the majority of this past decade was 'incredibly shitty'

'thus,' my decision to conclude it with suicide

another poem about girls.

all the girls i liked between sixth and eleventh grades

are engaged to men who enlisted in the military

all the girls i used to date

prefer being with meatheads to being with me

exercises engaged in in order to increase knowledge

ultimately stunt knowledge

by taking the place of experience

experiences engaged in without wisdom or foresight

create infinite opportunities for failure

if there are goals involved in those experiences

the majority of the women i interacted with today

smelled like they were menstruating

tomorrow the moon will be full

the day after that it will not be

i felt afraid of a lot of things last week that seem uninteresting to me today

i keep scratching my head and dandruff keeps sprinkling out

excerpt from 'male, black' by buttercup mcgillicuddy.

Part One

It’s nighttime. Clara sits alone outside in the stairwell on the top floor of her dorm. She looks at Los Angeles’s profile in the distance and pinches herself hard. Am I alive, she asks, then feels acute embarrassment regarding her use of existential cliché. She takes a drag of her cigarette. A hard drag. She blows swiftly and with elegant puffs, into the day-lit night. The smoke erupts into rings that wobble timidly in the air before they suddenly rip into worms, panicked by their own approaching doom, until they fade into the light of the faraway skyscrapers. The buildings, stiff against the vaporous mountains, shoot beams in all directions, illuminating something. Not the air. Not the sky; there isn’t a cloud or bank of mist for miles. Maybe the lights attack Clara’s retinas directly, severing her connection to the stars. Clara looks up, longingly, searches for them and sees nothing. Nothing except a blue-orange abyss.

Clara inhales another stream of toxicity and her mind excites. She blushes. Not twenty minutes ago she almost lost her virginity to Jimmy. Clara had been so close. At the time she was unsure of what was happening, what could happen, and what was going to happen. Her thighs closed. She said the wrong things. Clara wanted Jimmy to make her do it, but she let him give up, and by proxy, gave in to abstinence, again. Again, Clara thinks. I might change my major again. Economics maybe. English? I don’t know. Clara shudders. The night is cool. Her thoughts are streaming clearly, but are interrupted by sprinting bursts of the desert’s winter wind. It attacks her stream of insecurity, and simultaneously fuels it. Again, she thinks.

A door downstairs opens. Clara looks down and sees Jimmy’s head ascending the stairs. He looks up and smiles. Clara smiles warily back. Why does he like me, she thinks. What the fuck is this? Jimmy reaches the top floor and walks to Clara slowly, taking long, awkward strides. Clara watches him. She smiles over her shoulder and takes a nervous drag of her cigarette. “Can I bum one,” asks Jimmy. “Sure,” says Clara. He sits next to her. She fumbles for her pack of American Spirit cigarettes, pinches at the nearly full pack, shivering, but can’t get a grip. Jimmy places his hand on her hand. She looks in his eyes. She feels her face look worried. I look worried, she thinks. She tries to look neutral. Jimmy smiles. He takes the pack from her and pulls out a cigarette with little trouble, sets the pack down between them and lights his with a slight flick, a quick drag, and a sudden breath that leaves his lungs empty and with nothing to say. Jimmy puts his arm around Clara’s shuddering shoulders. Clara curls up as small as she can, her legs, knee-high above her head. Jimmy looks out at the city, notices it for the first time in his life and thinks, what the fuck is this?

At about the same time, there are people all over the place taking advantage of Earth’s vast resources. Substantial people, the important kind, success-driven. There are people everywhere who acknowledge that they won’t live forever, that they need to feel that they accomplish things and are “somebody” to not kill themselves. They think in clichés and feel fine with their choices. They look at their partners and children and pets and think, yes, this is it, this is okay, and move forward. No. Just kidding. They think, no, never mind, and murder small insects out of extreme and out-of-control fits of minor frustration. They binge eat and binge drink and binge cheat on each other with no regard for consequence. Just kidding. There is serious regard for consequence. They lie, and feel shitty for lying. They wear condoms and feel shitty for wearing condoms, and use diaphragms. Who uses diaphragms, some of them think. Some of them cheat out of addiction and perceived necessity. There are wives without sturdy, muscular arms wrapped around their naked bodies. There are soldiers lying awake in the freezing dead of night asking themselves why they enlisted, why they were drafted, why they allowed themselves to be brainwashed. Warriors converting, ready to dissert. There are fights; explosions; masturbators and advocates for extreme types of celibacy. There are pregnant women selling themselves and babies losing their virginity. There are animals that people have never seen. So many animals that people have never and will never see. And so many people that have never seen any other type of animal. There is extinction, maybe. There is decomposition, also maybe. There is flight and submersion and contact with “God’s green earth.” There is death, and destruction, and maybe an alien: the first alien. The first of many aliens, traveling from the place within which the people with vast sums of money claim that alien belongs to, but which the alien must travel away from, travel to somewhere that is not that place. But what is a place, but a point in time-space, that will never, ever be there again, due to the unidirectional, ever-kinetic, non sequitur that is “the now?” There are children, with endorphins in their brains, yelling, running, loving each other and not thinking, even remotely about what will happen on the comedown. So engrossed by the joy that is “the now” that speculation and fear are non-concepts. There are children who are breathing for the very last time. There are people writing novels, for no other reason but that they can.

