I have a weird hobby:
I like to peel back my skin,
And hand out whips
And riding crops
I have a weird hobby:
I like to peel back my skin,
And hand out whips
And riding crops
Chilling down the bloodied corridors
Of my arteries and veins
Leaving salty spasms of ectoplasmic jyzm
At his feet.
*** I hate feeling anything today. ***
*** 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 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 —
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. ***
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,
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…. ***
What I think of Boötes Void:
A Great Nothing
Of unfathomable enormity
Containing approximate emptiness.
With vacancy after vacancy.
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…. ***
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…. ***
Warning: This poem contains blunt references to suicide.
There is this sea of trees
That is home
To weeping wills
And frayed nooses
Left hanging from its countless boney boughs.
Its death harvest
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
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. ***
Would I trade myself in
To get back the other me
And all the people who once came along
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. ***
Right after she was born
I had terrible claustrophobia.
It only lasted a few days but it was
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)
That part of me always will be.
*** Just breathe…. It’s behind you now…. It was 8 years… or 8 seconds… ago. ***
Up in flames
My cat-tongued sandpaper heart
With lickings, lappings and lullings —
I hear you in the quiet spaces of my soul,
And write you between the invisible lines
Seen and read only by me.
When I expel the heart-heated breath from my staggering lungs,
I feel you on the breeze,
Slipping through my open-mouthed vowels,
Licking wild rivers down the silken insides of my quaking thighs;
They shake the flesh from the bone from how violently you rattle me, my sweet love.
Burn me on my dark side first
And unmute the covered moans
Hiding in the curled-up crinkled corners
If I could
Devour every ounce
Of your pain
Then burp it into the aether
And out of existence,
I would do it
In a wing beat.
On all of the wobbly tables
Near open windows on gusty windswept days
And on surfaces dangerously close
To the errant paws of asshole cats
Sit delicate vases of bone china
Ready to crack, craze, shatter and split
At fucking whispers.
*** There is so much fragility in humanity right now… and it isn’t exclusive. ***
The very definition
Of the word hibernation.
Like there is no difference
Between the word itself
And what it means.
If you search between the letters
You’ll find me curled into a winter sleep
And drooling on the negative space.
*** Still waiting for the sun to return… But it’s on its way… so I’ve heard…. ***
The only words
I have left to say
Cannot be said
I sit on a little easily-ignored perch
And someone will catch my eye
For one reason or another
And I will watch them
Like a secret voyeur
And watch and watch and watch
With rapt attention and unquenchable curiosity
Until they either
Vanish from my sight
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. ***
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
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. ***
*** 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? ***
I hear the silencing
All around me
In all corners of life —
Real and virtual;
No one can hide from it —
No, not even YOU.
A taking down of voice(s),
A collective replacing/erasing/enshrouding
Of criticism and critical thinking
Of difference and deviation
Of discussion and disagreement.
A figurative burning
Of books and ideas
Of freedom of expression and speech.
Newspeak is our new language, people!
Fucking SPEAK IT (do it, you little bitches)
Or face the hunters at your door steps;
They’re waiting with their pitchforks and fires and their salivating chops.
Let’s all say it together
Because it is a part of everyone’s brand new compelled lexicon now:
*** Fuck the world right now… seriously. ***
*** And fuck the Thought Police too. Yeah. I said it! ***
I can hide
All of my little secret smiles
In public now,
And I don’t have to explain to a soul
What curls my lips so.
*** Masks also keep your face warm, and allow you to converse with yourself without attracting unwanted attention. ***