Constance is at least
conscious
of the fact
that my exotic
erotic
ass attack
caught in
photographs,
is worth something
over nothing,
even if it's only
a busted nut
and 50 bucks.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Blue Song
A blue song
sung slow
slung over
the edge of
a window
ledge.
Past white paint
worn weary
by tired panes,
a melody escapes
the breathless drags
of cigarettes
past glass,
southern
skyscraping
steeples,
chasing the wind
between bricks
and people,
falls to find
deaf ears
sleeping;
my song
barely even
whispered
in your dream.
sung slow
slung over
the edge of
a window
ledge.
Past white paint
worn weary
by tired panes,
a melody escapes
the breathless drags
of cigarettes
past glass,
southern
skyscraping
steeples,
chasing the wind
between bricks
and people,
falls to find
deaf ears
sleeping;
my song
barely even
whispered
in your dream.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
23 ( Cake Walk to Nowhere )
Oh Baby
no no no
I don't think
you understand.
It's not a piece of cake
It's a slice of pie
You ain't ever gonna taste
A little bit
of a wise bitch;
I bet you know things
can get pretty twisted
fast and stupid.
I've got my pussy
on a pedestal now;
Dick Tracy gotta
trace me in diamonds
or get schooled.
Cock of the walk,
go around the block
and don't stop staring
at that clock.
no no no
I don't think
you understand.
It's not a piece of cake
It's a slice of pie
You ain't ever gonna taste
A little bit
of a wise bitch;
I bet you know things
can get pretty twisted
fast and stupid.
I've got my pussy
on a pedestal now;
Dick Tracy gotta
trace me in diamonds
or get schooled.
Cock of the walk,
go around the block
and don't stop staring
at that clock.
Complicated Guns
This body
is a weapon
I don't know
how to use
properly.
You know how
to point and shoot
a black market gun;
I have to close my eyes
when I apologize
for the wound.
is a weapon
I don't know
how to use
properly.
You know how
to point and shoot
a black market gun;
I have to close my eyes
when I apologize
for the wound.
Existential Grocery Shopping
Life is like getting stoned and going to an American grocery store.
While you may have had a specific choice in mind, upon entering the glory of the food mecca, you are painfully overwhelmed and confused with the astounding amount of varieties. You might end up with nothing at all. You might end up with twice as much as you intended. But you will definitely find yourself lost until you've paid for your 4 frozen pizzas and dozen cadbury eggs.
We have an endless amount of choices to deal with. None of them are right. None of them are wrong. Choosing nothing is still choosing something. For people who aren't stoned at the grocery store, this condition doesn't pose any difficulties. These people have a list of the things they need to make their 401K casserole. These people don't have to bother with their imagination. These people have no desire to play with their perception of reality. Why would they? They never had the mind to imagine the possibilities.
But then for the others, this condition is a very sharp pebble in a very tight shoe while walking a very long way. People who have spoiled their imagination by overindulging its caprices or have over-analyzed their mundane metaphors tend to examine choices rather than endowing their fidelity to a specific choice. And since all there are in life are choices, it doesn't really matter what you choose. So these people get fucked up to forget about the truth existing only in its nonexistence.
But if you choose to look at choices and create theoretical paths just for the sake of escaping your own treacherous liberty, then you'll end up like me.
Don't go with the flow; row your boat.
Don't read a book; watch a movie.
Don't think- I'm doing it for you.
While you may have had a specific choice in mind, upon entering the glory of the food mecca, you are painfully overwhelmed and confused with the astounding amount of varieties. You might end up with nothing at all. You might end up with twice as much as you intended. But you will definitely find yourself lost until you've paid for your 4 frozen pizzas and dozen cadbury eggs.
We have an endless amount of choices to deal with. None of them are right. None of them are wrong. Choosing nothing is still choosing something. For people who aren't stoned at the grocery store, this condition doesn't pose any difficulties. These people have a list of the things they need to make their 401K casserole. These people don't have to bother with their imagination. These people have no desire to play with their perception of reality. Why would they? They never had the mind to imagine the possibilities.
But then for the others, this condition is a very sharp pebble in a very tight shoe while walking a very long way. People who have spoiled their imagination by overindulging its caprices or have over-analyzed their mundane metaphors tend to examine choices rather than endowing their fidelity to a specific choice. And since all there are in life are choices, it doesn't really matter what you choose. So these people get fucked up to forget about the truth existing only in its nonexistence.
