#kwngu

2nd thought: wow my bless is lagged as fuck. maybe i need a speed spell, or just am a procrastinated soul on both ends? in any case tonight is a nice payout

3rd though: i miss alex i miss ty

4th thought: it is 512 AM, i should be knee deep in someone’s uncle’s auntie’s asshole or snoozing, innit?

made a mistake and so i’m junk-snap snout-down in the grip. a smirking dragoon grown murky & cute from my own whim. now try holding in, ‘cause where else could it go? maybe it boils, or it’s a Hidden beach, toenail off a fleshpot, tallboy with the tab flunked. i know things mostly jejune like backwash, but sometimes i suspect they’re creeching from wraiths around an excessed corner, a vertex accessed only by turnhards, wallops, pushers of wait.

i liked the fog still. i trudge thru a shift, a poetry slam in the background i really hate that shit i think. it’s really just a political correctness contest, no truly i mean that; their main mode is one of righteous grandstanding on a meager platform built from the “right” (in this case tepidly “left”) sociopolitical stances, injecting anecdotal claims into what ultimately amount to boring-rhythmed rants.

of course poetry to me is something dirtier, mysteriouser. the abstract devouring the personal but spitting it back out and licking it back up, leaking sweat over the mostly unheard page. of course i didn’t hear every poem. i can maybe respect, for a second, the impassioned recitals, but that is also the most cringe part of each performance. and of course it’s that: performance. maybe i just want to hear something different, something beyond “this religious institution fucked me” “this capitalist hellscapse” “the lack of human rights here or there,” and trust me it doesn’t get much “deeper” than this mocking reduction i’ve spat.

though of course, this critique comes from a place, a person nearly void of political convictions. i guess i could nod along with almost any policy or decree that decreases suffering for myself and others, but i also know that nothing’s that simple; suffering is almost always displaced, never disappearing completely. yeah that’s a narrow estimation. i’m saying i’m jaded. i’m saying i’m tired and upset too. maybe i’m a coward.

of course poetry to me needs style. maybe not grace, but Style, not just any style, for isn’t content inseparable from and synonymous with style? but an augmented Style which is elusive and not a monolith but i know what i like and what likes me and we suck in the fog even if it’s smog, and our energy is miscreant, but also aims at breathing in some semblance of the celestial, even when we’re foaming at the mouth & soiling the trouser.

So i keep thinking about his ugly mug kissing or chatting you up, quenching your sundry fetish. and i crank my volume, and i press repeat, and it’s full of natural light searing the readyfucked edges and all my sounds are cheap and i’m “ready to die” (Falter, c. 2012)

And it’s like, maybe you’re with your family. but maybe he’s bent you over in your place or his, maybe you’re comfortable enough with him and maybe i’m fine maybe i wanna watch, maybe i want to quarrel with him make a scene ply the chords apart and blow putrider smokes and you really never hit me back up yesterday morning and maybe that’s okay (aimless chat about candy,casual)

And maybe you’re together sand colored, and i think he’s very not cute, i keep laughing at that, gripping my flanks alternating HOLD THE SEX EXTRA RIP ME TO PIECES (how i’d love to share a car now with casey murphy)

And maybe you’ve taken this visibility leave just cause it’s going so well and you don’t want me to perceive you at this time maybe i’m the reason for your secrecy, my fragility, and no you’re certainly correct: the things i’d overboard if i saw pictures, the smiles the tugging, clutch, kiss, fucksweat, i want to steal you away but actually i just want to hog the rest of my rest, because i’d already made up my mind long ago i don’t want to live if i can’t fuck and have you at least a little (i’m beyond prevarication)

But there’s that: lately we’ve had such nice afternoons and evenings and 4 AMs and maybe i should leave and sleep under a piano, and mornings shirtless you held me to sleep how does that happen? tell me what that is i am going insane. EVERYSINGLE PERSON I KNOW MEANS NOTHING TO ME and i smell like our distal peril like the dust of a crotch floored too long in the wish (make one where i’m better at you)

hot the ugliness inside & out. <<lunch edition XD+}

driven bawling to stupor’s boot

cracked the radiant gown

as dawn retreats to known bark pool

a clear ooze for the next me,

shit fell hound’s sunkest

please help me get my sleep tight