miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain
2 am and im cursing your name
so __ ____ that i acted insane
i should know by now, you should know by now,
we should know by now the affective charge of
pop is beyond, beneath, good reason
someones gotta give for every bunkered up kid
so you see a woman, she’s an avatar, she
approaches, you figure she’ll offer you truth
she might introduce you to a neural ballad
it might reveal to you another sediment of
truth – that word’s an avatar, it approaches
you figure it’ll force a progress. you suck on
a red, sour skull, the aroma of infringement
from lying to kneeling, where you’re how we pray,
arisen. no reason to listen is a good reason to
redpill
you love to forget .. (3 haikus to follow)
would i have blown you
when you were in seventh grade
and i was in first
it aint ethical
can i chew his vitamin
its effervescent
never as powered
as during apathy, in
other dimensions
what did you expect, dont like getting stuck, just wanted to be part of
(my life)
(not a lot babygirl, just a lil bit)
(it really was getting hot in therre)
IT DEPENDS
BAIL ON ME
maybe if my ears stop hearing – it won’t hurt this time
“a kind of wiggly looseness below the knee prolonged to the end of each footfall.
the ghost of a drag” (lolita, nabokov)
if a song would walk all over me, would each footfall echo of the adolescence of each joint connecting the soles to the brain?
the ghost of a drag won’t hurt this time
when britney asked what lies beneath did she suspect to find haruki murakami? HM: “It’s a dream come true!”
John Mullan: “Not a nightmare?”
HM: “No!”
JM: “Why not?”
HM: “I don’t know.”
BS: “Edamame beans”
rooting inside a hollow tree trunk
a super fashion nova
is an exploding star of curves
in the end, i know,
we will overcome it
haters can’t “clock” her for “not” succeeding caus she “in” college so there is no “denial”. if it’s the melodic assertiveness, the thrill of knowing multiple people are scrollinmg through your blog at once. the rage against the self machine. the riding of dicks til it’s “over” for some “hoes”. the crying game. the “ugly physical transport infrastructure” of the cloud vs. the body dysmorphia of an “emancipated/immersed being.” the bad bitch guide, stellar, out of his world
narcissistic narcoleptic
make the boys go loco
i want his treasure
and his designation to my photo
you can ____ me
you can’t ____ me
its so easy being easy
its so easy being empty
hits and kisses
leave me breathless
live delicious
I'll try to be more succinct.
You held a certain fascination When you were beautiful, Delicate And untouched.
But now you're like One of the arabians my father used to own- Rode hard and put away wet.
I don't want you anymore, And I can't see why anyone else would.
– chuck bass
EXPLAYwhen you fly
and theres and open bar
(unofficially)
is that whats meant
by recipe for disaster
"the shortest mostly just watched, stood beside the bed with his slate-gray gaze shining dull from huge eyes, the whites not as pale as his white skin. they were on drugs they'd probably found on a toxic waste heap"
"the words killer and death had shifted over time"
(borne, vandermeer)
only live twice
leak it drag it,
put it in a temple with traps
if i die now be an angel
everyone entering the sex shop
and the kids walking by
mimic to cry
gun in our arms
respect to
be defiled
themporary tattoo
and any movie recembling
a youtube tutoial
bacardi
is a name
"letting go" on the floor is anciently forgotten
but even the furthest regressed fingertips
can tingle at the sensation of strobes
malibu
is my vice
the audacity of a stiletto echo in the memory
down the alleys we never conquered
towards singularities that didn't split
into rose, mist, hair, frizz
my valentino
white bag
caught in the form of limitation
between un-being and being
life, seeming as on repeat, might tickle
but they never revealed
being a girl can't save you
being a girl cant save you
"I was attracted to virtual reality because I thought it was a completely synthetic environement. Because I had this craving for artificial and for perfection. And I've grown up persuaded that game characters had computer generated voices. [...] Yes I was crazy over him because I thought he was this flawless and totaly synthetic creature, and I had hopes he would one day become an artificial intelligence so that we could have actually interacted. I believed in high technology one day being able to bring us together. But in reality it's getting worse and worse to the point that I now think that video games have no future."