But if you choose to look at choices and create theoretical paths just for the sake of escaping your own treacherous liberty, then you'll end up like me.
Don't go with the flow; row your boat.
Don't read a book; watch a movie.
Don't think- I'm doing it for you.
The Dysfunction
I'm not insane.
I've got a good hold on logic.
I find sweetness in reason.
But my heart
must be crazy.
And my pussy
holds its hand,
so it doesn't help
that they're both
out of sight
and out of
the mind's grasp.
It's a common condition;
It's just more difficult
to cope with
when you have
a vivid imagination.
I've got a good hold on logic.
I find sweetness in reason.
But my heart
must be crazy.
And my pussy
holds its hand,
so it doesn't help
that they're both
out of sight
and out of
the mind's grasp.
It's a common condition;
It's just more difficult
to cope with
when you have
a vivid imagination.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Honest Frustration: A Loosely Organized Rant
Goals.
Everybody has these wonderful goals!
My goodness, I praise all of you fine folk who have direction and organization in your life. Albeit, creatively, you may very well be lacking, but to be perfectly honest, most creative people are only as creative as their taste in clothing. Anyway, creativity and artistic sentiment isn't a cash cow. It's more of a struggling mule on a farm bought on a whim by a trust-fund baby.
But what I mean to say is that I respect the norm. Society, you are doing just fine. It must be me. I must be disatissfied because of my poor life decision choices. Like going to school. Like not fucking rich older men with "connections". Like not using my pussy as a justification for special recognition. You know, I didn't do the things that a lot of women do.
Because you know, I'm not sure if you knew- but I am indeed a woman and as a woman today....well it's hard. And no, not like 50s hard. Or middle-ages burned-at-the-stake hard. But it's still difficult. There are too many options. Independence. Forced independence as a career woman. Fight for your corner office, you bad bitch. Prove to the fellas that women are BETTER. Juggle your family, your job, your xanax addiction, and your botox sessions all while you fuck the soccer coach before an organic dinner. Or get some big fake titties, shop at a sex shop for your general wardrobe, and start acting like a spoiled and mentally challenged baboon with an unnatural sex drive. Then go audition for a show. Either way, you're working hard for the money.
I'm sick of that. I'd rather do womanly things. Cook and fuck. Clean and get high. Look after kids and make filthy jokes. Look pretty just to feel pretty.
I appreciate the times, I sincerely do. I want to be a real writer one day and I couldn't have done that with any ease in previous times. I certainly wouldn't have had the pleasure of expressing my eroticism photographically and publicly without being pelted with insults and old fruit before being sentenced to some kind of insanely inane jail sentence.
But it's so hard to find a goal. The expected goal....like a set direction and situation in which you will be guaranteed to have enough money to live according to your standards. That's what it seems like the expected goal would be. So I guess publication. Compensation for hypothetical publication. The kind of goal that other goals just look at and start to smile in a sympathetic way.
I want to be happy. I want to be in love and offer all the love that builds along the path of unexpected kindness offered by strangers. I don't have a game plan. I want to make things for people so they can forget about the nasty, brutish, and short world. I want them to give in to the beautiful fantasy that plays constantly in my head. I want to write things to give anybody the chance to have new thoughts delight their imagination. To give them the opportunity to make the beauty of their everyday lives a tangible companion.
I don't want to worry about money.
I don't want my dream to die.
Everybody has these wonderful goals!
My goodness, I praise all of you fine folk who have direction and organization in your life. Albeit, creatively, you may very well be lacking, but to be perfectly honest, most creative people are only as creative as their taste in clothing. Anyway, creativity and artistic sentiment isn't a cash cow. It's more of a struggling mule on a farm bought on a whim by a trust-fund baby.
But what I mean to say is that I respect the norm. Society, you are doing just fine. It must be me. I must be disatissfied because of my poor life decision choices. Like going to school. Like not fucking rich older men with "connections". Like not using my pussy as a justification for special recognition. You know, I didn't do the things that a lot of women do.
