Wednesday, February 18, 2009

these things happen and they make me poetic.

im peeling the soles off my feet
but everything is still strange and absent and
imaginary when im walking all over it. these
things happen.my fingers are all blood and
loose cuticles.im telling you, these things
happen and they're are always watching you through
a peephole with the kind of eyeballs
that turn into a doorknob and lock you in before
you know it.this is irrelevant and it
makes me poetic.

*

this morning i was in
the toilet, singing and imagining that im
at a party with all your friends watching me.
none of them was taking pictures of me. no one
told me i remind them of someone famous.i was ugly
with tufts of hair missing and no one was getting me a
drink and they were staring as though im a tortured
polar bear and they're copious amounts
of greenhouse gases. these things happen and

*

they make me a little crazy, a little edgy and suicidal but
all of it it also makes me majorly poetic.like i start seeing
stars appear all over my body and the walls and the bedsheet and i
start trying to lick them off and i dont know what
the hell is going on so i decide to write about it.
but i cant, and it makes me feel like my heart
needs to piss. like i'm walking into a
new city with no wind, no sun, no plants and
nothing to grow into.

*

when you were talking about
edges and love and perfectness and love and flames
and love, i thanked you because you wouldnt have
me talking about it too. you dont care. im a huge big black
box of garbage and eagles swoop down to snip the last of
my words. this makes you happy and you leave.these

*

things happen and then we start
writing about how the world must be a peephole
into something huger,more sinister, with
more of a menstrual sense of humor.about how
large amounts of illegal drugs and some
amount of real death would really help. about how
being alone actually makes us stretch our limbs as far as
they'd go, and not just curl up and die. about how
nothing can be salvaged once we start doing this- we
start touching everything as though we're some dusty old
memory,the athlete's foot, or a shard of broken glass.

9 comments:

Saturnalia's Offspring said...

"like i'm walking
into a new city with no wind, no sun, no plants and
nothing to grow into."

from an extremely selfish standpoint, if these things happen and they make you majorly poetic, maybe it's a good thing yes

Jadis said...

'..and it makes me feel like my heart
needs to piss.'

god i loved the style.

Doubletake, Doublethink. said...

i like this. a lot. especially the last few lines.

deluded said...

wait.

how come there's no mention of the boil on the ass this time?

weevil girl said...

HERE IS THE TRUTH ABOUT EVERYTHING

I DRAW ON FACTS, AND I WARP THEM, AND THEY TURN INTO SOMETHING WEIRD, OR BAD AND UGLY WHICH IS SOMETHING THEY'RE NOT AND I MAKE THE PEOPLE IN IT LOOK CRUEL AND BAD AND I THROW IN SOME ANIMALS AND SOME BLEEDING HEARTS AND SOME BOOHOOHELPMESURVIVE SHIT BECAUSE IT MAKES THE POEM MELODRAMATIC AND MY LIFE LOOK MISERABLE AND IT HELPS ME WRITE A POEM.

OH IM JSUT A SELFISH PERSON WHO WANTS TO WRITE JUST ANOTHER POEM *!*

GOD IM A HERPES DICK AND YOU MUST IGNORE THIS. YOU REALLY MUST BECAUSE THIS IS NOT TRUE
LETS FORGET I WRITE POETRY AND MAKE SOME SANDWICH PLEASE.

weevil girl said...

that was arant.

ok?
ignore that all the others. hello and thank you.

and the boil on my ass doesnt make me poetic. it makes me bloody gross. bloody and gross and pained andit makes me feel like chopping my ass off and feeding it to the dinosaurs.

Marina said...

You write something that I start thinking WTF and by the time I reach the end of it, it makes perfect sense and it is so entire in its beauty.

Debs said...

I call these things the more unreal magic.

My Evil Self said...

"about how
being alone actually makes us stretch our limbs as far as
they'd go, and not just curl up and die. about how
nothing can be salvaged once we start doing this."

*gasps*
Phew! WOW! Phew!