Friday, January 29, 2010

all used up

think, think. think of some other girl some other place listening to the the same tic tic tic of another ugly clock with painfully fake flowers loaded into its glass bowels. think of the top of your head, divided right down the middle to your white, white scalp. now zoom up and out of the house till the roof is another black lego piece on a checkerboard landscape. okay good. now just scan the ground for a promising abode. zoom back in until you've reached another crown of hair. oh no, i think you missed the point. you focused back in on your own house with you still sitting pecking away slumped in your bleached stained prison uniform turtleneck. no one will want to read about you. try again. there you go, up and out and up some more. good., go somewhere else. even to your wild boar hunting neighbor's house. you did it again. you landed back in the same room with the same tic tic tic. you see that couch all defeated and slouchy looking to your right? that would never make for good setting. neither would that bizarre bouquet of flowers that looks like an amateur florist slapped together. it would bore anyone. so try again. please, for the sake of the written word, get your mind out of your house and into another. okay, you know what?
why don't you just try tomorrow and get some sleep now. i will wait.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

current events

am i nothing more than a relic now?
a dusty out of date reminder of a glittering age?
a shadow of swaying, prodigal, incoherence?
a Smithsonian mannequin cloaked in historic garb?
a sinewy old hag humming youthful forgotten tunes?
am i to be re-birthed, like you've been?
into a die cut haphazard product of regression?
into a falsely assured modern girl?
into a surface gliding past dweller?
into a conveniently forgetful sapless void?

no, no i am not.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

raw eggs, raw meat

hungry days have passed by without letting me know they were leaving, let alone dropping in. i can't tell if the rain lulled me into a false sense of solitude or if i've finally reached the eye of chaos. simple things like the cool air and the greasy sound of sizzling onions have made me infinitely content. i am finally able to read again and i began to feed my voracious appetite by stuffing myself with two books in a matter of days. i did read the bell jar again. i actually finished two hours ago. sylvia plath's words are a distorted and more elegant version of my own and i every time i read them i feel like i've absorbed some more of her fraternal spirit. i kissed the cover when i closed it over those two hundred odd pages.

Monday, January 11, 2010

the untimely maturation, a fascination

ain't he cute?
i've got to harness my focus and get back to writing instead of hoarding pictures of kids looking like adults and occult practices. also, i think i'm gonna read the bell jar again. it's me and sylvia's one year this month actually.

hot scrambled eggs(istentialism)

i don't want the tone of this blog to veer into an are-you kidding-me-introspection-party
but this is the closest i've come to a free stream of consciousness that i documented. i don't actually remember writing this, only my vague motive for jotting down these schizotypal lines and it's probably because it was typed out at some godforsaken hour with one eye closed. despite it's obvious potential to be found etched in a dead man's blood or arranged with cut out letters from a magazine, i can't deny that at that given hour of whatever day it was birthed, it was the love child of brutal honesty and severe weariness. only thing i edited out were words i either made up, or invented by slamming too hard on the keyboard. also i made things a bit more intelligible with apostrophes and spaces and a lot of spell check.

capture wandering stranded solitude silence screaming shouting arguing
agree want obsession healthy jealousy squabbles teenage help me
too old too young
links linear
alliteration, thoughts are born never die just circle circle
i repeat myself
fraudulent, same theme repeated
inspired by lack of inspiration
nothing ever happens
waiting waiting
want clear head so i can write of things that aren't so goddamned depressing
infant baby hungry huddle
i have to go in alphabetic order
never actually crying, never really is never
always is never always
i wanna see and hear and write new things that feel new
i don't care if its an illusion, it pleases my shallow need for
straying from ubiquity
fear of one single conscious because that conscious would belong to me
and i am a lying scathing bitch
split personality since i could speak
i actually believe i am mentally deranged
there is no free flowing conscious
i have no conscious, i don't even know if i'm awake
i see something new i want to become that new
i can't become that new because then i become old
everyone is wrong including me
everyone is weak including me
few things make me happy
only a few photos make me go oooh

Sunday, January 10, 2010

harbingers of mental revolution

paolo roversi, diane arbus. good morning and good night.

reclusive tuesday tendencies

highly unlikely it would seem.
the vignette i drew in my mind's eye
yesterday was hazy and glorious
but today is tuesday
and want has proven itself lackluster
the powdered tranquility took away my will
to stay myself
and again i say today is tuesday
the worst day of the week,
the year,
my scientifically altered lifespan//
might as well wire my jaw
it makes no use of vowels and witty quips
and it rarely grinds sustenance
my eyes dart unnaturally
towards imaginary optical targets
while my mouth bone stays where it is
so wire it or rip it out
then at least i'll know beady stares exist beyond
my madness
and i could revel in my obvious deformity
rather than
clamp down on another tuesday.

lottery games!

i'm taking an extra college class next semester, you know, for fun. so i made an impossible list of all the ones that appeal to me and i'm putting them in a hat and drawing one out. i really hope it's this little gem:

Magic, Witchcraft, and Religion

but i'd settle for this:

INTRO to Philosophy

and this biotin i've been taking is making my nails grow so fast i'll have my own ripley's record if i don't go file them now and paint polka dots on them.

