Sofa of Rumination- Part 2: Bad Words (Bad Poetry)

Jealous slut
ugly narcissist
in a zealous rut
marred & missed.

Fuck me hard
spray heart with defogger
selfishly scarred
hippocampus keylogger.

Finish me off
incomplete collection
chlamydia cough
discontinued connection.

Shut me out
no good drama queen
conceited pout
two bit sex routine.

Black white red
monotonous grey
not quite dead
dropdown menu way.


26 June 2013-19 July 2013

Wouldn't it be great?

Deprivation.

I’m invoking a blank wall.

He doesn’t respond—

not to my dearest caresses

and loving gestures.**

Maze (still)—

Running down every dead-end corridor,

psychotically beating on every door. **

Wanted you to look me in the face

& finally tell me

I wasn’t worth:

time, effort, care, love.

To you.

The obsession, stationary, sitting (always when I Finally Sit Still)

then it’s there, in my mind, brutal, this time not for food

or something I actually need,

but for exactly what is destroying me:

Love.

Desperate-hungry search for something

that isn’t there.

Inside the object

of my affection.

Who’s unaffected.

He holds the “key” that I need to unlock

some supposed treasure.

Some… thing.

Something worth staying here on Earth for, in the moment,

worth not dissociating from the present.

Or I think I see a key in there.

I see what I want to see.

I was always invoking a

blank wall.

The reels of my mind projected onto its white surface.

Before my eyes flashed The Fantasy

of knights in white armor,

fairy tails, a brainwashing, heart-denigrating

wonderland of romantic, emotional, sexual

devotion.

The Farce: that someone would hold me and keep me as theirs.

Not so.

Let it go.

Let go the Obsession & Fantasy

Let go of love.

Tear down the walls of the maze

(I’ve been in so long,

since the First Abandonment.)

Let go of the want,

quash the dream.

That is the solution to set me free.

The bane of gods and kings,

the bitterness of knowing [we] are free.**

Do I really want to be free?

I run & run & run

like a rat on a wheel, a treadmill.

"If I could truly be free,

would I?"

I asked myself that when I was reading

some self-help book

in a bad mood

and it would be great, wouldn’t it?

To set myself free from

the emotional mess of the chase.

I’d invest less time in men

and I think

more energy into my own life,

hobbies—painting, music, creativity, travel.

I’d have more 

time to write

and, “Wouldn’t it be great?”

I wonder, as I sit,

lonely, dreaming

waiting for something to happen.

Storm Chasers

For T.S.W., and you.

Rain mists in a vortex around us.

Wind weaves our hair into nests,

gusts billow deafeningly—

gladly, it masks the annoyance of everyone else

with white noise.

Random objects swirl around—

mirror shards to cut, black-cat bones to

become lodged in our throats, broken boards

with tetanus nails, pieces of people,

their Umbrellas, and shredded yellow trenchcoats.

They rushed: gathered their children & puppies,

loaded up minivans to flee the storm.

They’re history: wouldn’t sit, cross-legged,

like the Buddha, levitating in detachment—

wouldn’t stare unflinchingly into the Eye of the Tornado,

let it carry them away.

They’d rather: push, madly, in hordes

toward exponential decay.

Yes.

We’re here together,

beyond the confines of Time,

in the sensual vent of the volcano,

which houses the Spirit of the Monster,

and we aren’t afraid.

We like it here

where the truth dwells.

The monster lives inside, too,

thriving off the pain of

in the sinews of Truth.

Huge in size, with a tiny, efficient heart,

covered in a sticky film of fly-trap ooze,

(Don’t touch, only stare.)

Of course it has green eyes,

not leaf-green, more like Alexandrite.

Sometimes they’re steel-blue.

Behind the beautiful eyes of the Monster,

a storm brews.

And we, crazy storm chasers,

will charge with full-force, headlong, no-holds barred, fuelled by mothers’ pleas and all our scars,

to be uplifted, exponentially, and swallowed into the eye of the storm,

for in the heart of this suffering,

we feel, intensely, the most beautiful art form.

26 June - 9 July 2013

Buried the Way Out

Third in the Way Out series. First is here, second is here.


Through the door I unburied finally,
there is another door
with a ladder behind it,
broken legs and broken pegs.
I think if I repair that ladder
and climb it,
I’ll overreach & escape this maze,
with its walls built of collected clutter.
But it seems I never do.

