poets, faggots, and fashionable cunts:
i like to be around them, inside them,
between them;
and the truth
is that this fever won't break
and i will die standing here
thinking that i finished a thing
wanting to know the end
of this project
projectile/projection — has come.
this
life feels slow and jittery
so will my eyes focus or will they blur
just before my last exhalation?
and the moment that i feel
that i'm sure that i want you,
maybe for the rest of my life,
you'll turn around and walk away from me
the difference between feeling alienated and being alienated and boredom and depression and sleep and death.
i am a liquid
almost all of me is water
i change and am different after
short periods of time
you are similar
and similarly autonomous
i can't control your body
like how i control my body
but would like to
and would move you close to me
and you and i would turn away from each other
and only feel the radiation
of our bloodstreams creating heat
with rhythmic liquid movements
and currents would be produced
between our hair strands
and taste buds
and concrete thoughts would form
and feelings would arise
from the chemicals released
in the course of our attachment
to ourselves and our self's anguished lover
who would invariably be us
almost all of me is water
i change and am different after
short periods of time
you are similar
and similarly autonomous
i can't control your body
like how i control my body
but would like to
and would move you close to me
and you and i would turn away from each other
and only feel the radiation
of our bloodstreams creating heat
with rhythmic liquid movements
and currents would be produced
between our hair strands
and taste buds
and concrete thoughts would form
and feelings would arise
from the chemicals released
in the course of our attachment
to ourselves and our self's anguished lover
who would invariably be us
i was right this entire time.
everyone on earth
got laid last night
except for me
and i can feel
a distinct sense
of alienation, emanating
from my balls
those poor balls,
those poor balls
those poor balls;
i'm going to smash them with
the mechanical part
of a blender, i think
my poor, poor balls
they feel really bad,
and have missed you a lot
since the winter started
threatening everybody again,
with loneliness
and nights that are cold
so everyone forms up
and branches off into small groups
of two and four
against this awful winter
this is what happens
when humans don't nest properly
their balls freeze
and nipples arch
and all is right with the world
got laid last night
except for me
and i can feel
a distinct sense
of alienation, emanating
from my balls
those poor balls,
those poor balls
those poor balls;
i'm going to smash them with
the mechanical part
of a blender, i think
my poor, poor balls
they feel really bad,
and have missed you a lot
since the winter started
threatening everybody again,
with loneliness
and nights that are cold
so everyone forms up
and branches off into small groups
of two and four
against this awful winter
this is what happens
when humans don't nest properly
their balls freeze
and nipples arch
and all is right with the world
very close, but not quite.
when looking tenderly
at a lover
my eyes cross a little
and staring closely, her eyes cross also
she smiles and thinks 'i want you'
i kiss her
my thinking becomes extremely unclear
at a lover
my eyes cross a little
and staring closely, her eyes cross also
she smiles and thinks 'i want you'
i kiss her
my thinking becomes extremely unclear
as of yet, untitled.
every poem i have written
over the course of my life
is absolute shit
you can see them all on a website
and subjectively critique their shittiness
and i'm okay
with there being a camel
on my doorstep
because normality
is also arbitrary
where are my shoes
over the course of my life
is absolute shit
you can see them all on a website
and subjectively critique their shittiness
and i'm okay
with there being a camel
on my doorstep
because normality
is also arbitrary
where are my shoes
what is this. is this really occuring.
i didn't solicit life
why is life happening
decided to 'turn' this into a massive, incomprehensible poem
had trouble spelling 'incomprehensible'
why is life happening
decided to 'turn' this into a massive, incomprehensible poem
had trouble spelling 'incomprehensible'
there is no title for this.
i'm drunkenly redundant
and laughing, still blackout from last night
at everything on the internet
i hate myself
looked up the definition for 'jilted' twice in twenty-four hours
smoking a new blend camel filter cigarette
might have another
and laughing, still blackout from last night
at everything on the internet
i hate myself
looked up the definition for 'jilted' twice in twenty-four hours
smoking a new blend camel filter cigarette
might have another
it's really hard to believe some of the shit you say.