to get a digital copy of the current manuscript of 'male, black' email a paragraph about 'sonic the hedgehog' to buttercup mcgillicuddy at[at] before january first, 2010

there are no words that accurately describe reality because reality does not allow itself to be accurately described and is not autonomous and therefore allows nothing and then this is how i feel about women.

i hate women

strictly on the basis that

they are 'swept' places

like off their feet

and into houses

and away from out-of-control assholes

as a prerequisite to mutual affection

otherwise they are completely fine

and make okay friends

i feel a distinct and inexplicable force, instructing me to be a domestic organism.

what happens when a person does arithmetic

where do bones go after a cremation

is 'hot shots' better than 'hot shots part deux'

i don't know what real people consist of

what is their make-up

i put on clothes that seem appropriate for the season i am in

if it is summer, i put on nothing

for the novelty of nudity

what is poetry

is it me saying things that make chronological sense

or is it me typing things that don't

where does 'the new year' happen

everywhere, or just america

paper seems like a sustainable resource

when will we run out of trees

this poem seems 'exponentially' longer than i intended it to be

paper seems organic and white, which is perplexing to me

i thought 'white things' where exclusive to the northern portion of humanity's migratory patterns

this poem has lost its intrigue

what happens when that happens

do i write more poem or look at something attractive

main theme: i wish i had a girlfriend

if i don't have sex by december thirty-first, i am going to commit suicide

where is your god tomorrow

how sex feels (via men [via buttercup mcgillicuddy]).

during foreplay, the softness of the body of the woman is arousing because of the masculine impulse to hold/grip parts of the woman’s body while thrusting, stimulating thoughts of, ‘i want to be thrusting.’

engaging both the upper and lower parts of the body during sex is challenging/seems funny/keeps the mind from ‘thinking about cumming,’ and also causes a pleasant reaction in the woman, resulting in masculine feelings of validation and attractiveness, therefore, use of the hands/thighs/mouth in attempts to stimulate the woman happens often during sex, though, stimulating the head of the cock is ‘the ultimate desire.’

any contact with the cock indirectly stimulates the head of the cock, which causes consistent feelings of ‘this is good, i want more of this.’ ‘in other words,’ ‘there is a strange cylinder protruding from my body, and if something soft touches the top of it, it feels interesting in a “euphoric”/”do that again” way.’

‘cumming’ and ‘having to cum’ are more so involuntary reactions to this stimulation than ‘goals actualized through sex,’ especially during the initial phases of sex, though cumming is idealized through the concepts of ‘cumming on face/titties/ass,’ and ‘cumming inside pussy/mouth/ass.’

these idealizations come from masculine concept of ‘conquering’ a woman, i.e. thoughts of ‘i want my cum inside of her pussy’ (via copulation), ‘i want my cum on her face’ (via degradation), and ‘i want my shiny juice on her pretty titties’ (via artistic expression). these thoughts help to stimulate ‘the urge’ to cum if the involuntary result of direct stimulation of the head of the cock seems ineffective and the sex is ‘taking too long’/feels exhausting/exasperating.

though a snug/well-lubricated pussy seems to prompt the act of cumming, the mid-sex epiphany of (and constant rumination that) ‘i’m having sex with a hot woman’ and/or 'i like her,' causes ‘a strong desire’ to cum on/in her, as opposed to there needing to be any definite type of stimulation of the head of the cock, thus cumming can occur during stimulation by any non-abrasive medium, i.e. hand, mouth, cleavage, etc, as long as the thought ‘i’m having sex with a hot woman’ occurs.

the psychological ‘build’ towards ‘cumming voluntarily’ is based in either feelings of ‘conquering’ or ‘liking’ the woman platonically. neither concept is mutually exclusive and can cause internal conflicts of ‘do i like her,’ ‘am i conquering her,’ and (vaguely) ‘is this good for my life goals.’

the desire to prompt the woman to orgasm, as well as a personal challenge to ‘last longer’ perpetuates the temporal length of sex, which causes masculine desires to find methods of preventing cumming involuntarily, and spurs the subsequent desire to cum efficiently, when prompted. achieving these ‘goals’ provides feelings that ‘i am making this woman feel that she is attractive and stimulating by cumming on/in her’ and ‘i have self control,’ the desire to cause these feelings manifests from a preceding desire to prevent feelings of inadequacy in either person.

loss of an erection rarely has to do with the physiological attractiveness of the woman, but mostly the individual’s bodily chemistry, i.e. hydration, fitness, overall self-esteem, etc. dehydration during sex makes cumming difficult for both people.

extreme forms of experimentation, s&m, and other fetish-based intercourse eludes my concept of ‘having fun sex.’

use of drugs to stimulate sex seems more circumstantial than a habitual practice, with the exception of alcohol, which seems to make focusing on the dichotomy of ‘stimulating the head of the cock while pleasuring the numerous “sensual areas” of the woman’ seem easier.

