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#Cut up
zynettesheim · 6 days ago
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A sense of responsibility for something long forgotten, For he knows history as no one else could; Moments passed in paradise. "If death is welcome let him seek it there."
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cruel arms; heavy with yesterday’s condensation. all night running from dreams. wake up in the alley between housing structures; stranger with knife thick with fat, eyes are glee for cutting.
i’m afraid so i dream up ancestral interstellar defenders and i wake up anyway.
looking into my paper cup. it’s full of jewels and owl droppings; i dig up all my old testimonies and shove them into the grand piano. your mouth is a snake charmer for ben’s brother and all the other guys that flew around in
concentric circles around the drum kits of gym panic. 
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symmetricalart · 9 days ago
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While a student at the School of Visual Arts in 1978, Keith Haring happened upon the Nova Convention, a gathering of Beat poets and downtown artists, including William S. Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, Laurie Anderson, and Patti Smith. Soon after this introduction, Haring read and followed the exact methods laid out in Burroughs and Brion Gysin’s 1977 book The Third Mind, which describes ways of breaking down language. Theirs was the text-based foundation upon which Haring broke forward with his visual style in 1980, introducing his inimitable line to their “cut-up” method, and creating a form of pictorial communication that expanded beyond what ideas in traditional language could accomplish.
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zynettesheim · 9 days ago
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Sacrificial metal, Façade of decency; A loathsome rot. The milk of human kindness, A cascade of pumps and membranes; A great plague of swollen blisters.
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connective tissue lie and water gate anatomy of lying and surviving--
your lick up whatever's left. i kiss my wounds the starry bruises and tired nodes
broken hearted lover boy your mouth is a cure
i'm not here to dance i'm here to offer myself up to the owl man, light me on fire i'm tired of waiting around on bus stop piss dirt earth ground--
take that crow bar ass hole, make my knees devolve. beat the arthritis out of them i love you!
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adamant faith like lobster's claw. the birds outside this tired spring don't know don't know god bless the birds who'll never know
roman empire plumbers and their beefy wives and boyfriends on the side the happy life on stilted aquaducts. cape cod is my veins retreating
i'd announce another painful worship hour if you'd ever want your fists to feel my bones in panic and in violence. kind of like
how strong love wasn't in the two whole years it mattered none at all
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the salivating thaw, the flooding town of packed bags and waves
drowning in waiting and old paintings. reproductions of reproductions. except i’m not really in control. the hate is being spread like legs at a carnival. not my scene, said liz. she’s still limping after johnny and his fucking end-of-god abuse. i’ve been directing movies in my head, the kind that end with him in hospital. i’ll see him later on. at cassandra’s.
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there are words i can’t pronounce with music or with earth. i wash my face with mud. i’m forgetting me all the time. i thought recently that god is probably a little bird. i saw him i think. he flew away behind the other monument out here -- to old old old old odd america.
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the bowl of noodles is already gone what? where did it go not the bowl just the. food running down my broken tract of dreams hanging on
threads. your fingers i want you to stick them down my throat ram them deep deep and suffocate (me ) until my eyes are tender and gray like
dead tv screens. 1,000 memories. pick a lover to be your cause of death even if they're a lover from a period of your life that feels old and heavy and evil and lathargic and altogether wonderful. evan
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i'm) throwing away the sanctity of names that way. i wont bleed at every handsome lover. hideous heart transplant. i will
cry and cry and cry and cry with my cat
like that time i cried for a week over a boy who
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standing on the wrong part of both my feet. seventy-seven fears: poem
i.
regretting not doing the evil onto my own church hill of bones. warsaw friday on a tuesday. but the tuesday feels like a monday. every week is a wednesday stretched out forever. i'm a bleeder. bleeding forever.
ii.
little deaths acute in bathrooms where love should've grown. but the gear is far away. deep sea trauma. failed suicide. fancy italian car but i get sick and vomit up fish from last monday. days of the week. your mouth is checkered with dirt and blood and i don't know where you've been we kiss and kiss.
iii.
boredom is a tattoo of my dead life on my knees. it hurt for the ink. a missing feral link in every hole god created me with. bleeder. going around and around. frozen in a generalization.
iv.
smoking in drunk wives. i'm losing tender block. we are brutal in bricks and snatched. carrying on. transforming in blue shirts. until the gray shirts. take me to the fucking hospital, eugene. i need to sit in a swedish bed and breakfast and dunk my entire universe into the river of shirt. and dirt
v.
i can hear my own voice. distorted fuck.
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panic like the painting is on fire in the halls of majesty and broken tubes.....the walls are screaming in the walls of your head.......cockroaches hold human races and ape farms for the dying dead.............green earth for the blue sea and vice versa. i am lighting up both ends of my fucking god-awful cigarette for the train-ride home over the gnome-infested waters of innisfree. 
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a dream or a vision, it doesn’t matter; when love is spelled with blood and steel-toed boots
you smash my bones and i love you; like in the weird films, 
blood trickling down my dumb stupid meaningless chin, my eyes all un-bitter and wet with tears or maybe the cold, cold distant irish wind.
you kick me in the chest i think. i’m laughing and i really don’t know why. no one said anything funny and this is most certainly not a joke.
i turn around to look at you. the wet in my eyes is making everything blurry. you are tall and scary and lovely and strong and i hurt hurt i hurt so much! but i love you. it’s sick. i’m sick of myself. i love you.
blood pouring out of my mouth now. i’m smiling. my teeth such as they are, are red but i guess i’m not really ashamed now, or at all, anymore really. so there is that. (i love you)
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baptise your new world in my dead blood. i wasn't anything close to caesar. i'm on the verge of another attack. the world is brighter than ever, golden and eternal. i want to end this with something wise and common-sense practical. my bloated, tired fingers are attached to illogical, arthritic hands
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felt like crying in the grocery store and in the park and when i came across the violet little tree with the blossoms in it
weeping felt like a priority. or a job. a responsibility. i wanted to take off my warm woolen shirt and just collapse, let my brain and my bones weigh me down into the
dirt & gravel of this little run-of-the-mill park.
the nature here is clustered together like scripture. the basement of an old church on some distant street in Moscow. so far away now...........
// i very much feel like my body is falling apart. not all at once, though.
when you feel like you've tried everything: my chronicle of the past four weeks is sneaking booze away whenever i can, and this is getting more and more dangerous.
im not worried about my liver i think he can take it.
i think it's my heart. i think it's tired of pumping blood for a creature that keeps wanting to die
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a step behind a glitch for the wooden ships. diet dirt and frozen wastelands of tin cans and rib-less fish guts. bones and feathers. dying dogs at the foot of a messenger god.
metal helmet for the stadium showers. gatorade in veins crossed with neptune semen. specimen seven, marked with a big
black "X"
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acronym textures. hiding in faraway lonesome places. middle of the city fountains. cats walking with wise milk. nostrils for after-puke nights and delicate violent mornings.
geology.
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shoot me up with heart-attack juice and let me drool on some faraway american floor
somewhere. where the seagulls aren’t eaten up by storms; where
the dangerous bugs are the ones we keep to start a norm-
al love-affair for timid fish and bears that live again again off bloody pumpkin mushrooms and psychology
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