Bare Rebellion

Weird Poetry

*** Revised ***


No foundation or blush;

No mascara or liner or eye shadow;

No fake lashes or coloured contact lenses;

No synthetic lips… just these;

No injections;

No surgery;

No permanent anything because it’s all finite anyway;

Fading brows… but they’re still all mine for now;

I’m hiding behind an almost anonymizing filter

And undyed natural hair,

But this is me —

Kinda bare

Or as bare as I can be.

*** Sometimes I think about lash lifts and eyebrow pencils, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I love mascara and red lipstick, and that’s all. ***

Counting down to petit mort inside an hour glass

Art & Erotic Art, Erotic Poetry, Weird Poetry

*** Contains erotic imagery. Perhaps skip this if that offends. This harkens to the Lustful Empress of yesteryear…. ***


From head

To hip

To teeny tiny toe

Time twists and slithers

Down the sides and surfaces

Of privately possessed

Minutes and seconds

And sweetly salacious hours

As fingers dance

And body sings

Pleasure rippling

Deconstructing the bones

Of an arching frame

In a moment of death

Steeped in moonheld moans




*** Spring makes me slightly more MORE… sometimes. ***

*** And it is reuniting me with my love of lingerie. All women (and men… and whoever else… yolo) should get some… and wear it every day… under your regular clothes… hehe…. ❤🌷 ***

Of Octopii, Death and Madness

Weird Poetry

There are places

In the deep dark sea

Where you can find thousands of female octopii


Fiercely defending their precious eggs.

If dinner doesn’t happen by for any particular female,

She won’t eat.

Days will pass with no sustenance;

She starts to go mad,

Acting erratically

With a self-destructive slant:

She might tear her own skin off,

Groom herself obsessively

And snack on her own tentacles,

All the while stroking her eggs,

Sitting on them,

Lovingly caressing them with whispered water,

Staunchly fighting off the urge

To devour them as well.

But when her eggs finally hatch

She will blow them into a plankton cloud

To help ensure their survival.

Then she will die

By organic disassembly

And cellular suicide.

She will only live on in her orphaned offspring,

The females of which will grow to succumb to the exact same fate.

Yet succumb to this fate they do,

Generation after generation,

Without fail —

For the last few hundred million years.

The males don’t fare any better;

After mating once,

The clock starts ticking,

And inevitably stops after a few months.

Then it’s all over for them too.

Less (or more) fortunate males die right after mating,

Enduring a murderously cannibalistic assault by the female;

I’m not sure which manner of dying is worse.

I suppose that this is the cost

Of the continuation of their magnificent species.


They aren’t much into social connection —

It’s just far too complicated to be so.




*** You can stop thinking about death now, Sweet Cheeks. Winter is over. ***

*** Good. I was starting to envy octopii…. ***

Boötes Void

Weird Poetry

What I think of Boötes Void:

It is

A Great Nothing

Of unfathomable enormity

Containing approximate emptiness.

A supervoid

Brimming over

With vacancy after vacancy.

An obliette

Of forgetting and foresaken space.





*** Falling down information rabbit holes again, aren’t we, Sugar Tits? ***

*** Yup…. And it’s a spherical void too... 🤯 wtf…. ***

Purse debris

Weird Poetry

I wonder

If there is any correlation


The thought debris collecting in my head space

Before the monthly moon-bitten purge

And the random debris

Crumpled up to-do lists; grocery store receipts; a broken bracelet that I forgot to care enough about to fix; gum wrappers; a granola bar I say I will keep for when I am hungry, but am never hungry enough to eat; a damp pair of mittens I should have aired out yesterday; etc….

Accumulating at the bottom of my purse.




*** I dunno… maybe clean your purse, Sweet Cheeks…. ***


Weird Poetry


Warning: This poem contains blunt references to suicide.


There is this sea of trees

In Japan

That is home

To weeping wills

And frayed nooses

Left hanging from its countless boney boughs.

Its death harvest

Approaches fruition

In the month of March.

One of the reasons

So many people choose this forest

As their final resting place

Is so they won’t die


They go there

Because so many others have gone there

To no longer be

Here alone.


There are others who choose this forest

So they can die

And not be noticed (just like how they feel in their living life)

As they are leaving.

But that didn’t work;

I see you now,

And you’ll never be alone.




*** No matter how alone you feel… you are never truly alone. You just aren’t. Humans suffer together. There is always someone who will listen to you. ***

*** Forgive me… I just learned about the “suicide forest of Japan” and now I feel sick. So I wrote this. I mean… I knew about the suicide situation there… I didn’t know there was a suicide destination that people went to… there. ***


Weird Poetry

Would I trade myself in

To get back the other me

And all the people who once came along

With her?

No matter how solitary I’ve become

I won’t be indulging in any trade-backs

Or games of tradesies.

What’s done is done.

You can’t unchange the changes,

Or unsay anything once said.

You can’t really unswallow a pill;

But you can choke down all the charcoal

And try though….




*** The pill reference is not a “red pill” reference. ***

Sleeping box

Weird Poetry

Right after she was born

I had terrible claustrophobia.

It only lasted a few days but it was

Mental hell.

When night time fell,

That always made it worse.

I was afraid to fall asleep

But also afraid to not fall asleep.

Afraid to sleep, to not fall asleep…

The frustration of that birthed an unfamiliar terror

That made me want to sleep

And to not want to sleep

Both and neither

Ever and never again.

Because sleeping felt like being locked in a box.

Because not sleeping felt like being locked in a box.

Locked in a fucking shrinking stinking box

With tingles of muted light breathing in through the little corner spots of the box.

And it felt like it was getting smaller with every collapsing breath.

It’s been a while

But I’m still recovering from that dark dwarfing feeling,

And sometimes forget

That I am not (currently)






I fear

That part of me always will be.




*** Just breathe…. It’s behind you now…. It was 8 years… or 8 seconds… ago. ***


Weird Poetry


I sit on a little easily-ignored perch

And someone will catch my eye

For one reason or another

And I will watch them

At length

Like a secret voyeur

And watch and watch and watch

With rapt attention and unquenchable curiosity

Sometimes unblinking

Until they either

Vanish from my sight

Or notice.

I am a tame voyeur, and a huntress without any particular bloodlust.




*** Basically a creeper, eh, Blue Eyes?…. ***

*** Sure. Me and everyone else. But at least I admit it. I lurk in all the brightly lit corners. ***

Monetized Mental Illness

Weird Poetry

Self-murderous mukbang madness

Gulping gluttony through a green-energy-made paper straw

And gleefully (sorrowfully) gorging on delectably delicious death on a styrofoam plate

After plate

After plate

After plate

All free

All day

Livestreamed on YouTube

For your viewing pleasure

And their profit

Mmmm mmmm good

We’re so loving it (duhduh-duh-duhduh)

Why read a book about running horses to the bone,

When you can watch it

For a fraction of the braincells.




*** Now THAT is how to profit off of a slow-mo suicide! Way to go, YouTube! ***

*** Some of you know that I get… uh… mouthy… at certain points in my cycle. I have a platoon of furious little gremlins stampeding through my bloodstream right now. Sorry. ***


Weird Poetry















I can’t




*** Oh look! Another lazy non-poem! Keep it up, Sugar Tits! 🙄 ***

*** Póg mo thóin, Old Man. I have some rage at the moment…. Indulge me for a sec, wontcha? ***