shot my lover in the basement straight in the chest used her blood as a fertilizer, i am what i am. filling broken blue pails with water: building a garden for my mother
Dedicated to Dawn Weiner Colette Peignot Jackie O Mina Loy Kathy Acker
I trust you. I got your name tattooed on my inner calf last night. It hurt like hell, i don’t think he used a clean needle. Loving you hurts like hell. I’m sorry i didn’t tell you where I was last night. I’m sorry for not asking for a dirty needle. I know you love me. I love you. I know you don’t want to hurt me. I know you need to hurt me. It’s ok. I want you to hurt me. I love you. I’m not me unless I am with you. I am nothing without you. I am nothing. I love you. It stings. Sometimes, I dream about you holding a rusty knife to my cheek. I know deep down you don’t want to hurt me. Everyone says i’m different now. I’m not. I’m more of myself than I ever was before. I don’t need them. I don’t need anyone. I only need you. I told you, I trust you. Why isn’t that ever enough for you? Why aren’t I enough for you. I love you. Look at this fuckingtattoo.Lookmeinthe fucking eye. I love you. I’m yelling at you and I’m going to keep on yelling at you so that all the fantasies that we have each other, through which we keep perceiving each other, will die. After that we’ll be so naked with each other that I will be your flesh. You mine. I would do anything for you. I do everything for you. I let you hurt me. I trust you. This pain is beautiful. You are hurting on the inside and I am hurting on the outside. We are feeling so much. I love you. I love you. I love you.
We discussed healthy relationships between peers, mainly examining the equality wheel, how physical changes can affect emotional health, and what impact family and technology can have on one’s health. / / / . I fuck her spent body, kiss her teary cheeks. Her eyes are dreamy, she's floating far away, her body is soft, limp. She's putty in my hands. She's my little tied up rag doll. / / / L i z a r d s Annual Costs Veterinary Care – $35 to $50 Cage, light, substrate – $30 to $50 Feeding – $120 to $150 Vitamins – $5 to $10
We were naked. We fucked. It’s whatever. I left your place the next morning wearing your underwear and the friend who picked me up asked how long we’d been dating. I told him we weren’t and the rest of the drive was quiet.
The sound of nails scratching onto chalkboards echoes whenever we fuck. It resounds and bounces off of walls. I am only sixteen, or twenty-three. The Great War makes my lips numb to the touch. The summer heat makes me sweaty in all the wrong places, you make me sweaty in all the right places. I don’t care about who’s running for senate. Death is the mother of beauty. You have sixteen different scars on your stomach. I count then while you lay in your absinthe-culled sleep. You don’t tell me what they mean, I never know what you mean. All that comes out of your mouth is marxist propaganda but i don’t mind. My lips are puffy and chapped and never know when to stop. I never know when to stop. I followed my half-brother across the Mexico border. It was hot and he did not love me. I felt dirty.
I laid in a puddle of mud and my own secretions for twelve hours. He did not love me. My mother did not love me. I wish to return to a womb, warm and inviting. He was a virgin. I wish to be held like a child. I buy a gun, somewhere. He does not love me. I go home to Paris alone. Summer truly is the season of hell.
Blood Brother Blood Lover Blood Father Bloody Son Holy Spirit Bloody Mary Virgin Mary Bloodied Sheets Bloodied Fists Bloodied Palms Miss you. Blood Brothers See you. For Life I m p o s s i b l e . I love to watch the lightening. I get shocks across my skin when it hits. I m p o s s i b l e . When somebody loves you I get shocks across my skin when you hit. A b s o l u t e l y The morgue was your r e b i r t h the coffin s w a d d l e d you in v e l v e t p l a n t i n g k i s s e s in the form of white lilly p e t a l s
Modern Day Vasily Zhukovsyky: I’m glad I found you again, I’m glad I never washed ur blood out of my clothes.
“Ian Flemming died smoking cigarettes,” you slur, trying multiple times to light my Marlboro 100 before the flame flickers out again. “Yeah, he thought it numbed your sense of smell… You need that to be a spy.” I bat my eyelashes and blow smoke into your face. Maybe Flemming was right, but you are definitely no spy and by the way your hand slides up my leg, I’m certain you can smell something in the smoke-filled bar. “A headless man,” wrote Bataille in the June 1936 issue of Acéphale, “like a headless society, is emancipated from control and reason”. My 21st Century Modigliani: u painted rosy cheeks with menstrual blood dipping your fingers in the forbidden fruit to let it drip out warm juice Meat is All over My Body. I hate Meat. i’ll just kill myself. Fresh Menstrual Blood On The Sink.
