F-

Fuck poetry.

FUCK IT.

FUCKIN' THING SUCKS.

I bleed for my lips first; from my lips, first, because there is nothing else to whet them with.

They know the drill.

This isn't poetic justice. This isn't dramatic irony. This isn't justice or karma or coincidence it's just cut-it-the-fuck-out. Pure fuckery.

Isawanopenspotin453today.
I took it.
SONofaBITCH.

Masochistic aspirations.

A Message From the King

"Owch."

"Them my ears, fucker. Them my ears get the fuck off, fucker!"
Thankyou for biting my ears.
I don't think you know that you have. I don't know. Maybe. Dunno what you know. And I don't know if that chomp will do any good, anywho. See him starin' off through the third wall?
But maybe.
Sothanks.
Ya tricky little fucker.

Look how seriously the King of the Cosmos is taking you.

But still I do not have answers--to give, that is. Transmission is the tricky business. Wanting to transmit is the jam up.
What does it mean to want to want to do something? The way it sounds, I feel like the first want should slide into the absence left by the first. But it doesn't. They are not they same. Why aren't they the same? What's the difference between those weird little buggers?

You think it is when you do not write that it is called reality, she whispers, barks, or bites. But it is only that another is writing about you then.

But this was written four or so months ago. The context has since changed. Entirely, I am tempted to say. But is it really so different? But must it be, for it to be of value?

I love patterns not because they are organized or precise, but because they most often lead to shaking. And that is a term I am going to abuse for awhile. Use? Steal. Give a home.

You do not have to learn a lesson to bear the mark of your errors.

Dameda, hanyou. That's not how that works.

I am so tempted to say that the mark of your errors is...is beauty. But we will let Isaac alone a little longer.

Underneath

She moves like a snake in her sleep

Mouthing

Rooting for the taste of her tail

For the end of her

No, it's not the end of her

Strange thing

Stretched skin

Is this eating? Or is her belly filled

with stones and water?

Her tongue is out

Flicking

Faltering

Trying to recall a tastered that's

been eclipsed by a smellwheat

The pen fell half chewed from her lips
Ink trailed between her breasts.

Get wet. Get wet with us and tell us what it's like. We want to hear it, but not from our own mouth. We want to spit and curse and smile through red banded lips and black eyes. Tell us the story of us and ourselves. Tell us where the edge was, for we could not see; tell us there is more to be had; the nights are not yet over. Then tell us no more lest our drunken thoughts turn sober. It will not be empathy; not sympathy; not anything that's you or me; but together, let us be The Beaten. Lie, act, paint if you must, if you desire--but let me come in the blacks and purples of this fresh made flesh.

Hey there, crinklefox.
Save a bottle for me.

Rambling Shit

Ain't gonna pretend it's nothin' else.

Two steps foreword

Fourteen in every other direction

The first ghost I ran from

The second I chased

The third I passed with only small falterings

The first I escaped

The second I lost

The third went to serve the universe

She ran to the edge of the street and pushed her hands into her hair

Mudeyedmartyr

Crunched down on her legs

Coughed the sound right out of her throat

Glossy red spots of spit

Nearly choked on it but

Pushed it through a fountain pen and

called it dinner

called it done

Now don't be hasty, master Meriadoc.

Hasty?

The hearts and lives of men are quick, and those of birds and mice are faster; I am only acting as fast as my blood runs, for if I do not keep up with it, it will run right from me.

Wakame no jirojiromiru

One of every thirty
Slinging back like old shoes on a wire

Backs beached every twenty nine

into the grooves of Very Large Walking Shapes
They lick each others' necks and napes
Sand back to sand where a child's dug deep
Sky back to sky where a star has blown out
Tongues ever dripping Skin wet
To the chin they are always wet
They are always wet
Even when their noses peel in the sun They are always Wet
Their eyes are filled with it

Their ears spill with it

The sweat of the messenger is soaked with their sounds

They close around him like thumb and forefinger

Against the bridge of his nose their six hearts pound

Beat Beat Beat

They are The Beaten

They are the split-lipped sisters

Black-eyed brothers
Gently tapping harl'd up livers

Drop it

Chronological Monster

We have recently dug very deep, without first realizing it. The head is spinning. Our sky is reeling.

I am grinning and smiling and laughing at the knees

Old man Bottle would be proud

Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all

Old man Bottle would be proud

Three teeth stuck in the shoulder of a twit star

Bits of gum and string and wandering

Get out of my head, Kafka

A deep sea creature opened the valve behind its sheep's eye and spat a bubble that reached the surface, reached the large, slick skinned creature that skirts the beaches. And back again, this is what the leather skin was heard to have said:

February 19 2008

But what if...something more?