(final words, alix henriol)
"[during] the interval before sleep – the lying awake in quasi-darkness /…/ there is a recovery of perceptual capacities that are disabled or disregarded during the day"
(24/7, crary)
the eyebrows are limbs
what other body part can you raise in suspicion
camila, golden hour, joanne, norman rockwell, have fun
is there a certain resurgence in the simplicity of affect, fringe boots, honesty, performing of vulnerability? pop that surrenders, bearing only (barely) the action of response. splitting from trip hop fatigue and escape room pneumonia, like the scent of change in the wind, like a spectre of early era taylor swift, it once again coats *something* in *something* (filters), revealing out of sheer absence an identiatrian pattern with imminent force. its about body decay, but perfection aswell, the currency of self-paradoxing. in the reflection of depravation and dysmorphia flickers a festival, golden freckles, the perfect distressed jean, a night that is short as ever but goes on for an eternity. the room of ones own renders between brunch and pre parties, in the collective experience of swiping boys left and right. that room is performed through pity and collateral beauty, its simply not inhabitable but merely in existing it entails the safety of a common reality. cognitive reassurance that feels red, white, blues in the sky. if trauma is etched in the genome, hopefully the moments of warm night sky against your neck, smoke making its way into your every cavity, grass and sweat blending, does too. that hope is solitary, inhabits its own plane. courtney stodden wrote "The misconceptions bleed into my personal life" and then deleted it, and while she was giving an account of fame, ones personal misconceptions too bleed between planes of reality. acoustic guitars does not make sounds but signify blandness, hope(ful, less, stuck), an open fire, defining moments, they trick with their glitching and resonance. the sounds are scents and sensations, tearing apart a croissant, your body aching when leaving your plane seat, a blend of chlorine and a depressed population, a whiff of the new gender. progress lies in the same old mistakes which is a realisation as liberating as drenched in pain. progress is furthered not only by taking steps, but by mocking them under the allowance of moon, night, stars, smoke. progress unlocked by a golden, perfect key, it really is pure gold. and its nostalgic, and it might not even be an issue. full disclosure – we on fire — baby
there's a war on for your mind / i've got a war on my mind
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dog game sex icon
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sonic sex icon
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huge hefner icon
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paul joseph whats on icon
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zing con
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dash conservative
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playe boy icon
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international celibacy con
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info warfare link in
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orange man bad con
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children of the bad revolution
mirage skinny bitches
we don’t say hi
we say key to the benz
we read the forbes list
we are post-alone
partying’s the only solution
and we’re soluble
come at me bro,
i deserve it
dox me,
flex on us,
address us
i can see my sweet bro swaying,
our hands are up
under eternal g force
urban decays
material girls
materia kin
who wants to be sentient
new reality show
a being can’t flicker
who doesn’t wanna be matter
so one could re-render
as a new york yankee shape
i exclusively eat soulseek shaped food
under the bed a hatchway
to the least tense dungeon
in town
in there it’s difficult
to not think about country
conceptions
and old money
that probably dies with its owners
right
but like pets
cash cant be owned
theyre companions
all bitches born in the 90s do
is charge they phone
sit on the counter
spit sun flower seed
tweet about mitsky
be bisexual
and wash they pussy in the sink
like they dont even know theres a culture war hello
like we really dont really cognize
here
mariah and virginia said
fuck blue lives
they bodies can not flicker
caus a being cqnt flicker
but they can disappear
into skinny
the difference between a crowd
and an audience
is when the latter relieves you from life
you become something better than a martyr
nobody in the 90s knows to count
so its impossible to tell
how many ways they have
reimagined suffering
over there
NO HATE IS A COLD STAR
if you’re reading this it’s too late. i disorderedly opened my macbook air and focused my eyes on the two log in profiles that appeared on the screen for one and a half minute. i logged onto my own profile and opened the browser and closed some softwares that ignite on stratup. there was one new email from ebay, collecting some recent appearances from within my saved searches, and one email briefing me on some addresses, phone numbers and dates.
