#Stream of Consciousness
there’s so much going on in my life right now that i feel so anxious and overwhelmed, as i always tend to.
i want to acknowledge this feeling because in the past i would guilt-trip myself. saying that i should be grateful, which i am by the way, since other people don’t get chances like these this easily and that they would’ve been leaping with joy if they did.
but i realize that it’s okay to be grateful AND frightened, and unsure, at the same time. it’s normal. i am stepping into a new part of my life, doing and experiencing things i’ve never done before, so of course i’ll feel nervous and scared. there’s nothing wrong with that.
what’s not okay, is succumbing into these anxieties and negative thoughts.
by doing so, i am hindering myself from doing my best.
yes i’m scared, but that doesn’t mean i can’t do it.
just being given these opportunities itself already means that i can. that the people giving them to me at least believe in the slightest that i have the capabilities and potential for it.
i’m scared. but i can do this.
i believe in myself.
drinking with you and for you. rafts sinking with gold stolen from nazi caves in the deep south. cul-de-sacs constructed over holy ground. but they didn't care. well, up until ghost armies fortified their catapults and demolished all of the
walmarts. your snake eyes are groaning at me. no sorry, that's the zoloft milkshake of my
blue and carpet-stained dreams. i wanted to mix it all, along with glass, ashes, crop dusting rice, ketchup, pain killers (over the counter), vodka, and a SHIT LOAD of ice, and then drink the fucking thing and die. mary-anne stopped me.
she said, go be fucking stupid in another timeline you sad fuck i pleaded with her, pretending to be playful. one more drink, open a bottle, blahblahblah, the words are all mix-and-match but the message is the same: despair.
because the last couch of denmark has sprung a leak and springs out of the back and i am sulking in toilets looking for fish-men to take home but they smell the fear on me---
---the fear of what's next, even tho i'm always lying and say that i still worship literature and kindness---
---and i do, kindness, it's just i guess i'm a full-out liar since i can never let myself be kind to my own bones. but my bones are all liars too, since they're fake plastic replicas of the real thing----another nightmare
in morse code secret meanings. turning all the wrong knobs. pulling every defunct, pre-soviet, nuclear lever.
sick tonight with the lonesome shock. 15 minute retinas. pool boy squires and drunken eldorado punching. broom stick up the one place doctors glove up for. well,
your last letter was mistakes and horrible comedy. please come back? it's not the right kind of paradise without your mouth to kiss
i'm utterly selfish and completely scared. my 7th dinner is scorched in the oven i'm freaking out in the bathroom---- bright mistakes and serenades for ginger bread living
in the coming year / every kind of bad beginning left unsaid with my head spinning
toilet problems, wrenches in the gutter, entertainment and the drink crusade: your mother's garden had a sullen fence and a hive of wasps somewhere on the
grounds. i ran around happy, the well was tranquil, your eyes were a gatekeeper to a paradise i'd of course betray with
fingers, seeds, a godless fire. the roof of the church lit up like a ferris wheel on coney island. i've never even been to
coney island. your outfit yesterday was a night full of beautiful demonic stars, the kind we used to bring to rituals. the rituals would remind me of falling in love
in the psych ward. his name, i don't remember his name, but he was interesting and smart and kind and had the frame of jack from A Nightmare Before Christmas and the eyes of someone confusing/alluring--
like tender, soft sandpaper prophet who didn't bother with the talking anymore, at least not much. my last day there i hugged him strongest. goodbyes like
peppered beef. all the time, just choking on memories that come up like sewage water. i wish i could've told you a third of what you made me feel. the can opener is
rusty and buzzing like a wasp defending its newfound home. a soda machine 12 miles from
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Girl, don't make your death optional
reconciliations with anatomy and defects carried under invisible serum-paper
words are mistakes in your mouth like duct paper drones / i’m
puking out songs for all the other delinquents / no wait! / it was very night to have
known you here where all the buses are loaded and the streets groan
during ecstatic displays of stupidity and vile breathing in the throes of silence / like that? throes? i’m full of shit.
