Erotica #k

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When...

when these holy days come close, i get vulnerable and sometimes sad. The sadness is nostalgia, looking back on holy days passed. the memories are sacred like the trees cut down by way of culture club celebration.

i try and accept all the killing trees and memories. i do not participate in either anymore. no more pajamafeet sliding around in superhero underoos, no more static electricity shock therapy.

when i face the holy days silently, non-violently, with holy day music and candlelight prayers, visions of sugarplums and books not yet written dancing in my head...

life becomes a wonder... and i become earth's wanderer.

Mental -- the deuce

I had seen about a dozen therapists in twice as many years. They all knew what was wrong with me, and it was different every time. I guess that's what people mean when they say people change. Of course, people usually said that about someone else, not me. I would be wondering why a boy did not want to go out with me anymore? People change. Or why my best friend stopped talking to me when she went off to college, and I was still working graveyard at the White Hen? People change.

So maybe those boys and my best friend were just mental like I was. That's what I liked to tell myself. When I dissociated, I made up all sorts of personalities to keep the rumours alive. The dominatrix would reassure me she had been routinely light spanking my best friend over the holidays, because my best friend was submissive. People change. The angry feminist would tell me how my best friend got married, and that she may as well have had a lobotomy. People change. The priest who took confession from the first guy I fell in love with me, confided in me what he heard in the confessional; the guy was into guys. People change. 

Honestly, I am not sure I believed that people change. I had only to consider myself. My diagnosis always changed, but I stayed that same. So you could argue it was not really me who was changing. Just the labels. A label is stuck to the outside of something, like a nametag, but it does not alter the underlying chemistry of the thing labelled. The mad scientist told me so. And he's never wrong. He performs all sorts of important experiments all the time, just to know stuff.

He spends half the night with me at White Hen, draining whipped cream gas into my lungs. He calls them whippets. Apparently they kill brain cells that should have been dead a long time ago. The kind of cells that made me think the bad thoughts, the same kind of thinking all sorts of minimum wage workers who are mental start to have, when they are working dead end jobs going mental. I'm not even going mental. I already am.

I think I am living proof that people never change. Tonight there's only one can of whipped cream left untapped, in the White Hen. The mad scientist prescribed it to me, to get well. To kill off all those thoughts of what I wanna do to those boys and my best friend, now that they no longer have an excuse for having ditched me the way they did.

star free

i am
star free
i am
overcast sky

i blacked
Hollywoods
rolling
digital
eye

black
-an-
blued

i outlandish
unmoored
her

her digital
cloud-based
eye

her
i

look at me
star free
shot out
the sky

gripping hearts
between my
thighs

until they
bleed out
and die

see?
i am
star free

over
cast
under
toe

i

Pale in comparison

When all has gone to hell, and you wonder where has gone your life, romantic, and think you know its never gonna materialize for ya... try and go deeper. Deeper below the muddy muck, lies firm and solid virgin ground. Always. You cannot see this. The obvious senses fail to sense it. But like any unknown future sweet heart friend, the end of mankind numb and detached from his purpose and climbing the walls of his will, six feet deep in despair, walled in by walmart, targeted by target, entertained to near death, technologically baffled, compulsively obsessed, imaged in selfie stew, face cut by seven blade razors, telemarketed, stuck on stupid, shot at by solar flares, inundated by cell rays, frozen in fear frosting, sucking on substitute sugars, dipped in electromagnetic confection, infected by ad campaigns, propped up by viagra, shuffling whole food aisles, dripping wet with pharmaceuticals, sexting with sextetris puzzle pieces piling up to game over like dome storage war won at auction and amassed in space to the gills....
is not without a certain possibility of the dream girl hidden and ready to strike out hopeful into your cigar-fog atmosphere from the fake cake they rolled out at the fat cat corporate party, pale as the throat of a bullfrog in spring, in comparison.

Mental (sister piece)

The sister to this piece is @ kissilent.wordpress.com

I was talking to my therapist. It was a pretty chill converse. Almost like we were friends or something. I kinda started to think of her as my friend, until she diagnosed me crazy. I thought that was really rude, coming from a friend. I let her know. She told me she wasn't my friend. I started to cry. She called me tearful. I had about had it with the labels. But I did not blow up, because at least she was right. I asked her, will I ever get better? She said it was a process. That made me feel worse. I told her she was a rotten therapist. Her affect remained unchanged. I told her she had no feelings. I asked her how does it feel, not to be able to feel? She gave me that Buddha smile. Totally unphased. I was impressed by her robot. I shut up and started listening. I had eyeliner blend into my eye from the crying, and asked for a tissue. She told me get it yourself. Not to be mean, just because (as she had explained a hundred times before) that would be caretaking.

