Wednesday, January 27, 2010
you are about to enter a certain kind of goodnight moon. making you make you make love in still light paintings. don quixote told the dog, "this is a situation we do not choose. It forms our horizon of choice, and grounds our responsibility." fuck him in the mouth with great velocity. anything that destroys limit. the insistent repetition. everything is visible, nothing is hiding. whispering there inside a structure. now i tell everything in my own language exacted out(side) of myself. this is not a poem about the mind. Suffering greatly, Don Quixote agreed. cutting it reaches, disappearing into the younger one. This museum sticks, hotly to my skin. forcing it i will likely hurt.
Monday, January 18, 2010
i am not a catholic. the pain in my ovaries increased. i tickle little bellies for pie. am i, in relation to the norm, a desirer. fall from the hands of hero's. how do you make love? this participation is voluntary. celebrate a defecating mutilated love. this is the last joyful mystery. my prose is too safe fucking love more than feeling pain. not a collage, a binding together. this open ended task that is a language we love in. the inability to love is something special. i refuse to be the woman i am supposed to be.
Monday, January 4, 2010
she just wanted to fuck in order to constitute a psychic transformation. play dumb while i fuck your beautiful shithole. dreams which resemble death reveal what is in the other that i have lost. i was lonelier than you are now. How does power work as we're fucking? what i mean is you don't understand immersion. This might prompt us to invigorate in the void of two oceans. i'll kiss you behind the two enormous gray butterflies. for reasons other than escape I want to be undone by another. don't show me that cool flesh again my love. grasp the constellations ungovernable exploding reactions in me. spit and drool and fuck for the pigs and the wolves. my world is rotting ghosted and tactical. casual strangers to the poem.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
i want romance and it doesn't sound ugly. The failure of my writing the illegitimacy of assertion. This sexual metaphor brings me to the first problem. Sex breaks the rational mind through rupture of being. what do the sparrows eat in the winter? casting out what is dead inside they internalize the other. If I were a farmer i'd fuck my little pink pig in its little pink skin. fuck me fuck me fuck me besiege what i disavow. it was discovered meaningless as a threat. i guess love must be based on absence. we are irritable radios filled with bad magic. The thrill in which relations violently shudder. even the extraordinary is unimportant. come to the bathroom the only way to escape.