Because you know, I'm not sure if you knew- but I am indeed a woman and as a woman today....well it's hard. And no, not like 50s hard. Or middle-ages burned-at-the-stake hard. But it's still difficult. There are too many options. Independence. Forced independence as a career woman. Fight for your corner office, you bad bitch. Prove to the fellas that women are BETTER. Juggle your family, your job, your xanax addiction, and your botox sessions all while you fuck the soccer coach before an organic dinner. Or get some big fake titties, shop at a sex shop for your general wardrobe, and start acting like a spoiled and mentally challenged baboon with an unnatural sex drive. Then go audition for a show. Either way, you're working hard for the money.
I'm sick of that. I'd rather do womanly things. Cook and fuck. Clean and get high. Look after kids and make filthy jokes. Look pretty just to feel pretty.
I appreciate the times, I sincerely do. I want to be a real writer one day and I couldn't have done that with any ease in previous times. I certainly wouldn't have had the pleasure of expressing my eroticism photographically and publicly without being pelted with insults and old fruit before being sentenced to some kind of insanely inane jail sentence.
But it's so hard to find a goal. The expected goal....like a set direction and situation in which you will be guaranteed to have enough money to live according to your standards. That's what it seems like the expected goal would be. So I guess publication. Compensation for hypothetical publication. The kind of goal that other goals just look at and start to smile in a sympathetic way.
I want to be happy. I want to be in love and offer all the love that builds along the path of unexpected kindness offered by strangers. I don't have a game plan. I want to make things for people so they can forget about the nasty, brutish, and short world. I want them to give in to the beautiful fantasy that plays constantly in my head. I want to write things to give anybody the chance to have new thoughts delight their imagination. To give them the opportunity to make the beauty of their everyday lives a tangible companion.
I don't want to worry about money.
I don't want my dream to die.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
The End is Near; Turn the Lights Down Low
Someone always says
that the earth will stop spinning
and vengeful gods will win
against the pleasures of sins.
Oh I love taking
tea with the devil,
as long as you and I can
make it smile before
the sun spits on it.
Besides,
I think the sun
would still shine
if we woke up
without our morals
or our clothes on.
that the earth will stop spinning
and vengeful gods will win
against the pleasures of sins.
Oh I love taking
tea with the devil,
as long as you and I can
make it smile before
the sun spits on it.
Besides,
I think the sun
would still shine
if we woke up
without our morals
or our clothes on.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Debbie
One kiss
our lips
had to practice
for a while.
you are a
new song
without words
to sing along
I can read
your melody
as it plays
on the skin
of our lips
synthetic perfection,
my platinum curls
fell over our faces;
My eyes
were not
wearing their
usual disguise.
our lips
had to practice
for a while.
you are a
new song
without words
to sing along
I can read
your melody
as it plays
on the skin
of our lips
synthetic perfection,
my platinum curls
fell over our faces;
My eyes
were not
wearing their
usual disguise.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
Suicide Prevention Hotips
You've scoured the internet for advice on your pending suicide and through the muck and rake of asphxiation and exsanguination, your search results have brought you here.
Or perhaps you are a foreigner who doesn't know how to use proper grammar when looking up childporn, jailbait, or pussyholics anonymous.
Either way- welcome to your salvation. Unless you really are looking for child porn. I can't pass for younger than 14. My sincerest apologies for failing your erection.
But for you, suicidal guy or gal, for you, I have a very simple truth that will motivate you towards unlimited success:
Nobody gives a fuck. Not a flying fuck and not a hot fuck. You can go ahead and drown yourself in an inch of water, but you're not making an impact. You're gonna make your momma's heartbreak. And if you don't have a momma, then find one. Your suicide may ruin the lives of those in your immediate circle ( perhaps even in the peripheral circle as well, if your tits are really big) but will not shift any positive change in the world. The news won't cover it- unless you're rich, white, gay, or you made sure to have your organs splash onto a camera lens.
You want to off yourself on account of revenge? No- that won't work. Whoever you want to get back at doesn't give a shit. They probably wouldn't even know you were dead. And then the people who do know will just think your a selfish fuck for killing yourself on behalf of another selfish fuck who used your body up and left your soul for dead.
No- if you really want to kill yourself, get famous first. Get an outrageous amount of public exposure and pay off paparazzi to take pictures of your used douches and free clinic files. Make a big scene- be on the cover of every magazine even though you don't do shit and what you do couldn't possibly be worth media coverage. Say inconceivably ignorant things and profit from both sides of the argument.
Then, while everybody's screaming and whispering your name, swallow twenty balloons filled with confetti and strap a bomb to your leg and jump out of blimp during the superbowl half-time show. Make it fun for everybody and live on in infamy.