half of what comes from my mouth
sounds distinctly like what retarded humans say
it seems i vomit out-of-control, poorly crafted clauses and exclamations
constantly
and in my own voice, no less
if i'm going to do this on a regular basis
i at least want to sound like 'an actual retard'
i'm curious what bagels a-la-mode taste like
probably really shitty
they may be really good; we'll find out together won't we
i want hot fudge on mine
apologizing incessantly pisses people off
light-years of one shitty apology preceding subsequently shittier apologies
i'm unsure what this phenomenon is;
sorry that your apologies are shitty and piss people off
your incessant apologizing makes you an asshole
an asshole that shits insecurity,
making me an hemorrhoid
trapped in your never-ending, apologetic rectum
otherwise you make me feel really good
like when you hold me close to you and whisper 'i like you'
and things like that
do you want to go out for bagels and ice cream?
or maybe coffee with chocolate:
a double venti hot mocha
will get me into the mood
to hold you and make love
all day and forever, i think
sounds distinctly like what retarded humans say
it seems i vomit out-of-control, poorly crafted clauses and exclamations
constantly
and in my own voice, no less
if i'm going to do this on a regular basis
i at least want to sound like 'an actual retard'
i'm curious what bagels a-la-mode taste like
probably really shitty
they may be really good; we'll find out together won't we
i want hot fudge on mine
apologizing incessantly pisses people off
light-years of one shitty apology preceding subsequently shittier apologies
i'm unsure what this phenomenon is;
sorry that your apologies are shitty and piss people off
your incessant apologizing makes you an asshole
an asshole that shits insecurity,
making me an hemorrhoid
trapped in your never-ending, apologetic rectum
otherwise you make me feel really good
like when you hold me close to you and whisper 'i like you'
and things like that
do you want to go out for bagels and ice cream?
or maybe coffee with chocolate:
a double venti hot mocha
will get me into the mood
to hold you and make love
all day and forever, i think
megan has a psychological disorder.
megan has a psychological disorder, the symptoms of which include eating, shitting, and sleeping on a regular basis. megan finds out that her mother is dying. her grandmother calls her on her cell phone and tells her this. her grandmother says that her mother is at high risk for conjunctive heart failure in addition to the bacterial infection that is causing her to die. megan wishes she were a microscopic biomechanical nanite designed to combat bacterial infection and heart failure. megan does not exist in the distant future. there is nothing that megan can do to prevent her mother from dying. megan feels that making a mildly destructive series of decisions involving interpersonal relationships is the only form of therapy for the emotions she associates with the possibility of her mother dying (especially her mother ‘dying slowly’ due to bacteria, as opposed to dying in a car accident or of a heroin overdose or something).
megan calls her friend dandelion, a hippie priestess, on her cell phone, and solicits her for sex. dandelion says no, but is intrigued by megan's desperation and suggests that they get really drunk and see what happens. dandelion drives across town to the quasi-suburban apartment complex megan is staying at. it is a place of rampant squalor and degeneracy. dandelion gets out of her car and calls megan on her cell phone. megan answers her cell phone.
‘hey, i'm here,’ says dandelion.
‘good. i'm coming down,’ says megan.
‘where are you,’ asks dandelion. ‘what complex are you in?’
‘i don't know,’ says megan. megan feels confused. ‘there are turquoise doors. the doors are turquoise where i am.
‘i don't see you,’ says dandelion.
‘do you see turquoise doors with piñata lamps above them?’
‘there are piñata lamps everywhere,’ says dandelion. ‘where are there not piñata lamps?’
megan and dandelion walk in the opposite direction of each other on parallel sidewalks and on different sides of the same block. if megan moved exactly fifty meters left, she would be permanently conjoined with dandelion at the brain, and their heads would make a combined head with dandelion's face on the front and megan's face on the back, like a severely deformed transsexual janus or something. dandelion feels confused and unattractive and walks down a street perpendicular to megan away from the apartment parking lot.
‘i'm not here anymore,’ says dandelion. ‘i'm not here anymore,’ she says again for existential validation.
‘what,’ says megan. ‘i can hear you. where are you? i know where you are. i see you. i'm right behind you.’
‘oh,’ says dandelion. ‘talk to you soon.’ dandelion hangs up her cell phone. ‘hi,’ she says emphatically.
they get into dandelion's car and drive recklessly through downtown philadelphia, screaming and cavorting wildly and with no regard for the local police force. dandelion runs eight red lights and honks at passing mexicans. we are beasts, thinks megan. mobile, electric, kinetic beasts. we are beasts that move. when megan thinks ‘move’ she adds a strong inflection on the ‘oo’ sound and extends it indefinitely in her head, knowing she will finish eventually, but is interrupted by dandelion.
