shit is hard.
and I too feel that. beat. I hate
the words I
use because I can feel them
stuck to my hands.
im getting turned down
and getting spanked
for being too much
in too little a space
that I can’t or won’t leave
and I can’t and won’t love
like my hands pressing something that isn’t mine
into my chest
I’m getting turned down by smiles.
why does she try?
when I don’t and won’t and
it’s that we both.
lied and though
and she knew
what it was
it is still
a surprise everytime,
I will call you every hour. I feel like I should have special access to you, because we are so much in each other’s heads. I have been uncomfortable; still. I wait and suck in air. When you are not here, I am questioning everything. You should know this. I don’t know why my breath stops short in my lungs waiting to hear you. Once a friend asked me if my throat felt small. I couldn’t quite grasp her mental image. This proves the fundametnal disconnection of minds, though the nervous energy is always present, especially in a place like New York. Thoughts hover above the streets and enter my room on the wind via my open window. The thoughts are sliced even smaller still, atomized by the window screen. Some I accidentally ingest and am made sick. Others surround my head to produce malaise. Heavier thoughts exit and stick on the sidewalk like discarded gum.
that’s right, get clean. i am never clean. theres no time for me in your routine. our foot traffic in the hall always results in wrecks. i will stay in my room and learn how to avoid the sunlight.
when people walk around their homes like they own them
when they think they are alone
they slam doors a little harder and dont turn down their music
they dont care who hears
do they know
that i am here?
The way I see it is I wont be here in ten years twenty and the way comedy barks astnishing. Thoughts feather surreal. Sea in turn crawls down avast. Dubious claims made as to the ownership of nightly and daily conflate mother’s secret slaps. Mother’s eyes are separate and are charged accordingly. Obscure festive explosion is nervous celebration in glances. Breath takes its turn in variable lungs.
I wonder if patrons and matrons of Christianity would try so hard if they knew that we would do nothing. They created an entire glamour of sex and drugs that aging rock stars strain to pull off. We have become nothing. Our sex is not what we thought. Most people don’t do much of anything at all. It would take a really exceptional person to have wild dangerous sex, or to nurture a drug habit. Or even to get a tatoo. Most people don’t like pain. And the people that do these things will go out of their way to prove that they’re normal. Think of Christian Metal.
I strive for invisibility. The most effort I make is to try not to look dumpy. To shave off unwanted hair. To smile at strangers. What the patrons and matrons tried to deprive you of only turned into a hole. Apapthy. Ambivalence toward the most dubious behavior. What they didn’t tell you is that they too have this hole. And they fill it with religion. The truth is they need it. They need it more than you.
Some people sleep all day. Some people live in alcohol or MAOI inhibitor comas. They smile at you, they wave. And some people have Jesus. As their personal lord and savior and they don’t need all that crap. He becomes their coffee, their sedative. Their aphrodisiac. There is a dull warmness that comes from giving up decision making. “I’m giving my sorrows. I’m giving my pain. I’m laying it down for the joy of the lord!”
I wanted to belong. I wanted to belive. I had a plan.
Eighteen years I waited. She grew in the box. I knew because the moon was swolen and red. I drove down to the river once again. Where I planted her was a pit and at the bottom a blood red cocoon. It resembles a pulsing phallus. I gag tasting him in the back of my throat.
I knew to wake her but I have forgotten how to peak. I cry “River!” “Swamp!” ”Magma!” “Ice!” I have no words for love. They have not been proffered to me I use my body for speech in transaction. What is this progency, this engorged peice of me? The shape is still. I, impatient, jump into the mud and take the membrane between my teeth and into my claws. Ripping. Softer and softer the box, the skin. The girl, in pieces in my hands.
you lewd in craze case in tourniquet,
[2:31:57 AM] Emily Squib: propose the vile management of words
[2:32:07 AM] Emily Squib: house
[2:32:12 AM] Emily Squib: in juction
[2:32:20 AM] Emily Squib: with meaning
[2:32:38 AM] Emily Squib: and words
[2:32:44 AM] Emily Squib: roasting meat
[2:32:47 AM] Emily Squib: gravy
[2:32:57 AM] Emily Squib: this home shelter
[2:33:00 AM] Emily Squib: head
[2:33:12 AM] Emily Squib: in secret game
[2:33:25 AM] Emily Squib: a deepness
[2:33:29 AM] Emily Squib: of play
[2:33:32 AM] Emily Squib: hidden
[2:33:41 AM] Emily Squib: ensorceling
[2:34:22 AM] Emily Squib: may you infintely rotate