#blank verse

Ivan Announcement

Shadow Thee Hedgehog Isa Bitch Ash Mother Flutter

Hea Pissed Upon Mine Ducking Wife

Thats Right Hea Took Hiss Hedgehog Ducking Quilly Dick Out

And Hea Pissed Upon Mine Ducking Wife

And Hea Said Hiss Dick Wash Very Large

And I Said Thats Right Nasty

So I Am Posting An Call Out Post On My Account De Twitter

Shadow Thee Hedgehog

Thine Dick Art Miniscule

Hit Art More Small Even Than An Walnut

And Guess What Behold Mine Dong

That Hiss Right Baby

Tall N Slender

Nary An Quill

Nary An Pillow

Look A Dat It Looks Fine Two Ballas Anna Weed Glassware

Hea Canoodle Mine Wife Therefore Eye Shall Destroy Thee Earth

That Right You Will Receive Mine Super Laser Pissa

Except I Will Knot Pissa N Thee Earth I Will Pissa N The Moon

Howe Dost Thou Like That Obama

I Pissed Upon The Moon Thou Idiot

Thou Hast Twenty Three Hour Before Thee Pissed Droplet Hit Thee Ducking Earth

Now Get Out Off Mine Sight Before I Pissed Upon Thee Also

so grateful for the grace that kindles kindness.

The warmth you offer spirits small and scorned

well eases any chill the river brings.

How Love is shelter! —all your embers safe

from weeping rains and thieving winds of life

threatening the parts of you that glow—

and when you share those sturdy walls, that roof,

and hang a welcome on your door—my heart!

Open-mouthed and half the talent,

To be the corner of the room,

To watch a whole crowd ahh and swoon.

It feels like needles-

It feels like need.

Time is only the crest of a breaking wave

but within our crystal balls we hear it sounding deep as Leviathan, vast as all seas so as to imagine its rippling dark haze covering the endless terrains the dead have tramped, accreting the huge fossil mountains of years unguessed as taught to us by the passive survivors of floods and the chiseling painting and scribbling maniacs they got.

We know all of it, every bit, is unreal. The past, by definition, a crowd of ghosts. Prediction - foresight - only idiots believe. No matter: all human meaning, all of it, washes up on shore from these phantom oceans.

We digitize it, the better to count off the probable days to our death. We automate work to fractions or multiples of sky cycles, even as these mean less and less in the now (and the core of it threatening collapse and die-offs.) We let it slip; break out in anxieties over it; divvy it in countless systemic directions, which are really just nervous budgeting of hours and minutes; pay for, charge for, monetize it to the miniscule and to the imaginary jillions - it's no longer clear whether forms of money or actual rigidized process control - time! - is now the mover, the bottom-line instrument of survival.

To escape "temporarily" its puppet strings, you block out start and end dates, an idleness hole. Or go ahead, retire - you'll be clock-dominated at an intimate level you couldn't have imagined. To abandon the illusion would mean formlessness, a series of enlightened-or-senile states unconnected.

step 1:

cry in the shower. wail like a banshee — deafening, guttural. but not loud enough to drown out the background music.

your life is still a movie. you must perform.

boil yourself in sun-hot water. make sure the mirror fogs up, so you don't have to look at what you've become.

step 2:

sit in your room at 3:17 a.m. the glowing laptop screen is moonlight.

with shaking hands, type out your grief. unleash your sorrows like a merciless flood.

then pause, press backspace, and replace it all with: “i’m fine.”

hit send.

step 3:

become the epitome of heartbreak. smudge your mascara with purpose. smear your lipstick— violently— in a way he never dared to.

burn your toast and call it symbolism. chop off your hair, and call it transformation.

break, but make yourself art.

step 4:

once darkness descends upon morgue-pure skies, listen to old voicemails.

call them love songs, confessions.

find meaning in silence. read subtext in blank pages. find undertones in conversations that only happened inside your wrecked head.

it’s just like weaving poetry out of your drab, colourless life. you’ve done it a million times. you can do it again.

step 5:

bleed.

the wounds of the heart need neither salve, nor barrier.

but always remember — to bleed pretty, to bleed quietly, to bleed in lowercase.

Reveries of the prettiest kind, that light up your little self from within, and make you long for stars and moons.

Reveries that urge you to dig out the very earth that your legs are dirtied in, and hunt for the rarest gems.

Reveries that pull you towards the ocean bed despite your crippling fears, and dive deep in search of pearl oysters.

But when you are so tender and full of fervour, that dreaming is like food, water, and air to you,

You are tested by the onslaughts of this mad, brutal world.

Again and again your tall constructed structures of hopes and dreams,

Are wrecked by opinions,

And words - the most destructive weapon, are aimed at you like cannonballs.

And eyes, that pierce your soul and deem everything that lies there, unholy.

As you watch these structures come crashing down, a peculiar aversion rises from the pit of your belly.

An aversion to the very act of dreaming that once was an enchantment.

But you should know and know this well, that life is just about this.

To learn to listen to the voice of the self when the noise of the world becomes deafening.

To decipher the words of the soul and treat the words of the world with indifference.