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"A finality of roses"....despair as a joke folded into syringe pipe; awkward striptease at the edge of unison...."clandestine sex appeal and horny anecdotes for the Fallen"....i scream a lot, especially under the water America
1. magic spells out doom for destroyer joe. he looks around in a daze of ketamine and held-back urine. 10 a.m. is a monster straight out of vegas.
he remembers, trembling, running low on day booze. lounging around, well at least it looked like it, but really he was holding his stomach in his own head. it was
bleeding tenderness. soft petals. misunderstood
baskbetball games. falling in love with the same artist over and over (and over) again until you're blindsided and have to pick up all the
shattered pieces of a dream unwritten, with a lot of false screwdrivers, corkscrews, tape decks, and methamphetamine tablets.
your gory sunday beats my lazy week. i'm transcending from one pile of muddy meadow shit
to another. people won't hear me. my vocal box is gone. hoarse like a soviet novel translated by english professors from another universe. i keep i keep
coming back to the same book palace and i always find sages and wise old spirits who don't even pass me by anymore. it makes me feel very much removed from the entire thing. that's all right. all right. sea-side box rhythm. dead bird
friday. a patch of red on my shirt. don't ask
don't ask don't
2. fragrant piss and the jab of prudent night sticks. hats and helmets worn by old scary people. junk in trunks of miracle-workers and oriental prophets. they draw it all wrong.
they add in pieces that were never there and then turn it into a religion / an industry / way of life / a fucking
mid-summer desert cult. weary and benign i lie about the parchment and patches. i sink into a trumped up euphoria. i dig thru mud
and dirt and it's softer than most of the people in this town. but this town isn't even a town. it's a gas station numbers racket with
little phone tubes and gasoline debit. i run barefoot over dirty sneakers, snakes, shoe lace tragedies and misspelled peace and i still
trip and break down crying. / i think you could've been happy if it weren't for your catholic parents. i think you could've been whatever you wanted to be.
i'm closing the email door again. words that they wouldn't have understood 100 years from now or ago or even now, because i rely on little circles and ovals to breathe like a
modern man of capitalist science dream. to hell with you!! said the magi. i have more wisdom in one of my litter box scoops than in your entire god-forsaken fucking rule book of
history-keeping stamps and slave-marking attitudes. god, the magi whimpered kneeling over a scene played out a 1,000 times, i can't bare to breathe in this ozone anymore. they kill for fun, for no reason, and then punch a clock and carry on with violence all the time even
when the water boils for soup. he kept whimpering. saying little words. i was trying to hear i strained my neck my neck broke it was only a dream. little drops of sad spittle. a train whistle. a humphrey bogart kind of realization. washed up on the shore of a rebuilt national socialist babylon (reality)
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The Red Book of Secrets
Markella has been called pretentious, gullible, flighty and campy. She is also blunt, brutally honest and very sensitive. Some women consider her an icon of society and fashion, others brush her off as a brassy butterfly from the criminal world, one that has no place among the social and fashionable elite.
Markella knows that this comes with the territory. After all she is the wife of a notorious crime boss. Nick is a renowned card cheat, mobster and legendary boss.
They make quite the couple. Some love them, some hate them, while so many love to hate them.
An unexpected situation develops and push comes to shove.
This turn of events sparked her burning desire to share what she knows with the world. She has seen so much in her life and now feels like she is about to burst at the seams.
But she can't talk about these things to anyone. It isn’t permitted.
Without paying attention to correct spelling and rules of grammar, she decides to write it all out, in her red book.
So Markella brings a chatty diary to life, filled with information about her husband, Nick.
Markella takes time to get her thoughts together, expressing half of what she is thinking in her diary. She writes in her slow burn style. Sometimes staccato and sometimes rambling, sometimes brash and often politically incorrect, she fills the pages of her journal with their unusual story.
Their life is drenched with crime, mystery, eccentricity, double-crossers, and dripping with the unique flavors of Greece, New York, and Osaka.
Her diary is soaked through and through with gossip, romance and a touch of the metaphysical.
But is what she writes in this diary true?
Are these pages filled with what she really feels and what she really knows to be true?
Something terribly wrong comes to light...but what really happened? You be the judge.
something that people will vilify me with in the eyes of other poets; we are today and god damn it! another legend, dead.