someone asked me to provide some more information and confirm some other things. when i’m reading this it’s too late. i unscrew an oversized nut from a metal pole emerging from a slab of dusty concrete. the construction envelops me like a screensaver.
the charger chord keeps getting more bent because it is designed without regard for its use. in my memory someone approaches dramatically, skidding and abandoning their car to talk to us, but i realise i have fabricated details for filling gaps and for fun. i think about how much we paid at the door.
to avoid impact i suddenly seem to remember an errand across the street. i justify some fermented drinks with some skipped meals a while ago. probably, avoiding impact is my biggest wish but will be, no is, my downfall. when i get home the big nut is still in my bag, i leave it outside because of an annoying feeling that it has followed me home, like someone hiding in the trunk of a car.
to avoid criticism you can consistently make errors and stand by them. in the changing room i forget to leave things in the locker several times in a row. i walk naked back and forth to the showers. when i’m back changing i realise i forgot to turn the shower off, the showers were endless. some things in my room are gifts that i look at and think of people who gave them to me. my back does not hurt when i am krav maga’d into the dirt, it is just warm –and i have just had a white cheese pastry – and i just want to get stuck in time – and i create intricate rituals
pualu krakatau
“I put both palms on the table’s cool surface. My phone, in my pocket, vibrated at an almost constant rate, in five second intervals.”
– Surveys, Stagg
“I have to leave the house
At a loss
Permanent loss of pigmentation
sensitive to sunlight
drug addict
alone”
– “black comedy”, My Apologies Accepted, Rogers
“Not only was he very hungry but much more humiliating–“
“Geryon was thinking hard. Fires twisted through him.
He picked his way carefully
toward the sex question. Why is it a question? He understood
that people need
acts of attention from one another, does it really matter which acts?
He was fourteen.
Sex is a way of getting to know someone,
Herakles had said. He was sixteen. Hot unsorted parts of the question
were licking up from every crack in Geryon,”
– Autobiography of Red, Carson
reverse nightcore
split ceramic
flat dinghy
double h
stained warlock
climax of burden
enchanted scrolling
dead direction
loch ness
iron plastic
tight echoic
epic hole
string of info
mean girl
a slow seam
an hero
bodycon
lip kit
lung treaty
and empty lobe
vertical vision
naive exhumation
bring ice cube
euro air
pollute blood
men in black
game zombie
at the most
gone girl
romping shop
acoustic fluster
pon di bounds
mr burns
revealing lack
sigh manolo
free fall
anti alias
and all other tools
recognise a whistle
from some time in child hood
y y
o o
u u m
s m e
a i a
y s n
s d
i i
w m
a i
n s s
n s o m u c h
a y
s o
a u
y
EXHALE, EXFOLIATEany words are last words,
if ye euphoric enough
like watching a movie
on putlocker
and vaguely sensing
you life split
in two temporalities
any songs a swan song,
if ye listen it
over and over
just the way
waves spin down
the open neck of a basking shark
or a kombucha bottle
two times life is lived,
if ye record it
at the same time
as dreading it
any words are obituaries,
if ye recall their trigger
like social justice
warlock snowflakes
like kim k hollywood
and her gps tracker
and her russian ops
and her popping rush
any words a password,
if ye log in hard enough
to observe and marry
“i'd like some schoolkids to touch me” (cunny poem, bunny rogers)
and to hack my account
and humiliate it
in front of the audience
some bots who assembled
letting go is hard enough,
if ye limb was so weak
from the most instant
ramen
and the most delayed
reciprocation
of some old dusty
affect
you
can get addicted
2a certain kind
of sadness
you can
get addicted
to a certein kind of
showing people how little you care
yeah