You Are A Fantastic Beast, And I Know Where To Find You

What, can't a girl stare, be amazed, revel in her good fortune, her cosmic karmic luck?  Over the course of twelve autumns, you have changed my perception of time, have made it slow down for me during nows of bliss and made it go faster during droplets of sadness, and you steady the world for me and know all of my spots and it needs to be OK with you for me to think that is fucking special, and I need it to be special to you, too.  I told you to make up a religion where we get to be together forever and you told me to do it because you were too braindead from our sex and so that's what I'm doing and the first and highest holy of doctrinal belief is that we are special, so you need to TESssstuhfyeeee, Brother Criminal.  I am an empath who cares, you are an empath that mirrors, and the world is at war!  Let's celebrate at the beach or in a moonlit parking lot.  We always ruin dessert; it is what we do and what we should always do.  Give me one reason why we shouldn't, you can't, there is none, haha, we win.  I love you.

Die Welträtsel: unresolve(able) harmonic progression

And/Or, "My Own Personal BiologicoMusico Recapitulation Theory"

Some feelings are harder to move past than others, like distracting anticipation humming around your mind's periphery, ruby-throated like, or mortal fear grabbing us by our peter pan collar or hanging us up by our hoodie, whatever satisfies your sartorial scheme.  But no matter the quantity of hours and resources and energies devoted to ignoring and/or indulging and/or confronting our fear and/or our loathing, we really all must admit that, functionally speaking:

when we arrive

at the inflection point

the point where the

fiberopticnanoscalpeldeadlylazer

finally draws

so infinitesimally

close to my skin

so oscillatingly close

kissingly close

almost-all-the-goddamn-way

to breaking and drawing

up and out

my indefatigable

blood

that it actually does

 well, at that point

the point where curvature changes

or where it vanishes altogether

when we finally get to that point?

well, at that point

we are already bored

But if it's not too much to ask, please kiss my forehead and both my drug-heavy eyelids and wish well my nerves and axons.  Because I'm just like all the other kids and want to be: hard and soft and fluid and unshakeable, immortal, yours, forever fertile and ceaselessly concupiscent.  And I cosmically reject any lab-coated attempts to make me even one ounce less so.  Grab the keys, we're leaving, DAMA-style!  Spoiler alert: lol, none of us ever survive.  LOL.

While I was on a mindweb-wiki-reference hunt for my escaped word 'sartorial,' I discovered that there is such a thing as an anti-suicide smock.  I think "Anti-Suicide Smock" would make a very nice title for a song we will consider releasing, but won't, on our first EP.  But I was too creeped out to do an image search.  It's funny to me how, as I grow older, I only grow more confident that I don't know anything, and, in so doing, grow more able and skilled in the fine art of dealing.  Maybe because it's already the past?  Here's the first verse:

If you're a skeptic/ all you have is hope/ and even that/ you aren't so sure about/ which is our nexus/ the seriously absurd/ and/or the absurdly serious

And that is only if we grant, for the sake of love and happiness and comedy and argument and good manners and best fit, that there is even such a thing as nexus; and, further still, that we would know it if we saw it.  You can come up with the hook; I trust you to do good work.

Earlier this afternoon, I dreamed about large hypodermic needles and the exact chemical composition of the solution in them and being on a tropical island with you and then I dreamed that I told you about that dream and; right now I could hope for a lot of things to come to pass but

right now
at this point
all I hope
is that you
are not already bored
and/or
moving past the feeling

900 Years of Silence

Hello, one.  Two here, with at least one millenium worth of gerunds and one planck time of sense: you gotta be quicker than that!

How to not fucking up a good thing?  Don't being crazy, except in the ways they like; don't being mouthy, except in the ways they want; don't being greedy, except for their sex; and we don't know from assessing risk, except for that old bored game, and ps China is a terrible place to start.  Start in south america.

Me?  I'll be over here cringing, kringleing for ma, keening por mas beaches, playa, tingling for that, which is never ever far from the surface, nothing a hit or shot or lidocaine or thisthatorother can't drawing up.  Vhile vicked vices verk verk verk, they don't bubble me up like you do, my dearest dowser.

Straight talking, not dirty, was always my stronger suit, so tie me up and leaving marks!  I want it to scaring me, to alarming me, to convincing me, of your vicious, loving human truths. And oval bruises on thighs, tender for days, are, to me, incontrovertible.  Now put your nose where it fits best and your crystal chin, too, and I'll show you what your pleasing and my yielding looksfeelssoundstastes like.

Your ever-loving emoji,

Terrorista

LOL

Stay signed in, the fuck do I care?

There is no side you're on, moron, and what you say you want is never close to the truth.  This is all only making a case against an understanding of evolution that implies a positive notion of progress, and, frankly, I see more evidence of a sadistic pig-fucker pulling divine, discrete math strings.  Probs going to get a lot of G-ewww-gle hits for that turn of phrase, so, my darling readers, please don't misunderstand me: this is not a plea for unity, it is a polemic against humanity.  And Thanksgiving.

You think ants have Left ant/Right ant, white ant/black ant, poor ant/rich ant, ugly ant/pretty ant, happy ant/sad ant, Muslim ant/Christian ant?  Get the fuck out.  I double dare you, Marc Summers style, to name one measure by which we might be the most successful species.  Invasivity?  Tool-making?  I'll say.  Self-destructiveness?  Except we aren't just self-destructive; we're going to take this whole motherfucker down with us.  LOL @ Mars.  Yeah, that's the ticket, buddy.  I'll take Get "Lit" for $200, Alex.  And we all know what THAT means.