‘do you want to get beers,’ asks dandelion.
‘ooooooooooooooove,’ says megan by accident. ‘i mean, no. yes!’
‘there is a bar somewhere,’ says dandelion. ‘there are bars here. do you recognize this place? where are we?’
‘i've been here,’ yells megan. she lowers her voice to almost a whisper. ‘i've been here before.’
‘what is this place,’ asks dandelion. ‘is this a place with new beginnings? can we start over here? i want alcohol,’ she says.
‘i don't think so,’ says megan.
they park and walk with perfectly synchronized movements, like in a sixties musical, to the bar while singing ‘stars are blind’ by paris hilton. they are one block from the bar. dandelion stops singing abruptly and megan gets confused and sings the first verse again instead of the second verse. megan feels embarrassed. she looks at dandelion. dandelion does not look back at megan. dandelion looks forward with a neutral facial expression. megan interprets this as disdain and a complacent disposition as a result of dandelion’s acknowledgment of the absurd nature of the universe. megan nervously lights a cigarette.
‘i'm leaving,’ says dandelion. ‘i'm leaving you here.’
‘okay,’ says megan.
dandelion runs away.
‘even though the gods are crazy, even though the stars are blind,’ says megan. she takes a drag from her cigarette and then smashes it onto the concrete. ‘you show me your love baby, i’ll show you mine,’ she screams. she looks around anxiously. everyone around her looks profoundly judgmental and in control of their lives.
somewhere, maybe angola, a horse runs in circles and repeats ‘i’m in los angeles’ and whinnies and kind of jumps periodically while a crowd of on-lookers drink pumpkin spice coffee and think the words motherfucker motherfucker in a sort of psychic game of telephone or in some perverse derivative of ‘row, row, row your boat,’ in a circular sequence.
somewhere else, almost definitely not angola, a rather fat amoeba is projecting embarrassment and slight intrigue due to the prospect of it going on a weight-loss program, advertised in a gossip magazine it’s reading, that involves rigorous ballet warm-up exercises, conversations that consist mostly of tongue-twisters, and ritually burning sage to appease the obesity gods.
dandelion arrives at her car and becomes highly aware of there being a person inside the driver’s seat. she feels afraid, paralyzed, terrified even. her eyes go out of focus and cross a little. she thinks about megan’s ass vaguely. her heart begins to palpitate. there is no one in the driver’s seat. the day is saved. she gets into the car and drives to her apartment where she has to physically squeeze her car into a small alleyway, through what could be considered a corridor, and into a parking space. she gets a text message. it’s from megan and says, ‘i had fun, or i like you. hehe.’
fucking niggers, thinks dandelion, then thinks, bitch ass, or, motherfucker motherfucker, regarding bagels.
megan calls her friend dandelion, a hippie priestess, on her cell phone, and solicits her for sex. dandelion says no, but is intrigued by megan's desperation and suggests that they get really drunk and see what happens. dandelion drives across town to the quasi-suburban apartment complex megan is staying at. it is a place of rampant squalor and degeneracy. dandelion gets out of her car and calls megan on her cell phone. megan answers her cell phone.
‘hey, i'm here,’ says dandelion.
‘good. i'm coming down,’ says megan.
‘where are you,’ asks dandelion. ‘what complex are you in?’
‘i don't know,’ says megan. megan feels confused. ‘there are turquoise doors. the doors are turquoise where i am.
‘i don't see you,’ says dandelion.
‘do you see turquoise doors with piñata lamps above them?’
‘there are piñata lamps everywhere,’ says dandelion. ‘where are there not piñata lamps?’
megan and dandelion walk in the opposite direction of each other on parallel sidewalks and on different sides of the same block. if megan moved exactly fifty meters left, she would be permanently conjoined with dandelion at the brain, and their heads would make a combined head with dandelion's face on the front and megan's face on the back, like a severely deformed transsexual janus or something. dandelion feels confused and unattractive and walks down a street perpendicular to megan away from the apartment parking lot.
‘i'm not here anymore,’ says dandelion. ‘i'm not here anymore,’ she says again for existential validation.