To be completely emancipated from reason. (to be completely out of control for the sake of being not, not in control). I don’t understand. things swirl around in my head and i don’t (i don’t want to) understand. it is humid. my hair sticks to the back of my neck. (hair sticks to the outside of my cunt.) The Government owns sex. (The Government Owns Sex because they bought it from the Connecticut Mafia whom, up until the purchase, had the larger share in stock.) i want togo home, I want to leave and never come back. I don;t understand. The reporter, with gaunt eyes and evil intent and a a hole where his front teeth, heart and cock should be, looks at me. This is not home. (I hate New York) I bury his back teeth in his back garden, the one he inherited from his mother when she died 7 years ago of syphilis. Like a raging infection coursing through her cunt to her mind, there is only evil in women. Ornate flowers pilling over each other, straining out of shadows. Nature is emancipated from thought. (Nature is purity.) I shovel weeds and dirt into my cunt, worms borough their way through the soil, up into the womb. The womb is a garden, but one that I despise. I kick up the reporter’s garden, pulling flowers out with grimy nails, yelling and screaming and then all-at-once collapsing. The reporter walks into the back garden, (holding the sunday morning paper and a cup of iced coffee.) Vicious beating of the stomach, at the cunt, at the essence of what being a woman is. I lay on top of the back garden for 40 days and 40 nights, the reporter starts losing his hair in patches. It is cold. (I think) I don’t know (I don’t think). In Connecticut, the snow is white and Pure and there is no sludge or decay. In New York, the snow is black and mushy just like the womb. (every fucking day i hate the womb more and more, sticks and stones may break my bones but my cunt is here to stay).
I. Your parents never kissed, Paper thin bodies touch. These hands have no idea where to love. II. I had a really nice taxi driver tonight he told me all the stories people tell him, I tried to give him a tip but he wouldn’t take it. III. I am not your baby, not your angel I am not yours God, I am not even mine IV. Film your Super 8 baby in the Super 8 motel I dream of the sleep where you can get high off HBO documentaries and Novocain V. Come home today to the place I built with blood, (love, god, guts) and glory I am forever yours VI. Favor for the beast David laying down his life blood covered stone VII. Favor the beast Virgin laying down on bed blood covered underwear
SET OF UNORTHADOX TETRATS
IIX. baby u were cold u let them rip apart ur womb moths fluttering out ur insides IX. You’ll take some sandpaper to my fingertips and grind away at all the old remorse we left on the windows in my car late at night X. Ruin your body please: clog up the claw foot tub and drown in ur innocence. XI. As close to the edge I could get. And let me tell you, I'd do it all over again. XII. You were within me, and I out of myself, Oh how I’ve missed God.
FOR EACH APOSTLE
Your face is between thick thighs, thicker than my mother’s accent. “Did you hear about the panama papers? What the fuck right?” I don’t think you’re listening to anything i’m saying and that’s ok, i guess. Oral sex is good for you or something like that. I’m sorry my neurosis has made it hard for me to do this. I’m sorry. You’re going down on me, tongue on labia minora and i’m just trying to hold in this massive fucking panic attack. I’m whispering “fuck, oh my god, fuck” for a reason different, i’m sorry. You know how to make me feel good. I’m drowning in student loans and credit card debt. “Fuck, fuck, FuCK” I kind of want to cry but I also don’t want to ruin the moment. I don’t want to ruin us. I don’t even want to think about if there is or isn’t an ‘us’. “Fuck, holy shit, fuck” I think i’m going to cum soon but then you’ll have to look up and look me in the eyes and i’m gonna cry. my body is not a temple, it’s just a body. you’re just a boy. I guess i’ll go home now.
You almost as much as you loved the television violence, your grandfather’s gun on the mantle, my body at your feet. You had your grandfather’s eyes. You almost as much as your twice daily dosages of Clonazepam, shaky hands, trigger fingers, a nervous twitch you aquired in your youth after Columbine. You until one day you just couldn’t anymore and some nights
loved
me
loved
me
loved
me
I lay awake crying for your grandmother.
HI BRITNEY SPEARS, I DO MASTURBATION TO YOU FOREVER, I LOVE YOU FOREVER, IMPASSIONATED, FASCINATED TO YOU, ADDICTED TO YOU FOREVER, I LOVE, LIKE LARISSA DE MACEDO MACHADO, ANITTA, I LOVE YOU FOREVER, I LOVE YOU, THANKS!!!!
