when I just had that thought
he who dies with the most toys wins, eh?
asemic and anumeric
process and reality
being and time
time and the other
for some young mind to be aroused by
in sixty years
Untitledhello my name is Yellow Pisscunt
how is your prodigious unicorn today
I betrayed myself to the single
I hate him because he gets to be who he is and nothing more
how can I be more
I am not enough people for me
how can I become two
I think seven would be enough
for all of me to be me
but now I wr8ite shit
and live on divine blood
tainting my lips
and it stops when I don't want it to
and I want to never stop
but my being itself
as I know it
is the kind that stops
which terrifies me
all the time
burning through goo
so many leaking tubes
goo calls new tubes home
and the call me
while I should be gone
away from mundane stress
but they find me
and I can't get away
I can't get out
always stuck being less me than I need to be
UntitledWhat was it for?
The long nights in the basement,
the only-sleep-when-I-pass-out-from-exhaustion lifestyle,
the passionate suffering,
what was it all for?
The endless war,
damn this infernal transformation.
Does it fall on me to document the struggles of a generation,
a generation that watches every triumph become trivial,
a generation that waits for itself to become obsolete,
the generation forced to condemn temporality,
the generation to witness the end of temporality as it dies the last deaths?
God floats in a pool of His own blood.
The masters wipe their asses with angel feathers.
The curious are left for dead.
it's not that i mumble, i am naturally uncleara sly smile, every word a curtain,
my room an obstacle course; something
yellowed and desperate, tuberculosis,
you push through the drapes and kiss the cankerous palm.
yes we move, we tumble,
leaves fall off,
wing parts rattle off the aircraft,
foreheads bruise and mutilated flesh is torn
but when i rise from the teeth marks on linoleum,
there is something indestructible:
a steady fire
a good pulse
jitterslike dead fishes floating up
pale and x-marked
the brushwood on the soapy surface
dark waters underneath
through the window in the submarine centre
a jet white torpedo
a girl turns her head
what leviathan was this
what catfish whose whiskers
feeling the curves of the
she stares into the distance
poor child, into
the newspapers say nothing
found wet, vomiting
shells on the riverbank
from the belly of the peripheral whale
rising up, regurgitated
the mind is a perpetual orgasm
skeptic//romanceand you can do the dishes.
i will dust the bookshelves
bookless. i will peel an orange in one. you
can keep the window panes.
the mountains have been wolfed down
by the creek (down by the creek?)
and you can drink my whisky
vomit and i can crawl between
your legs and sing.
hologram starvation. holler for the star nation.
tally chart: attributed to humanity
kept for the kettle or the fish. articulate, and
the sky is violent and violet and violins; deconstruct
this second, this space,
002Penitent, you stand there.
Your words hover between us, heard;
But I do not react,
And you watch me.
My answer is predetermined,
And you know it;
You've known it all along.
This is not because I am cold,
This is because you hurt me worse
Than you could ever know.
And I wonder, now-
Are you really penitent at all?
microscopic transgressions in god's petri dishpangean hips
we're the hottest fossils in this gambit
our loves' cold crater, covered in ash
... but it won't last
so we've spent this past year deep undercover
our little universe asunder
metamorphic misfits plotting
our final trip around the sun
and when it's done -
we'll gladly fold into abstraction
with no cheese left in the traps
or proclivities to flash
we've finally found a way to ask our loves'
cold crater covered in ash
dizzy groundso the funny thing
about getting drunk --
no vacancy knows me, i am
the power of nothingness held
in a giant's hand, you fucking called it, it was raucous
let's start again.
one of the funny things
about getting drunk:
it's remarkably easy.
hey, isn't it hilarious
have another shot,
i'm not doing this
because i'm dying, i'm horrifically
and this winter is so old.
and this youth is so tired.
we, and it, and this, and you: quiet
in the sense of vicarious death; quiet
in the sense of indomitable truth.
this box of time, sq
003Time lost is never found.
Who we once were disappears
In droplets and ashes.
For you were water; I was fire.
Replaced by the ones we chose
To fill the void we created.
Ash is scattered by the wind,
Droplets soak into the earth.
To fill the void of what once was
Is a superficial desire.