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29 plays

- ? Jun 10th 2014

Anonymous said: i don't love you


- ? Jun 6th 2014
Lake Saint Itch

she can push with the weight
of her maker
we look alike
unless she ties her shoes

He’s not friendly,
though sometimes at night
Is god friendly

choke with it, that taste in flesh
it was planned

:object, saint, a balm for dying:

she can’t for christ’s sake
drive He says, where am I going
it’s dark can you see
she finds no fault in this at all

she’s never met Him
with His speed
He looks like you

His plan
what to say when you see her
she’ll say
“itch, itch, itch, itch, itch, itch, itch”

there’s a number
make a family joke
“start” laugh “stop” laugh
her pink habits keep their balance

pause, it’s never been
go, we’ll start there

there are no street signs
nothing but acute fears
His name a degree

she’s met Him
He’s counting,

my friend says there’s a dozen
or three of you drowning in
Lake Saint Clair

I have wasted my life

There are numbers

- ? Jun 6th 2014

We sat across the table.
he said, cut off your hands.
they are always poking things.
they might touch me.
I said yes.

Food cold on the table.
he said burn your body.
it is not clean and smells like sex.
I said yes.

I love you, I said.
That’s very nice, he said
I like to be loved,
that makes me happy.
Have you cut off your hands yet?

- ? Jun 5th 2014

Anonymous said: I love you.

No you don’t.

- ? Jun 5th 2014
Cantankerous Art

I disagree with the complement of marriage. Solely for the fact that the romantics died in the 19th century.

I’ I believe Love a chemical imbalance that blinds humanity into a commitment even more devious than a business proposal. I read too much for my own good. I write awful poetry, but I read life as a dangerous critic. My mind’s compass and directional aptitude relies entirely on Bysshe Shelley’s “Essay on Life”, Nietzsche’s “proposal of the chasm of the Apollonian and Dionysian”, Sartre’s existence and humanism entirely. I wake up for Sartre. I have a superiority complex and I try to hide it, I don’t naturally hate, but it intervenes. I cry for the shadows:
Keats, Wilde, those of the Restoration, Blake, Yeats,
but the sliver of care I can demonstrate lies only beneath the names of the early 19th and late 18th century Romanticism. A completely hopeless care to bear.

I am critical of everything and everyone because that still is greater than allowing everyone into your life. Letting people in, is a boundary broken for emotional plague. I’m extremely introverted. I was abused as a child for the fault of the yolk. I say it again, I read too much for my own good, which could serve to explain my unattainable wishes for reality, but what is reality really: A mere reflection for a consonant, soft and sounding, but not for the senses, we could be living in one prefix in a multiplanar of realities. Where does this segment of our lives lie, if insignificant, what do I care if thus is one of a constituent. Life is vile for what it stands for, but worse wasted for what it seizes to represent. My eyes twinkle to the palace of light for Malevich, for Klimt, oh Klee, beautiful Vermeer. Kline satisfies my chaotic vision, Goya my fire. I have a blind palm named reason. I have no intimates or confidants, but that’s a choice, not a burden. I feel as though i’m resting damp on this Earth, with no indent, trying to lead through the surface of this reality.

Knowledge is my curse, and it naturally makes things less interesting.

I don’t feel as humanity does as a natural selection, i’m an irregular involvement of chemical instabilities. I appreciate Love as one would a feeling,
Without sight nor touch
Nor necessity to touch
but to feel for it’s mere availability.
It’s impossibly lucrative.

The foremost lack in humanity, modernization of humanity that is, is the lack of emotional input. No author writes like they would, had they lived in an era where Keats and Wordsworth were confining their own developments. People don’t write letters anymore. Their wrists are occupied elsewhere, as is the stem of their mind. That’s the supreme downfall of society. Drop the 21st century, it’s breathing down our necks with a ferocity of starch and bland implications. I want to implicate a dozen letters to a young boy, and to think i’m mad. This world still befriends me though, with it’s cascading moss of wonder, but
what do I know,

I’m much too impulsive for a run-on sentence.

- ? Apr 9th 2014

April Zanne Johnson

After I had cut off my hands
and grown new ones

something my former hands had longed for came and ask to be rocked.

After my plucked out eyes
had withered, and new ones grown

something my former eyes had wept for
came asking to be pitied.

August, 1969 

you are my something

- ? Dec 26th 2013
Greatest album in twee fucking history - ? Sep 29th 2013
771 plays

- ? Sep 7th 2013

scum of the earth, universe, parallel and alternate, cyber and fictional

- ? Aug 25th 2013
Living Dummy, by Pangea

Best fucking album

Best fucking band

Fuck you guys this fucking fucks

- ? Jul 30th 2013
30 plays

- ? Jul 7th 2013


My life is a low-budget film that turns out to be a cult classic.

(via tinyelvenbaby)

- ? Jul 7th 2013