• got robbed by gun point
  • contracted bronchitis
  • started my period
  • found out my friend’s cat i really loved got ran over
  • got and subsequently lost a good job in 4 days
  • didn’t get full pay
  • some friends haven’t been nice to me
  • got stung by a wasp two times in the same exact spot on both of my legs today (how even??)
  • am not on my way to burning man

i’ve been trying so hard to write too, like i have 14 drafts i never have 14 drafts but i need a vacation from reality because this is ridiculous and frankly unacceptable

preface to prose: i have a beer can i cut the entire top off to have an ash tray for and i put out my cigarette in order to smoke a bowl b/c i want to write and i was doing it nonchalantly and noticed a lot more smoke than one would consider a purposefully put out cigarette butt (b/c this beer can ash tray is kinda cool but impractical but so it goes anyway) and noticed that oh, in fact something in that ash can is burning and it turns out, indeed, there was something burning. there was also aluminum foil and i think i may have inhaled some fumes. this has mini side adventure has been exhausting or maybe that’s b/c it’s almost 4am or maybe retaining chemistry knowledge is a good idea??

letter to an astrophysicist I fell in love with in a past life, or;
letter to an astrophysicist I fucked in the alley New Year’s Eve

Get your atoms out of me.
I know too much of the universe now, I—I
lay awake remembering your breath on my neck,

but you told me the world is ending.
Listen, I heard the bit about billions of years from now,

so you constructed limits.
I fell into them because your lectures on dark matter
enchant me. My problem is the thirst of my want.

It causes droughts in hearts I stay
too long in. Our welcome is always over-
stayed, a repetitive mesh of reflection
we won’t remember come morning.

Our species is so desperate to be remembered
we don’t understand how many Gods were
forgotten for centuries— then the witches
who remembered were burned and
the monks became stones to ash.

So if you ever loved me, don’t let our past selves
read this. Ever. I need for our ending to not belong
in as many places as it doesn’t have to,

but you always said
the moon is unreliable and—
your mind, that great becoming
I’d challenge the big bang with.

You, love, were meant to last eons,
curled in the crook of my discoveries
and all the memories warm beating hearts
braid into the nightfall of vulnerability.

Do you understand yet?
I won’t let the ending happen to me
until the disease of my consciousness
is something I know how to live in
and you were chasing supernovae
while the constellations in our pulse
sung the fiberglass in our lungs
to dust,

the same we’ll be when the next big bang happens.
Too bad you won’t be here to hold my hand,
spaceships can’t have windows down and I’m
going in the opposite direction. I’ve got frontiers
and forgetting the truth behind shooting stars,

it’s a lot to swallow. The whole universe is
a disposable needle you only use once. Take the
marrow of our minds and take us to the
higher consciousness. Maybe we can compromise,

you can have your black holes and telescopes,
I’ll take the neurons and the climax of evolution,

but we’re both after the dark side of two different moons
and the way we pilot oceans would ruin ecosystems
if we tried to put the sun to sleep ourselves each night,

we couldn’t even tuck ourselves to sleep;
it’s lives after you and I’m still wishing on asteroids
that either of us ever find out what home is.

cradle me in the lungs of apathy

i need the strong arms of a tree,
the nectar of a drug that takes my ego elsewhere
to the womb of the black hole in the center of
where we’re all breathing here right now i mean do you ever
just fucking think of that

how does one function
with all the wisdom thrown down the drain
every single second of every single moment of
living in the ancient ages

evolution is on the cusp of our understanding
and no one is listening, to the heart the soul the mind
the mind, goddamn the monster no one talks about
no one has

our pockets are empty and our god(s) are
the manufactured dissertation
of a failed political science doctorate student

the earth is pounding in our ears and we
we we we celebrate kardashien

she doesn’t deserve spell check,
there are things worth sacrificing grammar for
like nonsense epiphanies and that
tired addict of a beating heart— —

ready to put the graves of a pulse
too diamond like to make it in the mines
to rest, can you imagine

the sound sleep the entire world could have
that we don’t

someone else tell me it keeps them from sleeping
from eating from talking from existing coping with
all that means

counting sheep doesn’t go to the amount of time it’ll take to fix
is this a cry for a herd of progressive shepherds or
am i finally losing my mind to the rat race
to the mishape
to the nihilism, the exist-
tentialism, the heartbreak of being human
and how hard the chest breaks, the inside cavity of
nothing, not with nights like these with

chakras dry and weeping,
language deceased, poetry empty and
bullet through the head

melt my bones to concentrated mortality, i’ve got
the mentality of a seven year old
and sticky hands
full of whys and how comes and i am
dragging the dirt under my nails
into the full mouth of the ocean
until my frailty catches the tide of uselessness.