Friday, January 8, 2010

a simple thing

thieves! thieves! i shout
they've come again and stolen my brain
i told myself to lock the door, and i did
but the makeshift design i contrived of scarf and sweater
must've been a comical padlock

i built my house of cling wrap and packing tape
with rice paper as insulation and popsicle stick beams
surely no one could infiltrate such a sturdy palace
and of course the spotlights i angled on my front lawn
were not meant to attract any tourism
no, no of course i want to hide away, it's a simple thing you see
i have to keep these wispy haired thieves out

oh no, oh dear i've done it again i wail
i've simply misplaced my mind, it wasn't stolen after all
the brain that was stolen from my oak vanity
was on lease to me from the poet who lives three blocks over
how could i forget such a simple thing
thank goodness for the glass vase storing the leftover formaldahyde
from the other brain i borrowed from a month ago
it served as my carcinagenic memo

so where is my lump of lobes then?
did i even have one to begin with?
it's odd that i can't recall such a simple thing
i tilt my head to and fro to see if i can hear a rattling
and of course of course there is not a sound
because my skull is as empty as a russian egg
and it would remain that way if i didn't stuff another someones'
in though my eyes and ears

and now i can see why i borrow and steal
without any filler and the proper level of pressure in my head
there is nothing
not even the most simple thing can't be thought
vacuous empty vacuous chaos empty
i'll have to call my doctor and let him in on my
and assure him i know the cure, it really is the simplest thing

Wednesday, January 6, 2010


"in this bedroom is where i sit
cause i don't really give a shit"

you're a poet jay reatard.
but seriously, the level i can relate to that song at the moment is frightening. i am one day away from becoming little edie bouvier beale a la grey gardens.

and the stereotype was born

the imposters take what they don't understand and exalt it to brilliancy because it's what everyone's doing these days. soulless drivel is all it is though. the swell will cease eventually but the meantime is anyone's time to loot and holler but praise jesus we are not anyone.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

sweet liberation

i'm not a kid and the real kids know it-
my eight year old self

it's caught up to me again, and at the most convenient time.
so goodbye high school for now. well i mean beginning next semester
of course.

Monday, January 4, 2010

tiled sanctuary/exaggeration

there is no fault to be found within the four walls of my shower
it is the only thing incomparable
no silent figures there waiting for enlightenment
it is blissful solitary confinement
i don't need a sturdy wooden pew or a leather bound hymnal
to make myself feel right
i beckon those gushing, steaming channels
to do their rightful purifying duty
never will they betray me and scald me with hostility
no matter how furiously i agitate their virgin molecules;
each one birthed to caress my dust scabbed body
and carry away my preoccupations
i relish in my cleansing waterfall to the point of idol worship
i am a child of the dust bowl witnessing rain for the first time
drenched in wonder and pure delight
eyes wide open and fluttering
mouth gaping, eyelashes heavy with gathering droplets
and overflow spilling out of the dugout place
my lips usually purse close
i am a savant, single mindedly mesmerized
compulsively slicking back my warm, deep sea mane
and then lathering with silent laughter
i am a whole person again
reborn and christened by my hot water pipes-