there’s not a lot of winning here. maybe none. just a lot of “keeping on going” and somewhere a train whistle like a purposeful song. a redundant song. but it doesn’t care! be redundant but be loud. be true
to the vapors of love leaving your open mouth on the mountain-top. don’t look at my eyes because they’re bedrock. don’t hold my cane for me. this chair isn’t real. harmony? your smile. death? mom and dad not loving me anymore
//// and that’s when i’ll go over the bridge. that water will be rough and tender but in different languages. i’ll hide a bottle at the bottle store. i’ll drink and drink and drink forever. the winos...are they real? are they still that secret holy armada? i’m borrowing words and ideas. because they’re true. and beautiful. and worth of being borrowed. but i do think that---well---
i met a homeless man two weeks ago. i had no money for him. i don’t have money anywhere. he smiled so open and said it’s ok! and said something else i don’t remember but i remember feeling kindness hit me so weird and precise. from this guy i see from time to time from a car or bus window. if i had the money, i’d set him up for life even if it meant desolation for my own shoes
i don’t like my veins anywhere and he had something warm still breathing inside of his hands! like a secret for anybody. hate me. spear me into bits. i don’t mind! your hate will cure my skin of all my blemishes. i’m withdrawing and dying. dying and whimpering like a wounded mess. that’s okay. lights go out. go on. the lights.
will you love me the same tomorrow as you did when i was happy?
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mouth dry eyes open
looking down on one hand how did that cut get there? trails of smoke from the mouth of another house. i want to be far far away where the mountains feel like home. i remember my grandmother’s cat, she never liked me and had scratched me whenever i wanted to play. old things keep coming back.
it hurts to breathe tonight. like hot thick tomato soup in your chest. exhaling and inhaling is a slog of ages.
my feet swell and my eyes turn sour and my nose is alarmed again;
your car is somewhere distant in my head because i’m seeing instantaneous visions again and i see graveyards and calm happy people and trees that look ageless and happy.
i don’t think i’m a very brave person. i want to be someone good /worthwhile but i think i’m just mostly walking arthritis now, as well as the weight of 5 years of nightmares. i’m not lazy. i’m not lazy! i’m terrified of you not loving me anymore.
i’m asleep in a clinic of light. your smile is torturing me, i tell myself in the mirror created by night, neon, and a window. i hate remembering when i was a kid. because that means the chasm. of bright it is so far away, behind me. and then the dark. and then me, out here, looking up at the stars. some of them aren’t even really there. i rub my eyes and i put dirt in my pocket. i want to go home but i don’t know how to read the sky.
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an “i’m so sorry” trails out of my mouth even when i’m asleep, because something inside of me is hurting so much that it feels responsible whenever someone else is hurt around me
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I thought running away, letting time seep between my fingers, would afford me the answers, would relieve me of my fear, my guilt and my shame. These emotions that I can’t begin to explain- I wished they would dissipate with time and space. If not... I planned to toss them in the junk drawer. The one by my bed; with yellowed photos and rusted trinkets, among crumpled sheets and crusted pens.
Out of sight, out of mind… right?
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what a terrible time for remorse/this isn’t a great time to ask forgiveness
i only wished to see the sky alive
i never anticipated that the sky was gone,
taken from us by those who are wicked,
they'd deny us the beauty of the cosmos with their wretched smog.
and their pollution of light.
i only wished to see the stars.
these wings of abandon have passed me up,
don't let me picture it so dramatically
for it is a tedious delerium we give,
the combining of lives with the stratosphere,
i could sear the sky in twain.
if only i could leave a mark so permanent.
i'll build this tower up and up,
digging the foundation lower and lower.
i'll never give up until the efforts are exhausted,
i can't just be like the others.
maybe im not quite as special as i'd like to become.
with the love of the heavens in the waiting,
the lingering pyre wilts through the cosmos like a wildfire,
it can consume us whole if we let it.
not to be outdone, the darkness pours through every portion of the sky it can claim.
i'll live in the dark then, if i have to.
won't the eyes of the solemn just cry already
can't these pieces of nine be rendered whole once more,
or is alive too much for us to handle,
like the considerate wind upon a candle.
i've been prepared for something big for so long
i'm not sure if i'll notice it when i see it anymore,
like the plague could be beneath my sight and i'd rather ignore it,
a whisper of the cosmos for me to change.
why must i resist so heavy hearted?
as if my soul cries with each step toward mediocrity.
i told myself i'd rather die,
but i'm a coward, of course.
but this is life,
this is our cowardice,
our feelings that drip into the ether,
we can overcome these demons,
you will if you try,
tell me more of these words you speak,
for i will always listen.
an eternal stance towards the future.
never to be turned away or forsaken,
these words we speak will live forever.
they will live inside us like a simulacrum of the cosmos in absentia.
like the wake of a hurricane about to rip through the shorelines.
(Sometimes I think that perhaps I have not been writing hundreds of poems at all, but rather have been revising the same poem over and over again.)