i dispose of myself in the bellies of cruelty,
my ineptitude is a symptom of monotony
and i keep finding black holes
in the middle of my palms
that like to ruin whatever was left
of my lifelines; i, i, i

can’t catch a break and it’s choking me,
the resin of a destiny determined
to sucker punch the gut of karma i haven’t
yet earned, i mean

does the universe even know where it comes from
anyway? what are the point of my questions
if there are no gods
to nurse my consciousness
back to health?

tell me how to go higher,
does it have to do with tight ropes and fire or
is heaven the temple a liar
made out of aluminum foil and
spending too many nights wondering
what happiness is,
what happiness is,
what

is any of this.

empty my heart into the alleyway and fuck it filthy.
i am the leftover disease of humanity,
the rot and decay resting
in the skulls of all the wars that have been fought
and not won. the lineage of my integrity is a joke,
i am pressing candle wax into my soles
for no good reason,
finding poor metaphors tucked
in the holes of ribs’ upholstery.
this is where i pin my bones to place,
this is where i melt

and don’t ever, ever come back.

find me in the wake of a disaster god forgot to leave a name for.
march my bones to the attics i store the volumes of my many selves in,
i am one more near death experience from losing the nine lives i joked
death into fronting me until next week, what isn’t understood

is that i’ve been dead for decades and no one knew what to do with my body
or what’s left of my mind, the doses i haven’t rattled in the hipbones of
lovers that don’t like to stay ‘til morning. this open heart surgery is
taxing on my ribs, the industrial complex of my will to live that i
suck the marrow of my good from just to make it through the day
is threatening to cut me off. save some of myself for the lungs of

someone that isn’t scared to breathe me into morning, that great
becoming of what moonlight can do when it bends to the tides
of letting go and scraping the rust from lungs in the quicksand resin
my thoughts smoke too much of. tell me my organs aren’t ancient,

convince me the drips are a nightmare i’ll stop swallowing once
my heart quits second guessing the beats that got me
this far. i want a companion, i want to empty the theories of
my reality’s nature into the throat of a woman who moans
for the taste of poetry the same she does my mouth,

i keep the ghosts of my better selves shackled in the laboratory
these brains in vats are revolting inside of. i am talking myself
out of the sordid and filthy, into control and the balance
adam and eve didn’t know how to fuck out of each other.

entropy came from the belly of an entity larger than us
and i am doing my part to keep my seams fit snug in the
atoms my meditation isn’t able to shake hands with.
kiss my melancholy on the neck and tell me these months
are an elegy my sorry doesn’t need to say goodbye to.

i’m convinced i can live without the black of my marrow,
i know for a fact i can love a girl to extinction, i’ve done it
more times than the cells in my body have died, so i’m
tired of all this self-sacrifice. all this ricochet stumbling
the corridor of my spine when it’s been limping for years,
tripping over the mess i built from scratch. this is how

i clean things up. rinse and repeat, scribble the diagrams
of lovers that stayed for the weekend. spend weeks locked
in the observatory of my self reflection. this time i come out,
brand new and ready to fuck on the surface of the sun.

i want the next one to not be afraid of burning me to ash,
spreading my dust in the eternal ego death my mind plays
peek-a-boo with every time the moon sleeps before me.
for tonight, for tonight i bought vulnerability from the
pharmacy that set up camp the day sober and i divorced,

i keep wasting the high on poems that don’t hold their weight
in all the wind it takes to get some place that matters.

zaedilux replied to your post: i don’t know what i’m doing with mysel…

i love you.

i thought you’d never say it. i love you too, be my australian moonshine.

to the imaginaria of my daughter i

baby, make your heart a one way interest.

tell the love in your life that you come with open arms
and a second hand to pack their bags
if they don’t know how to treat you well.

