for those whovian followers out there:
because of last night’s episode “into the dalek,” i have officially decided that peter capaldi is my favorite doctor. he is capable of hatred/”evil”, and that makes him the most realistic and dynamic kind of character in any piece of fiction (and in real life), and so he has captured my disgusting little heart.
as martin skateboarded away from the ice cream shop he realized like he always realizes at some point during the day that the only reason he goes to get ice cream is when a certain part of his brain starts up a program without his consent* that throws him into a low volume and incessant ritual of asking nicely for ghosts to come back (as if ghosts can hear your requests from inside your own head!). once he awakens in his conscious mind realizing the ghosts aren’t going to come back, he skates to the ice cream shop.
i have no idea! if there’s a genre that encompasses what’s very sad and very funny in each piece i think that’s what i’m going for each time.
smoking a cigarette at the graveyard
thinking about my mom
who is this lady over here anita rowland
did she put on lots of makeup
the sun has fallen so have i
trip over a ghost burn myself
ghost be like, this is my house
skeleton’s most certainly got his back no joke
perfect freezing skies, an owl hoots
i want to put chorus and delay on it
i want to dig all these coffins up
organize an army, build an underground DGR cell
blow up all the power plants
reinstall my operating system, become 21 again
occupy the park with a 40 like middle school
throw all the math rock in the garbage
build a shrine to andre nickatina
build a meth lab call vahid the fuck back
african lady on the plane to portland
how she’s like, you have to talk to your mom
how i’m like, well you’re from africa
i better do what the fuck you say
and i dream of writing an autobiography
about a serial killer to make sense of it all
the ghost and the skeleton exclaim
sir we WILL call the police, so i go home
OK. I see you’ve got some stuff about BPD on there. I highly recommend a book called The Buddha And The Borderline, by Kiera Van Gelder. Kiera was diagnosed with BPD in her teens after every other diagnosis failed to make much sense or help. She came to strongly identify with the BPD label and found BPD treatments (ie, mindfulness, dialectic behavioral therapy) to be so effective that she became a sort of spokeperson for the illness and goes on talking tours and she might be a therapist now - not sure. The book is basically a memoir, and it’s really intense and ends with a relatively happy ending - believe it or not.
BPD Song #4
the hummingbird hasn’t abandoned me
it was never mine
left counting petals it touched
everything is a sinkhole of misery
no need to paint it blacker
or lie about what’s good
a sinkhole is just a thing to be in
there is nothing to fix
you: which netflix shall we indulge tonight, dearest?
friend: willy wonka pornography
you: i’d prefer something of the cooking show variety
friend: why don’t you ever just
you: why don’t WE ever just
friend: point: it’s a two way street
you: it’s a threeway street if you paint it right
friend: i’m having an art show at 9
you: 9 upside down will put the potatoes to the oven
friend: i know why i married you now
you: the truth becomes clear as a windshield
friend: covered in locusts
you: you’re so metal
friend: ha, brits say “aloomineeum”
you: cultured too, let me cut your hair
friend: how about zoolander?
you: i can torrent it
friend: i’ll order the pizza
Bad Dad Dies
(I’ve decided to turn this into a thing about my own bad dad instead, hopefully that’s okay - inspired by your request so it’s still a kind of co-creation)
often i google my bad dad’s name
plus the word obituary
never the results I hope
can bad dads be good people?
in a parallel universe?
in certain lighting I am evil too, have been
maybe he’s somebody’s guardian angel
(current: a swirly reflection of me
yellow and orange shades
on the thick plastic windowpane
on the underground train
twiddling my hairy girly thumbs)
I wonder so many things
"wonder" is farce, more like
hailstorm verbal scatter thoughts
razorblades and at the drive in screams
someday my family will rejoice, rejoin
riding snow leopards off cliffs
into freezing rivers
awoken it being super real
dear nicki minaj’s butt,
1. you are not an object you have agency don’t let them talk to you like that
2. technically you are an object because you are a body part but if there is a such thing as corporate personhood there should be a thing called booty personhood and butts should have the right to vote
3. for me to address you rather than the person you’re attached to may be inescapable objectification, but if you believe you are your own person, so-to-speak, please let me know so i can revise my understanding of who you are and what your needs are
4. i have so much to say to you it’s embarrassing
5. what is your definition of violence?
6. when twerking happens it seems the person and the butt separate and become different entities. do you have any thoughts on this?
7. what are your dreams? as in goals, or what those states are we go into when we’re sleeping.
8. are you a cat or a dog person? or both? i’m both (but slightly more cat — sorry didn’t mean to make it about me i’m genuinely curious)
9. can i use you as a pillow?
10. does it bother you i said “use you?” i didn’t mean it like that. but in general are you ultra sensitive to semantics? as in, are you “triggered” in certain ways that require adjacent speakers to be mindful and revisionist before they speak around you? i respect that if so, and am willing to change.
11. do you get royalties?
12. when eyes lock on to you, do you stare back?
13. more than once you’ve filled me with feelings of exaltation
14. it wouldn’t be entirely false to say that i have felt religiously transcendental when recalling your form and what you symbolize
15. what you symbolize could be “a way in” for women, or “a way out” and when i read sex worker blogs i feel like they’re communicating for you somewhat, which isn’t to say that sex workers are asses (but that wouldn’t be a bad thing anyway unless taken figuratively and condescendingly - again i can change), but i think of you as an opportunist in a fucked up system finding enjoyment in liberating yourself as much as possible, embracing “radical self love” and other such notions i only understand at novice level at best
16. you potentially symbolize the most ancient oppression in our species’ history, and when people say “back that thang up” i sometimes think they’re putting everyone in a patriarchal trance and temporarily stamping dollar signs all over you but i want to understand your feelings on this, like i do for most things
17. what are your thoughts on patriarchy? concept and word. smash it? give it a massage? do you roll your eyes at the word, like “leftist intellectuals need to twerk that shit off and make some $$$”?
18. what makes nicki gassy other than beans? celery? peanut butter? everyone is different (and that’s the point and you make it so subversively)
19. i would rather have you than a birthday cake, i cannot lie
20. please write back even if it’s in clap code — i will crack such a code if it exists if it takes my whole life
the ass of the bluebird
twerks in my heart
i can hear it clap
like healing napalm
like church bells of blood
like a lost wolf pup
fallen in the frozen river
calling for mother.
mother was hunted down
by drunk heterosexuals
twenty percent of a fortnight back
her cries gurgle wolf blood
the drunk heterosexuals
lost everyone in the war
dropping healing napalm
you understand it
the ass of the bluebird
twerks in my heart
it chokes me up one week
razorblades in the tub
has me laughin the next
like you go bluebird
don’t hide what you’re working with
show us your economy.