‘what,’ says megan. ‘i can hear you. where are you? i know where you are. i see you. i'm right behind you.’
‘oh,’ says dandelion. ‘talk to you soon.’ dandelion hangs up her cell phone. ‘hi,’ she says emphatically.
they get into dandelion's car and drive recklessly through downtown philadelphia, screaming and cavorting wildly and with no regard for the local police force. dandelion runs eight red lights and honks at passing mexicans. we are beasts, thinks megan. mobile, electric, kinetic beasts. we are beasts that move. when megan thinks ‘move’ she adds a strong inflection on the ‘oo’ sound and extends it indefinitely in her head, knowing she will finish eventually, but is interrupted by dandelion.
‘do you want to get beers,’ asks dandelion.
‘ooooooooooooooove,’ says megan by accident. ‘i mean, no. yes!’
‘there is a bar somewhere,’ says dandelion. ‘there are bars here. do you recognize this place? where are we?’
‘i've been here,’ yells megan. she lowers her voice to almost a whisper. ‘i've been here before.’
‘what is this place,’ asks dandelion. ‘is this a place with new beginnings? can we start over here? i want alcohol,’ she says.
‘i don't think so,’ says megan.
they park and walk with perfectly synchronized movements, like in a sixties musical, to the bar while singing ‘stars are blind’ by paris hilton. they are one block from the bar. dandelion stops singing abruptly and megan gets confused and sings the first verse again instead of the second verse. megan feels embarrassed. she looks at dandelion. dandelion does not look back at megan. dandelion looks forward with a neutral facial expression. megan interprets this as disdain and a complacent disposition as a result of dandelion’s acknowledgment of the absurd nature of the universe. megan nervously lights a cigarette.
‘i'm leaving,’ says dandelion. ‘i'm leaving you here.’
‘okay,’ says megan.
dandelion runs away.
‘even though the gods are crazy, even though the stars are blind,’ says megan. she takes a drag from her cigarette and then smashes it onto the concrete. ‘you show me your love baby, i’ll show you mine,’ she screams. she looks around anxiously. everyone around her looks profoundly judgmental and in control of their lives.
somewhere, maybe angola, a horse runs in circles and repeats ‘i’m in los angeles’ and whinnies and kind of jumps periodically while a crowd of on-lookers drink pumpkin spice coffee and think the words motherfucker motherfucker in a sort of psychic game of telephone or in some perverse derivative of ‘row, row, row your boat,’ in a circular sequence.
somewhere else, almost definitely not angola, a rather fat amoeba is projecting embarrassment and slight intrigue due to the prospect of it going on a weight-loss program, advertised in a gossip magazine it’s reading, that involves rigorous ballet warm-up exercises, conversations that consist mostly of tongue-twisters, and ritually burning sage to appease the obesity gods.
dandelion arrives at her car and becomes highly aware of there being a person inside the driver’s seat. she feels afraid, paralyzed, terrified even. her eyes go out of focus and cross a little. she thinks about megan’s ass vaguely. her heart begins to palpitate. there is no one in the driver’s seat. the day is saved. she gets into the car and drives to her apartment where she has to physically squeeze her car into a small alleyway, through what could be considered a corridor, and into a parking space. she gets a text message. it’s from megan and says, ‘i had fun, or i like you. hehe.’
fucking niggers, thinks dandelion, then thinks, bitch ass, or, motherfucker motherfucker, regarding bagels.
little 'boxes.'
seems that the internet has propagated the arbitrary placement of unnecessary 'boxes'
intended for descriptive summaries of one's personality and interests
which i feel are things that cannot be succinctly or accurately conveyed
and replacing 'actual descriptions' with 'pithy witticisms' seems strikingly more absurd
intended for descriptive summaries of one's personality and interests
which i feel are things that cannot be succinctly or accurately conveyed
and replacing 'actual descriptions' with 'pithy witticisms' seems strikingly more absurd
cat allergy-induced paranoia vs insomnia-induced hallucination.
i feel cold and amorphous
like my bones are becoming soft serve ice cream or something
hangnails,
and paper cuts suck really bad
i suck on them, ‘hehe’
they don’t feel better when i do this
seems impossible to control how one reacts to pain without focusing on the source of that pain
unless the mind and body acclimate to it or something;
it becomes ‘normal’
or if an immediate goal supersedes it.