Would it be [] worth it, to fight against the clockwork runnings of the world, to escape the day? To prolong the night?

Can what is not...act as one that is? Can what is not real be realer than what is? If so, what is truly real in the world? When something spikes to the extreme, the two become close, and a path between the two is almost visible. Just barely reachable. Maybe.

But how is one to know, [before trying,] if such a path is walkable? If it will not simply disappear beneath our feet, whereupon we will be left with nothing, as nothing, with not even our [] memories left?

August 18th 2008

I've been meaning to ask you. Where do you go when the clock rounds midnight? And who are you when I see you again past one? It's an improper mirror. Or is it the only proper one?

December 1st 2008

The hunted man

hangs his gait

on the highest spire in the land.

December 27th 2008

Ev: (sighs heavily, dropping her head back onto the couch) What's it like, to choose your own name?

Le: Well...(pauses) It's like falling. That moment before you hit the ground. You know it's gonna hurt, but gawd, it feels good before you get there. Maybe even better, because it's gonna hurt later. Right before you hit, everything's already there, jammed together in your brain: pavement, bones, blood; red, wet, heavy. In that second before impact, your brain condenses all these anticipatory sensations down to one word. The actual impact is just to cauterize the word to your brain.

Ev: You've got a morbid streak of your own, you know.

Le: Thanks. I try.

I wrote like an arrogant dipshit. Still do.

I love it. I hate it. I love it. I'll never.

I am always wanting to stay up--later, later, longer. Sleep comes; it always does. The longer I am away from it, the more eagerly I meet it. Sleep is nothing after a few hours of few movements; but after three nights of slipping, drifting, dizzying movements, quick and wild living, it is everything. I am caught between a love of this form and the next; but the next will come, and the longer I deny it, the hungrier it comes

Sense of elation

I am always fighting it; dodge, punch, clothslineTAKETHATBETCH

The jaw shakes dark metal held with a pin. It rattles. It shakes. God, how it shakes, how it makes me shake as it nears--my entire world gets redder and wilder and the bruises crawl up my legs like the stains of wet beetles or the patches of a plague--trembling fingers reach touch-pull--

But no, not yet, run, stretch it out, push your head back and offer the bands in your neck to whatever demons or gods you will meet in these longer nights. Be a god; touch yourself. Cry out at the edge of your own fingernails. Offer yourself to yourself; take from yourself your self. You will not remember by morning; you will not exist by morning. So make as many stains as possible. Leave trails. Leave blood. Invite yourself back for more. The endings are endless; but that does not mean they cannot be played with.

I was up at 4am one night. I saw an episode of FLCL. I didn't know what it was. I was really fucking confused. I thought, somehow, what was in my brain was being projected into the tv. My nose was about five inches from the screen. I think I was smiling for most of it. I was clutching my sketchbook. But I didn't draw until it was over.

I am not a very good player, still. I have known better; I have known much better. I am too much in love with my erroneous ways to become very good very quickly (or perhaps ever at all).

But I am in this godforsaken game until the end. Or it, at least, is in me.

In a green forest verdana there is a clear pool of water. Narcissus stares and stares and stares. The water does not try to reflect him; it shows him only that it is a clear pool of water. And so it reflects him perfectly. Or rather, so imperfectly that it is exactly as it should be--those things that must make no sense in context because they are already whole without. He stares and is mesmerized. The forest verdana burns around him. He is oblivious. He is absorbed in his task--that is, trying to pull his essence from the water, or else, trying to push what essence of it is in him back into the pool. He absorbs; he is absorbed. Is this my name?, he asks, over and over in his head. What is my name? Is this my name? Is this my name? He cannot help seeing himself in clear pools of water, even as entire green forests burn all around him.

We are whispering now--

Isaac?

S

uneater suneater suneater suneater

If I eat the sun will the rains come?

Bring it all down

Bringyourbootsbringyourbootsbringyourbootsbringyourbootsbringyourbootsbringyourboots
I will be wetting my lips throwing sheets to the wind and walking down the creek the next time it rains
I will eat cake in the woods in the sky because Tegavania has had none for almost nineteen trillion years now
I will write my thoughts brown on my arms and legs and watch them wash clay red through my dress

These weatherfucked days, the closest I come to being wet is waking in a sweat.