the impulse to have sex can be most heavily associated with ‘the inexplicable desire to have fun with (via the “this is good, i want more of this” feeling) and feel mutual attraction between (via thoughts of “i’m having sex with a hot woman" and/or "i like her") two people,’ though a plethora of other social contexts cause inherent complexity/emotional discomfort, in my opinion.

because of the extreme sensitivity of the head of the cock, the inside of the pussy can be felt extensively. it’s cavernous and complex, resulting in feelings of inadequacy if multiple forms of ‘the female orgasm’ aren’t achieved. the initial entry feels soft, due to fatty tissue, though can be mildly abrasive depending on the length of the pubes. lubrication accentuates this feeling of ‘softness,’ the top of the inside of the pussy seems heavily ribbed, while the bottom is lightly textured but mostly smooth. on the top, towards the back, there are two bulbous areas (i assume one of them is the g-spot, due to women’s reaction to stimulating it), and on the bottom, there seems to be a lot of room for flexibility/various ‘areas of extreme sensitivity.’ the inside of the human mouth is very similar in these respects, though, the epiphany that ‘i’m having sex with a hot woman’/'i like her,' and subsequently cumming, seem more difficult to achieve (for me) when not looking directly at the woman’s bodily response, facial expression, and the act of penetrating her pussy.

supporting my body on one foot all of the time has made my left knee kind of weaker than my right knee.

i want to masturbate

and make loud, obscene noises while i do this

i want to stare at my fish tank until january

and watch the little fish explode

bubbles everywhere, fish guts, 'damn'

the palm of my hand keeps touching my forehead

and my fingers keep pushing my hair back

out of my eyes

i want to look at you and tell you i'm sorry

no i don't

i am unsure whether i want to do this or not do this

i think that 38% percent of me wants to do this

15% of me does not want to do this, and

47% feels unsure whether i want to do this or not do this

my penis feels really sensitive

and it's making me uncomfortable

i saw myself climbing a cliff

that was the same color as what was behind me


and bubbles, fragile like soap bubbles

but multicolored, opaque and lit by an unknown source

were floating up beside me as i climbed

eventually i reached the top

and looked out over the landscape


and smiled and said 'i made it'


i bought you a pot of perennial flowers

then i looked at your face and it was smiling

your fingers touched the pot with an overwhelming force

that gently moved the pot away from me

your face kept smiling and you said,

'thank you' rapidly, then again really slowly

'this means a lot to me' you said

i immediately thought, 'meaning' doesn't mean anything

my face felt calm and i could feel my heartbeat in my fingers

you said you had to go, that you were late for a meeting

i said okay, then remembered some facts about the flowers

i remembered they were perennial

and your favorite color

and that they wouldn't die, ever

and that this was meant to represent something about me

then you shut the door

i almost knocked again

but then didn't

self-conscious blog post.

preface: i learn things slowly

i recently discovered/was directed to jordan castro's blog

its simplicity stunned me

hard to explain what exactly

but i want this blog to be 'a blog' now

instead of 'poems by buttercup written spontaneously and posted immediately and with little tact'

or whatever this has become

unsure how to do this

feeling positive about said desire though

when talking to a person i am attracted to, i get the distinct feeling of being physically nauseated and extremely euphoric at the same time and i hate it.

when you 'open up' to me

i feel like the one who is becoming vulnerable

i feel like you are doing it

to gain my trust

so you can blame me for something later

'what's with'

destructive reactionary tendencies

and the psychological discomfort

of getting familiar with someone?

i think it has something

to do with you being an amoral person

and me also being an amoral person

and my being unwilling to indulge in behavior

that results in abstract types of pain

or anxiety

resulting from

too much vulnerability

why don't you just kick me

and walk away, instead

transgressions i have somehow yet to perform (for camille).

i’m contemplating a number

between eleven and fifty-three

it’s twenty-nine

that’s a prime number, i think

once, i went on a hike up a mountain

in western maryland

and when i got to the top

there was a rock engraved

‘jim and laura forever’

my grandparents names are jim and laura

seems funny

i doubt i’ll ever procreate

because there seems to be

a higher rate

of autistic children

in the past generation

and why would i want

to bring into the world

a little person who

will never be able

to relate to me, or its mother, or its friends

i will probably have some by accident or something

all of the shudders are drawn, the curtains too, and i can't find the light switch.

i've managed to spend one hundred forty

of the past one hundred sixty-eight hours

shifting between positions on my bed

thinking about one person

and that person has managed

to ignore me

for roughly ninety-five percent

of that time

i walked to my friends' house

and spent the night there,

craving cigarettes,

ignoring all of them and eating their food

moments after one of them

offered me a smoke

i got a phone call

saying my ride was there

i've decided to see

if i can spend

one hundred sixty-eight

of the next one hundred sixty-eight hours

crying profusely

only drinking water

and consuming sodium chloride

and successively crying

significantly more

each subsequent day

i will feel better

after having done this

or worse, i feel

or dead maybe