Mania


You make me manic

So manic that I panic

And my mind races like Sanic

Into a twister twisting colors coloring my emotions

While I toss my toys up and cause commotions

Cuz I’m a kid

Especially next to you

I hope I don’t blow my lid

And spill everything that is true

To me and what’s inside my spleen–

Heart I mean.

Call me Velveeta cuz I’m cheesy

Lemon-squeezy

Short like Sneezy

Make me dizzy

Like why’s champagne so fizzy?

Well, carbonation is carbon dioxide and carbonic acid in a liquid

Which makes my love that’s stuck in this sick kid

The chemicals that bubble to the surface before they’re devoured by you.

So please

Let the chemicals go down with ease

And don’t spit them out

Cuz love has keys

To new worlds, which is what I’m all about.

We all have a route

We pave it as we go,

Brick and mortar walls on the sides for show.

Every once in a while my route dives into a valley,

A depression, if you will (that’s honesty, start a tally)

Which is the opposite of my mania

So pay attention to the attention I’m payin ya

Cuz in this manic state

At the peak of a mountain

I can change fate

And blossom a fountain

Not of youth, but of beauty

Cuz they’re not the same

I can tell age doesn’t control this cutie

And I, a lame,

Realized she– you will age with grace

With the way laughter changes your face

From beautiful, to stunning, to motherfucking gorgeous.

So now that my mania fades,

And the depressions will continue their raids,

I realize that I don’t need to dream anymore,

Cuz you’ve already made my dreams into a reality– so let’s soar.

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true.

  

Long story: I wrote this while listening to Bon Iver’s “Holocene,” of which provoked an overwhelming sense of fear. My heart raced out of my mouth and something flashed before my eyes that appeared to be a road coated in the vibrancy of night. This isn’t a new thing for me, simply a symptom of my self-obsession. Or just obsession; the subject doesn’t matter. {the following statements may contain each of the following: incoherence, confusion, redundancy, hypocrisy, redundancy, redundancy, overuse of punctuation/parentheses/slashes, and/or pitiful attempts at comedy. You have been warned} The point is that I have no point; I’m tired of saying “I” all the time; I need something more than “I.” It’s these kinds of thoughts that haunt me in a vicious cycle, 24/7 (well, my vivid dreams give me a break… I think). I’m losing focus (again) for this visceral moment as I descend back down into the clouds around my toes, so I (again… Maybe?) will say that my confusion may be confusing, but this moment of clarity (of which is clearing out like a man who accidentally walked into a dyke bar due to the purposely wrong directions given by his cheeky bugger of a friend) is true. So what’s true to you?

Short story: fuck.

Pickle Crush

I feel like pickles. Yep. Squishy yet somewhat hard with a sweetly sour taste.

I feel like pickles. Long and green, thick in the formaldehyde that has them frozen in a jar.

I feel like pickles. Bumpy and jumpy, flawed in texture to the point where the mere sight of them makes you cringe and shiver and spit and rip words like stems of flowers and other poetic shit that describes how you talk shit and don’t give a shit about whether or not I give a shit… Which I don’t. I do, but I don’t. I try to slide my pancakes down the apron of the stage like the fat ugly cook I am with a talent out-gauged with a bit of butter and a pinch of sage– and what do you do? You Eat waffles. Goddamn Belgian waffles. A year ago I liked you; a year ago I didn’t know you.

Now I still don’t know you, but you shouldn’t look at me like you’ve got some magic telescope that says my mind “ain’t dope” and you skip the “hellos” and go straight to the “nopes”
while I sit in the Jell-O of that waddle-waddle soap and breathe your eyes that spawn inner convos of one-sided nature– I can’t cope.

So I don’t give a shit that you’ve got none to give. Go sit in your pie, I’ve got mountains to climb. But if you do find some shits to give, let me know–
Cuz I still feel like pickles.

Free, True, Love bby

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Lying Tigers Run Bare– Oh My!

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One year ago today, I was… a Testicle. Now before you crucify me for living as such an abomination, allow me to explain my ascent to enlightenment and how the approving Native American is involved.

‘Twas a dark and stormy night, and all the Arizonans were tucked in there beds all tight. Mexicans in Twinkie trucks crossed the border, and IHOP was still open for your midnight order.

A lonely owl hooted a broken tune (it had enough rat in its throat to clog a bassoon) while crackheads shared a trash-can feast with a not-too-rabid raccoon.

Well I don’t give two shits about immigrants, owls, bassoons, or even raccoons, cuz I live in North Carolina. So why am I telling you a story about Arizona? Because that is the very place my blind stereotyped mind pictures a Native American reservation to be.
So why all this nitty-gritty depressing imagery? And why am I asking you questions, when I’m going to answer them myself anyway?

Well that’s because everyone likes IHOP. Especially a wandering Native American who has decided to leave the fenced-in reservation because all the close-minded Testicles (a “Testicle” is any one person who wishes to be a lump in a sack of flesh that hangs beneath a human male’s genitals and then proceeds to be a total asshole in life) have been getting him down and he just needs to escape before the madness of being trapped consumes him entirely and the only thing that lifts his dwindling spirits from falling into a void of evils forbidden that I promised that I will NEVER DO–

Is an IHOP. Open at midnight, as always. Its bountiful supply of nocturnal pancakes are enough to cheer up the poor Native American, and that’s all he needs to approve of you.

So give me some pancakes.

Free, True, Love, bby.

circuit breakers

Beef cats ride the elephants painted as dragons into deeper tunnels on the Kraft cheese moon that orbits the crumbling hump of tiger temples echoing the hearty hurrahs of pharaohs nonexistent whom once thought of flying on the backs of shell-less turtles but were instead eaten by the snakes hidden behind their own lips– only now can the sheep-fish run free to die all over again.

I’ll be waiting for them in my rocket ship.

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