little bursts of pain are not meant to be ignored
that’s how the germs will defeat us.
i feel afraid of a potential massacre
dealt by bacteria assassins
preceded by the pan-human acquisition
of the ability to ignore tiny stabbings
like my bones are becoming soft serve ice cream or something
hangnails,
and paper cuts suck really bad
i suck on them, ‘hehe’
they don’t feel better when i do this
seems impossible to control how one reacts to pain without focusing on the source of that pain
unless the mind and body acclimate to it or something;
it becomes ‘normal’
or if an immediate goal supersedes it.
little bursts of pain are not meant to be ignored
that’s how the germs will defeat us.
i feel afraid of a potential massacre
dealt by bacteria assassins
preceded by the pan-human acquisition
of the ability to ignore tiny stabbings
i can hear train whistles and dog barks and cricket chirps and where the hell is your voice?
i am having extreme feelings of embarrassment and emasculation
resulting in wanting desperately to cry
i will either fall asleep crying or masturbating, i think
or maybe just not wake up ever
i feel immobilized by extreme embarrassment
embarrassment is slowly making me sad
and sadness is slowly making me angry
anger needs to be addressed physically
addressing feelings physically is dangerous and potentially life-altering
so i will jerk off
or i'll break something; no
i will cry
i'll cry like a newborn baby thing cries
and this action will cause me to remain equally embarrassed
and feel exponentially more emasculated
and everything will seem fucked
this is what alienation does to a person
embarrassment and not being able to have sex are making me weak
the only way i can address emasculation without embarrassment is through sex
millions of hours of it
as a trade
in order to not mindlessly break something precious
and apologize for weeks
and maybe not be able to be friends anymore
and potentially spend money on the person whose shit i broke
as a gesture
due to broke-your-shit guilt
sex is fun and is aggression and is friendship at the same time, i think
i am wrong about this, how could i not be wrong about this
resulting in wanting desperately to cry
i will either fall asleep crying or masturbating, i think
or maybe just not wake up ever
i feel immobilized by extreme embarrassment
embarrassment is slowly making me sad
and sadness is slowly making me angry
anger needs to be addressed physically
addressing feelings physically is dangerous and potentially life-altering
so i will jerk off
or i'll break something; no
i will cry
i'll cry like a newborn baby thing cries
and this action will cause me to remain equally embarrassed
and feel exponentially more emasculated
and everything will seem fucked
this is what alienation does to a person
embarrassment and not being able to have sex are making me weak
the only way i can address emasculation without embarrassment is through sex
millions of hours of it
as a trade
in order to not mindlessly break something precious
and apologize for weeks
and maybe not be able to be friends anymore
and potentially spend money on the person whose shit i broke
as a gesture
due to broke-your-shit guilt
sex is fun and is aggression and is friendship at the same time, i think
i am wrong about this, how could i not be wrong about this
is everything okay? does everything seem okay to you?
scientists recently discovered a previously unknown organ in humans
it is a second brain located near the aorta
that functions in near complete isolation
and does not communicate well with the primary brain
it is in charge of irrational fits of sadness and feelings of alienation
due to extended periods of anti-social behavior
if the heart beats too regularly for days at a time
the second brain releases chemicals that make everything seem okay
and then immediately and extremely not okay
inversely throughout the week
activity in this little brain is considered a psychological disorder
due to its effects
when two people isolate themselves for extended periods of time
the little brain remains dormant
and wonders why it does not feel alone
and there are strange periods of euphoria and feelings of objective existential security
the doctor who conducted the study said 'love someone, please'
'then there will be less psychological disorders everywhere and everything will, perhaps, actually be okay'
it is a second brain located near the aorta
that functions in near complete isolation
and does not communicate well with the primary brain
it is in charge of irrational fits of sadness and feelings of alienation
due to extended periods of anti-social behavior
if the heart beats too regularly for days at a time
the second brain releases chemicals that make everything seem okay
and then immediately and extremely not okay
inversely throughout the week
activity in this little brain is considered a psychological disorder
due to its effects
when two people isolate themselves for extended periods of time
the little brain remains dormant
and wonders why it does not feel alone
and there are strange periods of euphoria and feelings of objective existential security
the doctor who conducted the study said 'love someone, please'
'then there will be less psychological disorders everywhere and everything will, perhaps, actually be okay'
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