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Tumblr’s a weird place
Not in a bad way. The opposite, actually.
But prior to joining this site after a little over a month spent lurking as a guest, when it came to RWBY I shipped, in order: Dragonslayer, Winter Knight, Silent Knight, Scarlet Knight and Knightfall/Arcfall. I used to really like Strut and Stumble, but I always feel guilty about shipping Jaune, as a dude, with Coco (unless he’s genderbent).
And Professor Arc/Transcripts, but that’s hardly a surprise since I think basically everyone has a thing for Glynda and as such she can’t really be counted. XD
But in the week or so I’ve been on here I’ve been reading a lot of White Knight and I can honestly say it’s become one of my favorite ships in that time. I’ve always liked Weiss, she’s easily my favorite character in the show and I’ve definitely been digging the White Knight moments in the show and have been low key hoping the trend will continue and we might see a couple with some real chemistry hook up by whenever the show ends...but I never really sought it out to read and I definitely didn’t think I’d be writing it.
Or actually adding it to the list of “yeah, I’ll ship the fuck out of em.” But here I am with Dragonslayer, Winter Knight, White Knight, Silent Knight, Scarlet Knight and Knightfall.
Not all that interesting or entertaining to read, I’m sure, but threw me off my game.
So this isn’t all just me rambling about boring shit, the next couple posts should focus on:
Winter Knight (possibly several)
Scarlet Knight (possibly several)
Strut and Stumble (I feel like fem!Jaune and Coco are mad cute together)
(Possible) Rose Gold (if I can actually think of something that entertains at least myself and that’s currently a fat no)
Whatever you call Jaune and Ciel.
Plus the usual random assortment of everything I’ve been posting so far.
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It’s pretty late by now. In fact it’s already Friday, but it doesn’t really seem like it when you stay up. I’m not used to going to sleep after 23.00 or so, and it being 01.30 is pretty wild for me. It’s difficult now to keep the thoughts forming and the sentences flowing when all I’m thinking about is going to bed.
Today I read something about people looking for the ‘cure’ to aging. A way to prevent it, let’s say. And I thought, why would you want that?
From time to time I also see people asking something along the lines of ‘If you could live without sleep, what would you do with the extra hours?’. Why are people asking these questions in the first place? Why change something harmless?
And in any case, if we didn’t sleep we’d become so irritable. You may argue that irritability over time is a byproduct of our need to sleep, and that if we took that need out of the equation then we wouldn’t become cranky. But I’m not so sure. There’s only so much bullshit you can endure in one day before your brain needs a rest from all that.
Regarding aging, I just think it’s a little pointless to try to postpone the inevitable. I don’t think being old is a bad thing. Being sick may be, but then in that case why prolong your chances to develop even more illnesses? I think that’s what would happen if we were to stop aging. New diseases would just come up.
Anyway, I’m losing the train of my own thoughts, so I’ll go to sleep.
You were a cover up
You kept me warm until I got home
It was only a day gone when you picked up the phone
I needed a distraction, and you were the perfect one
A rebound, ready for love and thinking I was “the one”
But the truth was...
I still wasn't over him
The guy before you...
Or even the guy before him...
You see I have a bad habit, of moving on too quickly
In search for love but always coming up empty
I just leave broken
With the remnants of what they decided to
Touch me with...
Rather, mark me with...
Mark my life with...
A collage of all the different people who have touch my life...
In one way or another.
You were there two days after my friend left
You were sweet always texting and reassuring me
You got me presents and wrote me notes
You were up for any adventure, even if they were old dates in new packaging
You cared for me when I was sick, and stuck up for me when I was not there
You had my complete trust...
Which is why this is so unfair.
You were my best friend
Until you decided I was “too much”
You said you don’t know what changed
Why you suddenly have “no emotions”
But you see
You do have “emotions”
Just no more for me
Because you prefer “the chase”
And get bored once they’re captured
Moving on quickly to the next disaster
You “love-bombed” me
Made me believe you really loved me
But in reality
You loved the idea more than it’s totality
But “love” is tricky
If I’m actually being honest...
I never actually loved you
Well at least in the beginning.
But things changed when
We were living together
When you showed me what you would do
I think you did care
During that first month at least
Or maybe you didn’t
Because you did say “I love you”
After less than 2 weeks....
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These meds are great. I should have been triggered by a million things today and instead I feel calm. (I also didn't internalize and beat myself up.)
Wow who am I without my mental problems.
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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