Bleached street lights
Echo sounding off the
Off the...
Light

dead people watch me in the bathroom

she began my day
with the spider veins,
she said
it was symbolic.
stretched and driven by spikes,
against a wall.
she said
this was to be my daily regimen.
writhing,
my nightly exercise.
nightmares,
my daily daydreams.
her fingers
shifting inside my skin,
my flesh would wilt and crackle,
her fingertips
would pierce my wrist
and curl themselves around a vein,
pulling it taut,
cupping it blocked.
with emotion
she would begin with a snip
as one part popped,
and another part ripped.

i,
lacking a sane response,
was screaming of course.
my lungs eaten hollow,
i could see the sound inside them.
it was quite blasphemous.
perhaps
if the spikes were driven,
driven inside my eyes,
i would not have to see such lunacy,
i would only feel the dream.
as the the vein grew tight,
my mind grew white,
and with a tender jerk,
it ripped up past my elbow
and approached my eyeless nest of
angry bees,
furiously buzzing
an inhuman wail.
still,
clearer than ever before,
wondering as it hadn't,
as she stole tastes of their honey
why we must be shattered

and she answered:
i shatter you for the greater good.
that the world would be a prettier place.
for, as they say
"were it not for all the shitty poetry in the world,
would we truly recognize the beautiful?"

the bees only coughed,
and she sighed.

there was nothing about you especially interesting.
nothing i saw in you of any true value.
i suppose,
you could say,
that i simply wasn’t attracted to you.
therefore,
by my logic,
i must inflict suffering on you.
you also irritated me slightly,
i must admit.

I won't count all the things I can't do

You got no one you can count on, baby,
Not even your own brother.
You got no one you can count on, baby,
Not even your own brother.
You got no one you can count on, baby,
Not even your own brother.
You got no one you can count on, baby,
People that should never have mattered.

They sleep to get away
Wretched sun you are killing me
I sleep to paint and paint to dream and dreams are pain
There is no room in my head for me

You weren't raped
He just didn't love you

I need a mute button for the world
Chemicals do not desensitize me anymore
I need a mute button for the world
You can't sign off from reality
Sometimes it's best to not let anyone save you

You've asked the artists, what about the bleeding hearts?
There'll never be another one
Like you

Dose dose over done
I almost broke my neck trying to keep myself away from your scar free skin
Can't talk to a psycho like a normal human being

What a dilemma
None of you are listening anymore

Any moment

*cough* so yeah.. everything worked out as it always does and the rat goddess floated from the sky on a cloud of fairy pink and granted me back my tongue.. on the condition that i coat the tulips on the top of the hill with a concoction of strawberry scented vaseline and butterfly saliva at the birth of every new siamese twin.. what purpose this would serve i have no idea.. but i've really no objections

stop it stop it stop it

someone should rewrite the bible.
why not? there's an old testament & a new testament. why doesn't someone write an "even newer testament?"

speaking of testaments:
my old porn site

todo:
.paint it:
    forced to drink from..
    nude seahorse girl
.write to georgia
.imbri.com:
    set up php helpdesk
    telephone page - pay me to call you [bad ideah?]
    suspend accounts unpaid by 9/14
.verify paypal account

from yester
i'm sleepy
and sad
& know that if i try to write all i'll be able to write about is my inability to write
i feel lonely
friends must be nice

very tired.. but i know as soon as i lie down i'll be awake.
partly because my head likes to lie to me.. &
partly because it's really only my eyes that're tired from staring so long into this empty lit box.
& sore neck.
but i'm so glad it's done. i'd been putting it off for weeks. & it's done!
i certainly prefer finishing things to starting them.
actually i like starting them too.. but i start them far more often than i finish them.
[so it's hardly as special]

i haven't anything to say about terrorism but that <--

feel too
but it's so much easier to just keep occupied
guess i've a brim afterall

i know you're wondering what search terms lead people to my site.
i'll be obliging & post this month's list:

masturbation
online masturbation stories
insanity poetry
arts online
strip tease
curlz
japan hobby links
coquette
misque
thingie
fairytale
dishabille
masturbation poetry
sunbeam
poetry journals
journal writing
oversized nipples
porn sweet fifteen
swastika porn
www.misque.com
rear entry positions
teenage wiccan
robotic worms
I feel dead
free medieval girl porn
disturbing.com
churning curds
raven silverwolf
woman wrestler jasmine
lovers of armpits
disturbing
marriage line
arousing body postures
Silver Cresent Wicca
fear effect rain porn
health line and marriage line
stupid wiccans
hottest whores
sexual positions man woman on top kneeling sitting rear entry
tinie
Dream Fairies /Angelfire
herpes murder
linga yoni pleasure
mistress astride slave
top ten ways to enlarging your penis

[herpes murder?!]
[goodnight]

can you imagine being so angry as to actually scream?
or even raise your voice!

i wish i could say "it's not fair!"
that i could believe in bonsai kitten & be outraged
& that i could throw red paint on scared young ladies exiting the abortion clinic
oh i wish that buying tampons would shame me &
using them would disgust me
that my mental anguish would be so bad i would cut myself to feel something real
& i wish i was so desperate for control of some aspect of my life that i'd starve myself
maybe that'd i'd blush on hearing the word "sex" &
censor the "God" out of all my "goddamn"s
i wish i'd wear the shoes everyone else is wearing

faced with torture.. i would confess
sometimes i'm not sure how i mean things when i say them

sneezing's like screaming

to do:
add "have & put on 1 million doorstops 1 million babies" to my to do list.

Perhaps if I wear this hat I'll think it's a thinking cap & I'll be able to say something.

Saying things has always been a bit of a problem for me. I remember sitting in the passenger seat of my moth-er's car 4-6 years old, debating within my head whether or not to say what I was considering saying. I've always done that, & it would be understandable did it concern saying something important, but it was never anything really important. Always something absurdly trivial.

x & I get into arguments sometimes. They're not really arguments, more like disagreements or misunderstandings. Usually misunderstandings. They can't be called arguments because he's the only one who argues. I can never say anything, even when he asks me a simple, direct question. I can't bring myself to speak. It makes him pretty mad. It makes me pretty mad too. Because at those time I have the most to say, and I'm practically screaming all those things in my mind.

My problem with writing is different. It's not that I can't say things or can't bring myself to say something. It's that I have nothing to say. I want to say things. I used to say things. I tend to think that I've already said everything I could say, or worth saying, or that my mind could possibly conceive of saying. I tend to think I've out-thought myself, like there's a limit to the amount of things people can think in their lifetime. Which is absurd. Except it applies to me.

I used to worry when I wrote about myself. That I was too self absorbed & used the word 'I' far too often. I'd try not to use the word 'I'. Now I'm happy if I can do even that.

I'm supposed to write. I'm supposed to write lyrics. The thought seems impossible. It is impossible. There is no way I'll ever be able to write lyrics or poetry again. Perhaps once every three months if I spend all of the days in those three months working on it. But why would I want to write something so contrived anyway?

Why do I have to write lyrics at all? I've written enough lyrics in my lifetime to last the rest of my lifetime. I shouldn't have to write any more/anymore.

Perhaps I can only talk and think and write when I'm by myself. I'm pretty sure all I wrote I wrote while alone, except for a few of those three month deals. Perhaps it's that when by myself I have more time to think because there are less petty other people things to un-think about. I wonder if I started my business to keep myself occupied because I can't think anymore, or if it's a result of my constantly worrying about the business that I can't think anymore.
At least I'm wondering.
I wonder if those accounts have been set up yet...