I spend the day with my friend from back home, he means a lot to me. He’s almost like a father figure, you know I hate my father. I want you to meet him. I want him to like you because if he likes you then there’s no way you could leave me. Everyone leaves me. I ask you if you want to meet him. You say you’re busy. You’re always busy. This is the treason of the artist: You leave. a refusal to admit the banality I’ve had a lot of great loves in my life. of evil and the terrible I’ve had a lot of great losses. boredom of pain. Jackie Kennedy knows. I know. Ten years ago When your I bought you masturbatory art earliest some cufflinks, means within memory is You brought me physical intimacy your brother nothing. there is great dying while a We both know distance I don’t want you to president what memories fuck up your life resigns on can bringfor me but I also TV you They bring want you to fuck develop diamonds and rust up your life for me. (harmful) I don’t want you to associations D’où viens-tu avec ton cœur fuck up your life between déchiré aux ronces du chemin. for anyone. I don’t politics & Les mains calleuses de casseur de pierre want you with death et ta tête gonflée comme une anyone. outre piquée ? if u cum on Death is nothing at all, I have someone's face u only slipped away into the next can't unfollow them room. I am I and U are U; on Twitter Whatever we were to each other, that, we still are Frightened, pain inside the (ah, you are an angel, and, even if you cursed me, you would be sorry for me)
I'm getting 'existential dread' tattooed on my face as soon as i get home so people know what I'm about
soul, it buzzes, burns, waxes towards battle, spasm in the heart, madly excited with aroused lust, demons with the power.
"Redefining Portraiture in the Age of Angst" CultDaddy
It was the summer after I graduated high school but before I dropped out of college. I lived with my parents and had dirty feet but didn’t care enough to clean them. Existentialism held me in it’s unspoken, un-wavering, un-apologetic arms like a newborn clinging to it’s mother. He had killed a man. He never told me that but I knew. I knew through the mail he sent me, spewing ‘when I get out, I’m never doing drugs again’ as if to assert it to not only me but some ever-present omnipotent God. He had been in jail for fifteen years. I’d been alive barely longer. He lived vicariously through my youth and I let him. Feeding him on illusions of a life I was leading but not living. He loved Morrisey and non-monogamy and believed in miracles. I loved nothing. I sent him my art by the box-full, most of which was seized (and not sent back to me) by the prison for pornography. I told him I would keep sending and writing to him until I died or gave up on art, which is the same as death. I sent him The Second Sex but felt more like The Woman Destroyed. He told me he made music when he was my age. Fueled by suburban hormones and ketamine, it was his tribute to an ever-changing new millennium. His brother was looking for a demo tape to send to me. I told him I was reaching s obriety but had stopped eating again. Every Sunday, I requested music for him to listen to on his favorite radio station. He kept asking why I hated my body. Identity is pig’s blood staining the inside of un-touched thighs. Childhood is absent and I wish to be swaddled in the arms of my Mother. Sterility has made me numb. Kierkegaard hated his body almost as much as I hate my own. Kierkegaard was celibate. Sex makes me unclean. Sex makes my insides rot and my ears ring until I hit them over and over again. His mail to me was less frequent the better I got. It is fall, I want to die sometimes but not as much anymore. My apartment is tiny and filled with pizza boxes. I pay too much in rent and my roommate jerks off loudly in the shower every morning while I try to write. He still sends mail to my address back home but my father knows to throw it all away.
i took a paring knife and cut out your words from the womb, unclean and unholy, a sabbatical taken with reluctance. There is no pride for a child in a body far too grown. Only rotten fruit waiting for maggots to crawl inside: A red mush, uninhabitable and unwanted. you are here, you are a child. you are not there, i am a child carried over the threshold, with child miscarry, without child. we are both in another room and I am with you. There is a peace found in being wanted (you say) so one needs to cut off the unwanted
Existentialism is humanism, the forehead teems with sweat, everything dies eventually. the fingers are long and cold; nail beds caked with The Filth. Bed of nails puncturing long, cold limbs connected to dirty orifices. Ugly, conspicuously filthy, violent convulsions. Emancipated from control and reason. Frightened, pain inside the soul, it buzzes, burns, waxes towards battle, spasm in the heart, madly excited with aroused lust, demons with the power. Existentialism is humanism.
I HELD ONTO HER BODY FOR SO LONG. I HELD ONTO IT EVEN AFTER HER EYES ROLLED BACK AND SHE STARTED FUCKING SHAKING. I WOULD NEVER LEAVE YOU TO ROT . LOOK IN THE MIRROR AND ASK WHICH OF US IS REAL, WHICH OF US IS NOT? HOW DO YOU KEEP THE NECROPHILIAC OUT OF THE MORGUE ? HOW DO U KEEP THE NUNS FROM THE CONVENT? WE ARE ALL BATS OUT OF SOUTHERN HELL.
Din M’rini twitter.com/trashnymph issuu.com/trashnymph instagram.com/nottrashnymph newhive.com/trash