Unless you're going to kill yourself in a meticulously similar way, don't bother. It's a waste of tax-payer money.
Or perhaps you are a foreigner who doesn't know how to use proper grammar when looking up childporn, jailbait, or pussyholics anonymous.
Either way- welcome to your salvation. Unless you really are looking for child porn. I can't pass for younger than 14. My sincerest apologies for failing your erection.
But for you, suicidal guy or gal, for you, I have a very simple truth that will motivate you towards unlimited success:
Nobody gives a fuck. Not a flying fuck and not a hot fuck. You can go ahead and drown yourself in an inch of water, but you're not making an impact. You're gonna make your momma's heartbreak. And if you don't have a momma, then find one. Your suicide may ruin the lives of those in your immediate circle ( perhaps even in the peripheral circle as well, if your tits are really big) but will not shift any positive change in the world. The news won't cover it- unless you're rich, white, gay, or you made sure to have your organs splash onto a camera lens.
You want to off yourself on account of revenge? No- that won't work. Whoever you want to get back at doesn't give a shit. They probably wouldn't even know you were dead. And then the people who do know will just think your a selfish fuck for killing yourself on behalf of another selfish fuck who used your body up and left your soul for dead.
No- if you really want to kill yourself, get famous first. Get an outrageous amount of public exposure and pay off paparazzi to take pictures of your used douches and free clinic files. Make a big scene- be on the cover of every magazine even though you don't do shit and what you do couldn't possibly be worth media coverage. Say inconceivably ignorant things and profit from both sides of the argument.
Then, while everybody's screaming and whispering your name, swallow twenty balloons filled with confetti and strap a bomb to your leg and jump out of blimp during the superbowl half-time show. Make it fun for everybody and live on in infamy.
Unless you're going to kill yourself in a meticulously similar way, don't bother. It's a waste of tax-payer money.
GREAT!!
Oh HI!
I didn't see you there, even though we clearly made eye contact. I thought you were a guy I knew-yes biblically, always biblically, but I definitely didn't know it was you.
I'm pretty sure you thought I did see you but I totally didn't- what a big cunt I'd be if I just pretended to ignore you, considering how fascinating your fantastic life tends to be. Even if I'm on fire at an abortion clinic, I'll take a seat and make sure you are heard before any of my guttural yelps or burning fetuses are called to attention.
Well, its been such a long time since we've gotten a chance to catch up. You look great. What have you been doing with your life?
You have a six figure salary out of school already? I'm so HAPPY for you, I could rip your face off and feed it to malicious pigs- it's just an expression. But really that's just GREAT. Really really super great.
No I'm not crying- just the ol winter allergies molesting my eyeballs ha ha ha.
Oh me? Oh well I have a part-time job- yeah oh yeah I know I've been out of school for more than a year now, but let me tell you something bub- nothing screams rewarding like loud and incoherent children who shit themselves. Those big beautiful eyes- so innocent, never to betray that offensively noxious smell wafting from their ass-molded mild diarrhea. Did I mention that there's an adult bookstore right across the street from the playground? Don't get jealous. Not everybody gets a chance to weep in shame with a lady boner 30 seconds after finishing their shift.
Oh you're engaged? Oh and they have a trustfund and a few charities to write off? Well that's just motherskullfucking fantastic for you! Oh are they a model too? Oh with real gravity defying titties and a PhD in engineering? I could string you up in a butcher's shop I'm so just... GLAD to hear that everything is going well for you- Oh and you two just bought a boat? I've got boat shoes! How marvelously convenient.
You might as well just fuck my face right off my brain bones!
Oh me?
Well... I went to the gas station the other day and the cashier asked me if I was pregnant because of my "glow". So that's good- still got it after all these years hahahaaaa....
Oh my titties? Yes, as a matter of fact, they did grow- as did my ass thighs and waist. I think my hair might be falling out too but I've got so much of it that it really isn't that big of a problem. I'm about a half-step away from collecting my shaved trimmings anyway.
I know my pants are off. I know we're in public- is it getting to hot to handle or are you just mesmerized by my awkwardly situated razor burn?
Do you have to go? Really? So soon? But we've only just gotten started and my hand isn't even on your crotch yet.
