Under reign of dystopic melodies and optimistic lyrics Two Delusional hopefuls we swept under our wings and squeezed out our tears over over the years to make them grow Our saint-like protagonists Our best bet and last chance
I dreamed I was a dreamgirl running up and down running up and down I dreamed I kept composure I dreamed I held my own I did not speak and when I did it was not empty I welcomed the air on my teeth and the pang in my lower intestines I climbed the concrete staircase I watched in silence from twelve steps away
April 18, 2014 “Cunny Poem Vol. 1,” a hardbound archive of poetry written between 2012-2014 will be completed this Spring and endorsed via Important Projects in Oakland, California in the form of an exhibition “Unusuble Chair” and an opening night of readings. This book will be produced in an edition of 100 and feature fourteen illustrations of chairs by LA-based artist Brigid Mason.
You marry your illness, every time Stockholm syndrome dies harder You pick a god figure You work with what u have You sink and accept the sinking You drive a car through a fence You mark yourself with p Ride. You are a target and you are desired. You liken it to drinking in the drivers seat. The best place to have a beer. You are clever. You are arrogant. But you are wrong. You are a Passenger in a drivers seat. You undrive. You undrink. You watch yourself die on a television from the corner in a bar. u smoke funny You suck You die
Three charming rooms talk back and forth enlisted for their strength and stamina Together five sisters of addiction grow up the walls entrusting there is no world in which paranoia could save the two of us Threat is infinite and jovial Courage is a wink and a nod Your spine is a joke Your vertebrae are stacked snowballs That will melt as your joints do every hour without fail In this cruel, hot world Where every root vegetable shrinks your dick Where we wake up and go to work to laugh at your dick
writing you from fox river state penitentiary What I find troublesome What I find hateful I flatten into a shelf and draw the blinds I sit in clone state I sit forever I sit in the reflection pool and draw a companion guide I sit frozen and look at myself forever
Eyes to the ground… don’t touch nobody… nobody gets hurt You’re apprehensive but Something must be alone and it’s You You salute to the sky and you backstep into hell You fall into that category The fire doesn’t look bad but you beg to be put out Whatever you did To put you out You’re dead serious and Know you’re not a sociopath When you hit something you like you you just know it
you dont love me anymore you dont have to keep pretending you seemed disgusted by my appearance, as you always do when im fucked up you do not like the person i am you have good friends that care about you you have a family that loves you dearly your presence made me feel disgusting and wrong, as a a person my presents were an attempt to show you that i still love you i have been absent i have been absent for everyone i wanted to be close to you because i admire you and love you i felt you did not want me near you but allowed me to sit by you out of history or habit i am sober now i hope to stay sober i hope to do all the things i dream of doing i had dreams on drugs just like you have dreams sober i had hopes on drugs just like you i feel inherent shame i have for so long of course that is not your fault of course that is not your fault
i am a functional person my mourning is active i move through it and with it and theres pride in the title [of mourner], as with any title, any assigned role i wear burden, i flaunt depression probably as a means to psychologically separate myself from other people i grew up thinking youre supposed to be happy you aim for happiness [as a constant] but “happiness” / lightness [free from the burden of mourning] —> anti-critical oblivion —> ignorance this is not for me, i cant take life as a joke or as an experience or a happening im grounded in the earthly world so much so that my understanding of divinity rests in other people i take everything really seriously probably too seriously you know, everythings fucked up and crazy and hysterical but i dont think anythings funny
The middle of october feels like a Wednesday. brick by brick i make a breakfast plan. i stay inside for 72 hours and when i stand in the backyard i want to inhale the fresh air between puffs of cigarette smoke, and appreciate it as something alive but field trips last five minutes long. I develop large arms. I never enter the bed and cry in the mornings or on the train sometimes. I imagine a cat named ketchup, or myself as the shell of a cat and disgraceful, messing up the sheets all by myself or peeing. there are saints among us that are too drugged to participate but i am inside with my square ass and fat arms. So where will no get you? No help that is all you. Slim arms. Make your arms more slim. this winter is not cold but more beautiful.
In the future, when everyone finds out I am no darling dolly but a fraying velcro door fixture A great costume for halloween Attachable bow at tail, perforated leggings, mini hat and a quarter mask She might be broken but she is still sweet, Distribute her weight well: Cry my river, or brooke, or fucking dribble, Salinger Entertainment depends on violence and my pain is at the heart of your violence However slow, and weak. The middle of October and so he stirs, turns, suffocates in his sheets and falls into recovery. Ashamed, I pick the novelty stockings away from the greying floorboards, your closet. I pull them over those grotesque and spiky mountains Dotted, slobbered knees. Me, your button a Darling pull-doll. Me repeats the names of women you’ve ribbon-up and dotted with pet names in my spherical walnut cavity and the closest I will encounter to a treasure chest or anything special. Grigory was never here and neither were I in this Cry me a river, Salinger in this Devon Aoki illustration.