1. i think they are singing to a christian god but i really like how it sounds and their dancing. as long as i don’t know what they’re saying it’s okay. good night.

  2. 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.

  3. 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.

  4. 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.

  5. 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

  6. 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

  7. 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

  8. 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

  9. 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

  10. 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
    church bells.

    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.


Lewis Lewis Poems

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