I am a beautiful person

I have given up.
I no longer want to do anything.
Pizza and Godzilla were boring and tasteless, coffee puts me to sleep.
I look at piles of papers and I just
No longer care.

It's not like last time. I was dangerous.
Possessed by the Banshee.
Ready to Die Hard with a Vengeance.
Nope. This time is different.
I just have no desire.

cosplay

today I'm cosplaying Arthur Dent,
but if the Earth ends
I will be prepared.
Wearing my bathrobe, towel wrapped around my hair.
I could really go for two pints and some peanuts right now.
I could really go for some Intergalactic Highway.
I could really go for some atrocious poetry.
I could really go places if I could manage could get off the ground
and just let the goddamn bulldozer do its job.

my inner diva yelled "bitch"

trigger warning, you pulled mine
and now i get to leap out of my armchair and claw your eyes out
my nails are real... really dull,
with dirt and grime that i can never dig out efficiently with my teeth,
and we know that hurts way more.

but no, i won't.
you will just win this round,
like they always do,
my inner diva yelled "bitch" before quietly returning to her pillow of ideals.

they should make a kit for this:

i disrobe, and i never mind the hair
(everywhere).
revving motors get me going,
so i begin the process.

few things are as easy as being your own cosmetologist,
and i look damn good,
like Mackenzie, but way more butch.

i'm going for professional couture
(eleganza administerum):
pointing my eyelashes,
binding my tits,
uncurling my lips...

the only thing that stays the same is my bared sneer.

in the hot mist of abnormal morning
(soothed),
i relish my curves and examine the moss which clings to my chest.
and if you slick my hair back, i look eleven,
and if you slick my hair back, i look eleven,
and if you slick her hair back, she looks like she does this all the time:

at the grocery store,
at the post office,
while spitting a drink into your stupid face,
on the clock.

i take in the last humid blast
(shut off the faucet),
and wipe the mirror clean without looking into it,
except
only for a second,
to check my part,
align my tie,
and head out into the desert looking like i didn't even try.

pistol whip.

basically i'm a zen guru:

who is freaking the fuck out and is crabby and itchy and awful

at all times.

i love the concept of a pistol whip,

Nanchuan's shoes on his head.

who ISN'T freaking the fuck out?

crabby, itchy and awful

at all times.

piles.

there is so much debris around me.

when i move, i push it aside and make a path,
wearing down the carpet of leaves,
piles of useless things
that somehow define me.

every time i walk past
and do nothing with it
little pieces of me flake
off and disappear into
piles.

fiddle

fiddle,
it's fun to come up with new ways
to decide.

decisions are easy when you know
there is no binary
"it all spends the same".

untitled

I buried you
with friends
who could always
see right through
all of the shit that you wouldn't
ever admit to you,

And now I'm old
(I get older by the day):
the fresh earth whispers to me,
"Don't be alone,
don't be alone."

When you spoke I
swore that I grabbed
ahold,
but meaning goes where it will
and ruins the joke.