sway with the fireworks when you need the spark
and know how to find the right way to put you out.

let it be done easy to you,
but let it be done.
there is a balance somewhere in the
universe to believe in and i did not know of it
until you beat my pulse to the rhythm
of the magnetic poles.

my honey bee, you are cosmic waves and distillation.
milk the universe of its poison,
suck it dry of its calm. i trust your thunder
will carry us further than god can.

that’s it, darling: believe in love like holy,
keep its prayers tucked in the valley
of your shoulder blades for when someone
explores your flight. do not be anything
less than forest fire and desolation,

you are consequential and cataclysmic.
the battery operated fetus of consciousness
is aware of your heart’s mode of passage.
bleed into the cubbyholes of monotony
until the world is forced to listen;

you will translate into ancient tongues
born to bred the beauty of your language
back into the world.

you, my magnificent masterpiece,
are my final manifesto.
whatever you do will make me proud.
put them on their knees for you.

i am writing to you in the mirror and you’re not there
saw you in the horizon but didn’t say hello
figured the sun was tired of hearing its lovebirds argue

even though all i wanted was to hold your hand
or kiss your shoulder in a parking lot when the moon is
held crescent over the horizon and we can pretend
we’re astronauts doing heroin on saturn and and and

don’t you want your ego to explode with mine
i mean wasn’t that the deal
i mean why am i seeing in geometry and
finding you around every corner when all i left
was a blanket that meant a lot to me and
all i had left of my self respect

you know, the bottle you must have drank
when you got drunk enough to fuck her
because the high of forgetting me had to be
the only thing that could make you stomach it

but i don’t know anything for sure
i don’t even know if i’m a carbon based life form
or what any of my insides mean, i lose
the ability to communicate daily and no one,
i mean no one notices because who really
talks these days anyway and i mean

don’t you understand
that’s why i fucking miss you
i mean who really talks these days anyway
who can hold a conversation until 4am
who drops a window pane after fucking themselves
who held my hand around kensington for twenty
of the coldest minutes of my life
who got lost with me
who refused to get found with me
who left me sitting on the corpse of something

that never got to see daylight
that never met my summer,
only knew the frostbite of my winter,
and how bitter scars taste when you
come fresh from the battlefield

of something bigger than this

yet it hurts like hell anyway
and the poems keep coming
and my heart keeps stuttering,
my throat wondering
who do i tell this to now
who do i trust wants to know
the worlds that exist in me
no one has wanted to go

how do i tell myself
where do i write it down
the worse part of losing a muse
is the next canvas will never
be the last

i’m stringing puppets from the inside of bullets i found on my walk home. there’s a masquerade disguising the temptation i’ve left for finding what the hollow rot of indifference does to the root of a being. i’m talking my ego. i’m talking the beckoning of my self, the inner monologue i keep quiet in fears it won’t be translated well enough for anyone to understand the deep, inconsequential mess of. all our hearts beat toward entropy and it’s a fools game to sell it otherwise, but i’m good at pretending. i’ve got it down to an art. give me your lungs on front and i’ll get you your liver back, you’ve got to take one for the other and i’ve been learning that the hard way but so it goes. so it goes. the heart keeps pounding and your blood doesn’t always rush to your head when the door opens and it’s just your better self, asking when it’s time to come back in, are you done yet are you done yet are you fucking done yet. it’s best to stop arguing with yourself, the american healthcare system doesn’t pay for that and you’re not welcome in canada anymore. mexico never wanted you in the first place, did it? maybe it’s time for another hemisphere. maybe these bones have found the disease of complacency, of monotony, of rotting in the floorboards behind a rerun of all the last months no one’s done anything. i got it in my veins to do something, i gotta take advantage of life, does anyone really understand the amount of times i’ve talked the reaper in the eyes and didn’t blink. that’s not normal, you know. none of this is normal. abandonment isn’t normal, you don’t know what normal is, it doesn’t matter. once you stop looking what you’re shooting up it doesn’t matter anymore, you know? just stop looking. the answer won’t be in the track lines, stop trying to scar the braille you need to convince yourself you’re worth loving. stop talking in third person. someday. i’ve seen your legacy get cast off on mountains. only the wild suits your storms. you’ve got all of nature down on its knees. what do you do with the world on pause?