The problem with is humans is that we view everything through a lens of linearity: time marches forward, x causes y, we are making progress, kids!, wait, no we are regressing!, wait no!, hang on, let me snap an instawhatsappfacegram for the ride!  Be sure to let go of the bar and put both hands way, way up; it's funner that way!  We can blame our brains and dicks and ovaries, it's fine!  We can't step back far enough to see the parabolic contours, as we spiral back down again and again, again, and backwards and forwards, too, hitting the sides all the way down, with a crash, bang, boom, cha-ching, ouch, ow, hey! mind your own business!  And even if we could, would we care?  Stop kidding yourselves: P-E Dump is just the asshole truck that parked in the middle of the road so no one can get around, except at the edges, like the way our wasted water works: you don't have to toe the line but you do have to tiptoe!  You can arrange the words "nature," "sequence" and "action" and "of" in any permutation and language you wish and still get the same nonsense result, which, I am sorry to tell you, is actually the joke.  So, take your heil-mary-pass-the-gravy and shove it indecently far up my breathtakingly evolved asshole.  Because, hey, free anal!  Courtesy of Boaty McBoatface.

The problem with Thanksgiving is turkey.  No one likes it, and if you do, you can get the fuck out.  And take your disgusting ass Christmas goose with you.

Millions of Civilians

I'm not like them
But I can pretend
My heart is broke
But I have some glue

And it's called sex, and all those other memorable lyrics, SaidSpunSung by ShotgunSuicide kids everywhere.  Yeah, he's just a culture critic and never meaning to short circuit to center of my hap-hap-haphazard crazy labyrinth; and I'm just his martyr in moderation.  The u-word is just a simple mathematical statement describing the bizarre Euclidean love polygon with vertices at (lose, lose, lose), where one is you, one is them, and the other is a ghost.  Primitive notions are scary!  Ask any skeptical has-been mathematician.

And yet, upon inspection, I noted no obvious signs of settlement; all interested parties are encouraged to satisfy themselves by enlisting and trusting in and submitting to: the power of a voice of authority.  To be the one they're with but not the one they wish for feels like the height of low.  Ten years on now, and I'm still writing the same words over and over and over and over and over and over and over.  But I'm far from done.  And then, in the post-coital morning golden hour, he turns on the English Patient, and (in my head) I weep for the bastard husband that I'm sure that I am (in my head) and I put on my street shades and go get some fuckin' pancakes, because that's what any good wife would do.

Everyone just wants to be loved for who they are.  Plus, at least seven other caveats.

Sexual Heeling

Thorkell the Tall brutally beat this blank archbishop (what other kind of archbishop is there, anyway) with steak bones and what will we learn next?  Where Ketel One's from?  How about how the human bodymind works, works, works?  I'll see your dry knee and raise you one wet pussy; how does that work?  Out and in, on, from above; from below it is a lovely sight, like your face in the afternoon, when it is sleeping, when we are sleeping; we are sleeping and I am staring and smiling and freaking you the fuck out.  Like a girl can't smile, or use two semi-colons in the same sentence.


Do you ever write, I ask rhetorically, or art or feel (or) anything or de nada?  I have elaborate theories about them all; and your nervous system's nervous heart, fight the power!  To resist is to obey.  To shun is to adore.  Now curl your head into my neck and let me pet your hair.  Keep yr eyelids closed.  Our star's got that wowiezowieouchie brightblind thing going on, burnblurring everything metal into a white shinescorch: stay in when it's looking this way.

I'll sell you this secret for a song: if I had any grace, I'd lend it to you.  Now I want you to literally twist my arm and make me yield to my-your cum-drenched future; our mutually assured, I assure you.  King me!

I'm Thinking About Whatever You're Thinking About (A Seahorse Rorschach)

No conflict, just war.

Come now, and let me look into your beautiful, deep, dark sighs ... while I meditate on my own misgivings, my own grief, my own character failings, like my stubborn self-absorption, and the way that scary drop off leading to that Carmel cove felt under my way-too-high semi-drunk heels.  Whistle it all away, baby, and soon we'll run away, in a way, from everyone and everything and stand out in the middle of the big wide open clearing, cleared up?; fucked up, geared up, reared up, chapped up, step right up, to the place where you can exhale in peace and privacy.  Mild dehydration and raw-fucked parts, we're coming for you and we're hungry, kisses!

Everyone always lets everyone down.  How do you not know this already? (you do.)  So, why do you think you're exempt? (you aren't.) We all (can and) can't do without all our every favorite crutches, sez my Tiny Tim to yours.  Keep fighting!!1!, OSP, because there is no alternative worth countenancing.  Grim grimaces go slow but yr flashing eyes' smiles burn out with a fleet-footed quickness.  Easy come, easy go.  Mixing sadness and guilt is like mixing opioids and barbiturates.  I'm no pro but I think there's gotta be a better way.  Someone who is loved in the way and to the depth that you are loved really has to remember to keep perspective, sometimes.  It is like watching a pretty girl complain about how ugly she is.  You feel bad for her but also kind of want to stab her eyes out.

Me?  All I want for is to take you in while we take in the salty breeze.  And for tight lines and harder nights.