Enemies & mentors consoled,
contacting me through the walls via walky talky,
saying the origin of my soul build-up is:
fear, to put it lightly (ambiguously bulky).
Is this true?

So if I separate & dissect my fears, one-by-one,
then somehow the walls will come crumbling down?
I’ll be as free as a bunny rabbit to run from its cage.

So I started peeling layers of my hoard,
investigating the dust.
All I saw was dead cells, hairs, and bloody tissue.
Analyzed the dirt
and found it was salvageable soil,
not to be tossed out,
but sprayed down, kneaded, and rolled into coils.

Cupboards & drawers
are cracking from the pressure
of the soil I hoard,
scraped from the feet of whores,
but in my heart & mind it’s a living treasure,
and now, having swept it from
under the rug, and kept it from
being disposed of, I’ve exhausted all hiding space.

The way out is up:
I’ve found this to be true,
now I’ve exposed all my dirt,
so what do I do?
It’s not enough to fly up and out,
what do I do with the dirt?
What do I do with the crumbs
(you tossed me)
and the remnants that I want to keep?

Send it into to the vacuum?
Bury it as deep as your grave, your soul,
and let it transform to ultisols.

Oct. 2012-June 2013

Mitigate the B.L.E.V.E, The Rage

Third & final in the Rage Series. (First is here, second is here).

I.

Cheapen me:
throw my raggedy carcass down the stairs,
spit & piss & eject excrement onto me.
After all,
I wasn’t important to you.
The abundant love in my heart was still
half-empty in your cup.
Toss it out. Just waste my love.
Shit on it, burn holes in it, stab it with a knife,
pour acid on it, & laugh as it disintegrates.
I don’t need it,
I don’t need you.
You aren’t my fountain of endless love-production.
You aren’t a source of
anything
good for me.

II.

I’m determined to forgive you.
I’m going to set myself free,
burn these goddamned ropes off my ankles,
and through (my Memory of) the pain you inflicted
I’ll no longer be your tether ball.
I’ll chew through the bitter skin
and, like a kumquat, it will make the sour flesh
palatable.
Hear me now:
All the times you fucked me over
are filed in the historical archives,
not forgotten,
(Not being fucked over any more)
but are banned from entering
my perfectly sweet, Soft Soul’s
Golden Bubble.

III.

At this moment
I can breathe.
Stars in the heavens,
some bright & others dim,
like fingers & arms raised in praise,
sycamores & tulip poplars,
& countless other trees,
in which a million red-winged blackbirds
woodpeckers & cicadas
are dancing & vibrating,
& all the animals are screaming & singing
in joy:
for the waves rippling over the lake,
the delicious chlorophyllic taste of air,
& for God, who seems to be smiling
in each & every one & thing.

Remember How

You crawled into my heart, started to clean

squirrels’ nests and spider webs

with your broom of persistence, your heart’s love,

and rubber gardening gloves.

You faced the challenge like a hero does.

I was worth it to you, despite the pain,

projected onto and absorbed by you

I thought I’d never be to anyone

what I am now to you.

The dusty attic, with time, golden hues.

Passionately, you have challenged me to

Tear Down That Wall, render

it obsolete, necessity no more.

With sun stinging my eyes,

I’m battling to transcend these, my own, lies.

The glowing orb in the sky

Beats down on this world,

Sweat beads, dehydration, rage, exhaustion, and migraines,

But I am shaded, always,

By a single memory.

12 Feb-11 March 2013

Where There's Nothing, There's Black

Written 2012 Aug (Description of a drawing)

The black shines through

charred wings and hollowed eyes,

and through an emptiness in her chest

where a heart goes.

The black shines

through a hole cut out of her abdomen

where it was hollowed out.

Shackles ‘round the ankles

of a slut-pink angel

are held & controlled by a masturbating puppeteer

(no wings or eyes)

but the slobbering tongue of a dog

is where the black shines through him.

He’s a hollowed out 2D figure with a

big, black-painted dick

& the black shines through

a cavity in his chest

where a heart was.

The fire blazes hot, gently upon the black coals—

and then is set to their catastrophe

by the freed souls of the two,

in the form of butterflies,

and by the little girl who was burning on inside her,

despite years of trying to

force her out

the wrong holes.