circa one year ago

dear beverly

grey matter encircled my eyes, like space dust circumventing round the orbs that sat in my fragile sockets. except it didn't take eons for for this depressing shade to accumulate, only forty-eight hours and forty-eight minutes. my own mouth tasted bitter and foreign from dehydration and my attire could easily be likened to a korean shop keeper. i had only gotten up once that day and it was to ingest some artificial nutrition only to return to my bed and shut myself in again behind my damask curtains. i had tried to read something but i got to page seven and slammed it shut because its words weren't loud enough to be heard through the convention of self doubt that had rented space in my head. i turned on the tv long enough to invest a bit of emotion into a conventional unlikely love story but never allowed myself the smirk that almost surfaced before the credits rolled.
then an ambiguous summons came delivered with artificial intonation from my mother. i was to join a family meeting but i resisted her call to join humanity. it could have been me being contumaciously adolescent, but it was because i knew the headline news that was to come from our living room was going to be the tragic kind that plebians are inexplicably drawn to. come on come on she ushered. but my aunt was also out there and i looked half-way deranged. i didn't want to hear the message. and i didn't want to be seen for what i was.
i was being selfish and i didn't want to worsen or make an already macabre day even stranger. so i pulled up my ratty hair and buttoned myself into an irritating sweater which i believed was a suitable outfit to wear to a dismal proclamation. regrettably i sat myself down on the stiff couch next to my grandmother and i curled up into a feline position. my acute reasoning knew why we had been called into the wood paneled den of exposure and i wanted it to be over.
my grandmother had cancer. i had my weary head nestled on her shoulder like an exhausted five year old who's spent a day hiking diligently through an amusement park. resting my head was a natural response with no thought behind it. but upon verbal solidification of what i already knew i tried to ease my burden on her bones, without actually losing contact. i had to remind myself to blink and courteously glance at those around me. but i wasn't there. i stroked the red polish on my nails to elicit more glamorous memories but i ended up picking at the dead skin around my fingers instead. for once i couldn't talk. i had no suggestions or affirmations of hope or a statistic to be fetched from my data bank. all i could do was remember her in her disposable rain poncho making her way down to the base of niagara falls while i sat on dry land to preserve my hair. i latched on to her finger at the image of her returning triumphant with beads of a landmark in her cotton candy white hair. she made me laugh for the first time that day with her recruitment plans for a harem of young men with her new set of mammary lures.
i waited till i couldn't and then i got up because i didn't want my pessimism to infect her innocent and powerful hope. she followed me though asking if i was alright. i felt such guilt. i loved this woman as much as my bruised soul could so i didn't refute when she told me to pray.

write me a poem she said.

i have and i will again

okay it means a lot. you know everything happens for a reason and all. everything has a purpose

you know i don't believe in that

i will be okay

and with that she left and went about her night gossiping and i read my own words from years ago that i had written about her, my polyester live-in sage.


Beautiful Heretics

the infidels circle
round their mystic fire
incantations swirl from each mouth
meeting at an indiscernible axis
time lays itself down
as the master girl child
uncloaks her ancient form





insanity, anxiety, depravity, hilarity and the likes



thank you jan svankmejer.

i too want nothing more than to devour everything around me. but this is an inappropriate hour to draw similarities between my insomniac soul and carnivorous and sloppy tree stump.

time to grease the machine


waiting is such a tragedy.

Saturday, January 2, 2010

You Cannot Be Serious

oh, but i am.
monotony is such a lingerer.

there always comes this point
this inevitable precipice
when time folds in on itself
and everything, everything is exactly the same
everyone's motivations
everyone's ideal
is one in the same in the same one
there is no shroud of mystery;
it's all laid out meticulously
by the writers and critics
designed by dollar signs
bitter, lonely minds huddle
and then suddenly it means nothing
words become agendas
and clothes become primitive symbols
neurons revolt, it's not natural
calculated perceptions deny the essence
of the human state
genuine feelings are devoid of shelter
only a few have survived
group think has pervaded
and i see it all happening
i am both the conscious thief
and the paralyzed victim

mechanical motivation
and the obvious starvation
of all that is natural and good
lingering hesitation
end with libation
and join in the marinating pool
crack open automation
and end imitation
to taste the nectar of truth
end falsification
without liquidation
of all that is natural and you.

you can't let the vapid fog
you've let seep into every twitch and desire
simply rest
simply let be
your life's blood has to be cleaned
and sifted through with the greatest discernment
it must run so green and murky
still i see that faint lilting sparkle
of happy
ah, yes child,proof
of the best kinds of happy
the real kind
arbitrary hesitation will be no longer
if you take this raw pendant
and wear it round your weary neck
there will be no call to feign
if you wear it right
your tainted blood will one day flow entirely pure.

that should do for now, i'm sure you get the point
*writers block/who am i?*


By the time I finish my last sentence of this post, it may be tomorrow. The internet terrifies me to the point I convince myself that my laptop is actually a telescreen and a board of officials sit in some clandestine boardroom making notes on my foibles and gathering new material for their future attempts at small talk. But that is ridiculous. My webcam is their viewing portal, not my screen. So proper grammar and truthful sentences may take longer to produce than normal.
This is my third attempt to maintain a collection of work outside of the hidden pockets of my binder and beneath my mattress. Except this time I'm sharing and will make an earnest attempt to not forget my password by way of Freudian memory loss.
I feel both obligated and compelled to do this. I have to have a breathing example of my capabilities and I need a reason to compose so that maybe I'll drag myself out of the cesspit that has become every utterance and thought I've had lately. The first fifteen or five hundred posts will more than likely be born from my current inspiration which is my complete lack of inspiration. How delightful and um inspiring?
Bon apetit.