomed gangster rap and dreamy, trippy synth pop - equally.

I rise each day to blaze a trail of fiery transformation - holding my flag high in the sky for all to see and follow - and end each day wanting to hide in my rabbit hole reading about herbal remedies and making tinctures and potions that the world.

My favorite flower is the optimistic tulip, but I find strength in the weeping willow.

I sing fierce songs of freedom, injustice and equality out loud, while humming soft songs of sweetness and peace and love to myself.

I'm both Dorothy and the Great and Powerful Oz.

I long to scream wisdom from the rooftops, as long as I don't hurt anyone's feelings.

I relate to the women of both Girls and Golden Girls.

I want socialism but I don’t want anyone to tell me what to do.

I get a thrill by telling arrogant people off with a witty sarcastic remark, and then feel heavy remorse because I wish I hadn't created such a divide.

I am a warrior for women’s rights, but I’ve also been a mean girl and a recovering bulimic.

I want someone to love me completely while I love them utterly, but I don’t want to be engulfed by the heady perfume and fluorescent distraction of romance.

I admire both Charles Bukowski and Simone de Beauvoir as equals.

I don’t want to care what the hell you think of me, but I want you to love and worship me just the same.

I roll my eyes when older men date much younger women, but find myself attracted to much younger dudes than myself.

I bow to the bodies of “real women” while secretly dreaming of what it must be like to be a supermodel.

I want to be adored as much as I want to be respected.

I worship the Goddess on my knees but also find Jesus to be a true prophet of love, and kind of a babe.

I’m as silly as I am intense, and I’m as insane as I am sane.

My ultimate truth is that I'm a lover and a fighter,
a saint and a *****,
an angel and a demon,
a divine spirit and a hot mess.

I envelop each contradiction passionately, balancing them equally like a tightrope walker in the wind. Frustrated and wondering how the hell I got here, but also awestruck and loving the view.

You see, I have come to learn that the sign of a true rebel is the one who wears her heart on her sleeve - while giving zero *****, sowing compassion, taking no ****, mending fences and slaying dragons.

Sitting around a fire
Kindred spirits met on that mountaintop
Where the white horses run
A guy came holding his shirt in hand
Overjoyed he'd found wild mushrooms
Field, not the trippy kind
Someone produced a pan
"Does anyone want to wash them?"
"Get them in the pan!"
Plenty for all
Delicious we shared them
Strangers together
In retrospect I understood that bond
The trust in that simple meal

Like last time
Rather be outside , forgiveness a must
But it must be,  im not brave
Not scared but bars never bend straight
Trippy addida back on the record ,but for the record you use to say yes
___________
Cry in the dark , where the eyes cant see
See seas of stares ,fake cares, full house full of fools and that one girl in the yellow blouse , kinda cute
Kinda blue
Kinda new
Function funk , played for trippy ima go ona trip
Cry in the dark
_______
You use to, but is use to ,not like the use im use to
But i guess it's usefull ,truthful , told through lip gloss
****, glossy lips
Glassy eyes
Yellow blouse
You stick out
Kinda cute , but is through, we met
We meet ,its sweet ,dont sweat
eyes crept
Base in a rusted red revolver , shrink tell me im not crazy
Crazy bout a boat with her on it
Her like want it, want it but cant front it
Let's jump bus , stunt it
Hit ramp ,know what bumb it
Bunny hop jump on the cares, ima rot
Prime time

In the jungle,
on the islands.
In my bedroom,
on my dumb *.

I get a text.
I need a tattoo.

A real tattoo;
a Lola's wrinkled hands slapping my thigh,
laying me over banana leaf,
then hammering long needles in my chest-
maneuvering a horn, a bone, a citrus thorn,
tap, tap, tap, tap,
sketching wounds to fill with soot.

A muted barb,
a slight prickling of skin,
then sinking, stamping, slipping-
through blood,
through muscle,
through bone.
Staining, stripping, splitting-
scraping at my inside-sun.

That’s what my grace has been feeling like.
That’s what my shame has been reeling like.

I deleted the poems.
I deleted the messages,
I tried to delete the flutter.
I want to cry but nothing comes out
my tongue is so big,
I have too many teeth.

My lungs feels the way mercury looks
pouring into a petri-dish.
Kind of trippy. I didn't even trip.
My surface is all salt and peppery,
numb, infinite,
and so, so stringy.

A man told me secrets and I didn’t flinch.
Then he got mad,
Maybe because I didn’t flinch.
Maybe because he can’t not wreck things.
I didn't flinch, so he threw * at the wall;
a bowl of puttanesca, cute frosted cakes,
oily tabouli, slippery tteokkbokki.

We watch it drip, drip down,
until scraps and broken plates tye-dye the baseboard.
I didn’t move to clean it up,
he didn’t move to explain.
We didn’t groove to call it art.
This is, of course, a metaphor;
we don't share a wall,
I haven’t made tabouli in years.

okay. okay. okay. okay.
It’s almost funny but not there yet.
Should we laugh about this or catalog it in our dark days?
but to catalog, you'd have to stay.

You said you weren’t scared.
I said I was glad.
I said you’re big and I’m small and we might fit perfectly.
You agreed. That was before you got mad.

Something inside you is reigning rabid-
We knew this.
I am rascally and rare.
We knew this too.
My feelings are so, so big.
Can you see them in shop-windows while you walk your city?
Can you hear them while you shower, or
smell them in your coffee grounds?

That feeling again-
That Old-World ink.
That heavy-heart sink.
The static slander of my skin,
the catty condensation of my brain.
Everything inside is lava lamp-holographic,
and everything outside is pin pin pin pin.
Lola, please keep hammering.
I still feel tacky but your needles
gather up the strings.

It's not decorative:
I'm hoping it's erosive.
I'll bow down deep;
elbows up, eyes down;
an apology for not flinching
when you thought I should have.
Eros bowed out, you're not staying.
I'll bow again- it's twice for the dead.

On this island,
it's just me, that Lola,
her long needles, and my big feelings.
She can hammer them back into me
And I won't flinch.