 I stumbled blind around the room for a tissue. I fell out the window. I didn't know it was open. I was wondering how the air-conditioning was so strong that day. Or how they could afford such a skillful window washer. Because the air was so cool, the glass so clear. Before the makeup fell into my cornea. I did not report any of that, because I was supposed to only report my symptoms. Leave all the clutter thoughts up in my attic. I mean head. Well, they came out all right. But not until I landed on my attic, or the ground came up to meet me, after I shook hands with the window. I still could not see. But at least I could think straight. Props to my therapist. Shout outs to the EMTs who came and kept all my blood from running down the sidewalk and away from me.

evolution of an android princess with chromebook know how - i

1973
she was born without a computer chip in her skull
a real retro model homo sapien brain trust child

1978
She enjoyed watching her older brother play
pinball, and the song by the Who about
the you know what.

1979
She learned how to ride a bicycle by falling off one
she felt an exhiliration like no other, on two wheels.
This was all she cared about, all year long, 24/7.

1980
She got tall enough to play pinball.
She found the pressing buttons on the sides
of a coffin sized wheelbarrow without wheels, felt
embarrasing. Primitive. Especially for a girl.

1980
There was talk about personal computers in her
neighborhood, but it all sounded so impersonal.
Her dad would speak about it from behind the spread
of his Wall Street Journal, at breakfast.

1981
She got tired of bicycles and especially climbing hills
she got into watching older kids at the pizza parlours
and skating rinks, playing Galaga and Space Invaders.
Atari was something which her cousins talked about,
involving subsistence-level graphics, tanks, and Pong
which wasn't as good as the real thing.

1982
She started playing the giant video games and enjoyed
them. But there were alot of bullies who bullied her
while she was playing. She would have to stop and
focus on kicking them in the kneecaps. Which was more
fun, anyway.

1983
Nothing happened this year, because the air was filled
with anticipation.

1984
PAC-MAN and the personal computer.
Life would never be the same...

1985
to be continued

Girl for xbox

All the queen's verses
All the king's zen
Reconciled them
In bed @
Half past ten

The goldfish
Turned silver

The prince gave his xbox
To the pauper
Why No one knows

Not even
The little match girl
Who was led to the prince
The very same day

She thought it strange
In the palace
Holding hands

A prince
Wanting matches

What for
All the  windproof torches
He might choose

The pauper was too busy
Blowing away the world
With an unharnessed fury
Twice the size of the sun

To indulge
Her whys
Her what fors

He just wants to see you
He likes little whores
Now die! Die! die! Die!
You scum! por favor

Although she enjoyed
Her walk through the palace
She never once minded
The prince's entreaties

She hid behind the couch
In the paupers motel room
While he indulged all his fantasy
Of anarchy and mayhem

The endless rapping upon the door
Went unanswered
And the prince's heart
Knew first heartbreak

Our little match girl she
Got big
In her own palatial
Revery

Not just on that day but
Every

the crux of cyber-monday - i

Technology was really killing me. Mercury had to be retrograde. Dogs were barking. Bread was buttered with marmalade. And it was cyber fucking monday. Only thing saving me today was Bowie. Little China girl. Meet little Miss Americana. She's got thrift DKNYs and a liquid cooled television burning out her emerald eyes.

This is not real. This is a disguise. Come out come out, wherever you are. Soul? Please do not be shy! Remember just yesterday? When you ruled the sky blue all the way from you know where, with you know who?

All the followers were becoming leaders, these days. And vice versa. With a cursory glance off your paintbrush hair follicles, you could see. Maybe you liked it. Maybe not. Maybe no one and yourself cared how you felt. And Judge Judy. All the flowers were gonna be fed something they did not need, and blossom into some kinda brilliance Van Gogh would stretch his eyelashes against.

Everybody forgot how to dance. And they knew it. Eyes danced across screens only. Watching the different black and white styles from the 1920s on. Wow, what a party. Wish I was there. Some had the courage to go to dance classes. Some took off their shoes forever. Some danced barefoot across Murphy oiled knotty pine floors with a plastic coating making it all possible. The kittens jumped one another like frogs, and struck to kill. Nails retracted however. Or were glossed over, the ones in the wood floor. So your pretty little bare feet would not get mutilated.

Anyone had a chance to live. Just not everybody took it, right away.