I'm sorry--was that overly sexual? Oops. I didn't mean it to be.

Probably.

Piper

"And if I don't mean what I say don't take me for a liar."

There are things I believe in but do not say, because the moment I should say them, I would not believe in them. I have thought to have killed many good things this way; but more often than not, the root of them is not reached, and some night later, in the silent spaces from whence they pushed up, they come crawling back again, their bodies scarred from the errors of my lips, but alive and healed. More often than not. But it is such a hassle to wait for their return, should they return at all. And sometimes, I feel as if they lose sweetness upon each death and return. So more often than not, I prefer to keep tasting them unspoken, and speak them only when I must, or, as is more often the case, when I am being too foolish not to.

There are these thoughts that run around in my head sometimes. Run in circles up there. Sometimes it's just a single word. Come. Sometimes it's a face that starts talking and then another one talks back and a dialogue starts up. Sometimes they flesh out into characters. Sometimes they graft to my legs. And some stay inky and dark and mush about up there, separating and reforming; they do not form because they are unfinished; they are not spoken because they are still unstable. I do not know how much I mean them. They are freelancers without job assignments

I keep Luneth freelance. Because he's Luneth.

I have very poor dividing lines between my emotions. Emotions? Feelings. Feelings? Affections. No, let's go back to feelings. It is very fun. When you keep quiet about it. It is very difficult. But very fun. And...and I guess I am using the term "fun" very loosely here. Fun comes with blood and scrapes. Fun comes with fear. Fun comes with...a lot of internal landslides. But we are never so high as when we are falling.
There are these phrases lately
not good enough not good enough not good enough not good enough asking for too much too much too much too much too much too much too much
so often when I am working
I guess I get bored a lot
They do not cut to the quick; they stretch and stir from it. They are the nails themselves.
I've become incredibly vain and..and then he opposite, at the same time, somehow; I feel ugly and beautiful. Beauty through horror.
And itai; I will not say it doesn't hurt. It does. Like a bitch. To have these kinds of nails is to have them ingrown as well. Pleasure is not taken through it; it is taken around it. If through it, then only in that it exists before and after it.

Dunno. I'm bored of this for now. And God this couch is comfortable.

On Waiting

"Are you waiting for the 105 as well, good sir?"
"No."

"Oh? I must ask, then--what are you doing at this bus station, sitting next to me on this bench, map in hand, fare in pocket, if you are not waiting for the 105?"

"I am existing."

"Oh. Of course. But are you sure you are not waiting?"

"No."

"And what of when the bus comes?"

"Perhaps I will take it. Perhaps not."

"What is your destination?"
"I do not know. But wherever it is, I shall exist there, as well, and, perhaps, take a bus then to another place in which I might also exist."

"I have taken this route many times, sir, and I feel I must inform you that the next stop does not have a covered bench. The weather is treacherous and the roads unpaved; you will surely have to wait in the mud. Will you not go home and wait in the comfort of your own home until tomorrow, when the weather is fairer?"

"No; I am no more spent here than there."

"But hold on then, good sir--where are you off to now? The bus will be here soon. If you will not wait at home and do not mind the conditions ahead, then wait here, just a little longer."

"I told you, I am not waiting; I am existing. And neither for this bus alone."

"If you miss this bus, the next bus will not be along for another twelve hours."

"So much waiting."

"That is my point exactly."

"But I am existing, kind friend. It is something I am very good at. I have been doing it all my life, you see, and so twelve hours is but a blink to me. Look, your bus is come. I will call on an old friend of mine. Have dinner and sleep a bit, and by the time I next open my eyes, the bus will be before me as swiftly as if it had chased on the wheels of yours."

"You hardly have time for that, unless you mean to take the twenty-fourth bus that will come from now."

"Each bus is the bus; all time is time. I am nowhere I should not be, or, rather, I am no where I cannot be. Step quickly now, friend, or you will miss your bus and have to wait for the next."

"That is alright--look, it is already gone by as we have been chatting. As you say, another will be along sure enough, and I suppose I will be there to meet it, should I need to. And besides, I've just now remembered I've a dinner to prepare tonight for a very good friend of mine, and though the recipe is in my pocket, my cupboards are empty."

"Shall we go together, then, to fill them?"

"Yes, yes."

"The nearest market is two miles South. Shall we wait for the bus?"

"No, let us walk."

"Much time will pass."

"And as many words will pass between us."

"Ikuzo."

Here we are; there we go.

Dip and sway

toe to toe.