Well it was really GREAT seeing you again anyway. I honestly hope you get run over by a bus and then sold into sex slavery as a disfigured and boring paraplegic novelty item.
It's an old world saying- translated it means " May the sun boil the asshairs off your swollen taint and bring you thousands of hours of joy"
Oh by the way, before you go, can you go buy me a couple hundred cans of dust-off? They banned me from the store last week.
Thanks. You're a real sport.
I didn't see you there, even though we clearly made eye contact. I thought you were a guy I knew-yes biblically, always biblically, but I definitely didn't know it was you.
I'm pretty sure you thought I did see you but I totally didn't- what a big cunt I'd be if I just pretended to ignore you, considering how fascinating your fantastic life tends to be. Even if I'm on fire at an abortion clinic, I'll take a seat and make sure you are heard before any of my guttural yelps or burning fetuses are called to attention.
Well, its been such a long time since we've gotten a chance to catch up. You look great. What have you been doing with your life?
You have a six figure salary out of school already? I'm so HAPPY for you, I could rip your face off and feed it to malicious pigs- it's just an expression. But really that's just GREAT. Really really super great.
No I'm not crying- just the ol winter allergies molesting my eyeballs ha ha ha.
Oh me? Oh well I have a part-time job- yeah oh yeah I know I've been out of school for more than a year now, but let me tell you something bub- nothing screams rewarding like loud and incoherent children who shit themselves. Those big beautiful eyes- so innocent, never to betray that offensively noxious smell wafting from their ass-molded mild diarrhea. Did I mention that there's an adult bookstore right across the street from the playground? Don't get jealous. Not everybody gets a chance to weep in shame with a lady boner 30 seconds after finishing their shift.
Oh you're engaged? Oh and they have a trustfund and a few charities to write off? Well that's just motherskullfucking fantastic for you! Oh are they a model too? Oh with real gravity defying titties and a PhD in engineering? I could string you up in a butcher's shop I'm so just... GLAD to hear that everything is going well for you- Oh and you two just bought a boat? I've got boat shoes! How marvelously convenient.
You might as well just fuck my face right off my brain bones!
Oh me?
Well... I went to the gas station the other day and the cashier asked me if I was pregnant because of my "glow". So that's good- still got it after all these years hahahaaaa....
Oh my titties? Yes, as a matter of fact, they did grow- as did my ass thighs and waist. I think my hair might be falling out too but I've got so much of it that it really isn't that big of a problem. I'm about a half-step away from collecting my shaved trimmings anyway.
I know my pants are off. I know we're in public- is it getting to hot to handle or are you just mesmerized by my awkwardly situated razor burn?
Do you have to go? Really? So soon? But we've only just gotten started and my hand isn't even on your crotch yet.
Well it was really GREAT seeing you again anyway. I honestly hope you get run over by a bus and then sold into sex slavery as a disfigured and boring paraplegic novelty item.
It's an old world saying- translated it means " May the sun boil the asshairs off your swollen taint and bring you thousands of hours of joy"
Oh by the way, before you go, can you go buy me a couple hundred cans of dust-off? They banned me from the store last week.
Thanks. You're a real sport.
Descent
clocks mock
hollow grins
that wait for
damp hands
to clutch the
hours when
they will
disappear
along the
quiet boughs
of oblivion.
pleasant company
rotted stale;
mauled spirit liquified,
drain the dreams
that drip softly
slowly sickly
spilled,
destined
to be held
by the folds
of a festering rag,
destined only for
the wet bowels
of garbage cans.
hollow grins
that wait for
damp hands
to clutch the
hours when
they will
disappear
along the
quiet boughs
of oblivion.
pleasant company
rotted stale;
mauled spirit liquified,
drain the dreams
that drip softly
slowly sickly
spilled,
destined
to be held
by the folds
of a festering rag,
destined only for
the wet bowels
of garbage cans.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Knots
a knot in a dream
breaks open
the space
beyond
comfortable
darkness
between the fists
gripping tight
to the thought
of movie magic
conjuring
perfect gardens,
sweat slips slow
on the seams of
red palms and
white fingertips,
whittling at the
grip lost in a
quiet battle.
breaks open
the space
beyond
comfortable
darkness
between the fists
gripping tight
to the thought
of movie magic
conjuring
perfect gardens,
sweat slips slow
on the seams of
red palms and
white fingertips,
whittling at the
grip lost in a
quiet battle.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
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