bsides-of-roygbiv - Tumblr blog

[bsides-of-roygbiv]

falling

“i feel like i’m on a different planet when i look into your eyes”/you should listen to more songs about planets and the stars so you can dream us into them/mine come in threes and thats how it has always been and how it will always be/there are but thirty minutes between us and i couldn’t tell you the true direction of north from all the way up here/i miss you in my stomach and in my intestines, these are where our deposits have fallen/our guts got wrapped together and in an attempt to untangle we yelped for the pulling of hair and the biting of bits/since then i’ve learned to see different colors and hear different sounds, the re-imagination of shades of blue built through slotted early morning sunlight/no longer ours, what once was ours no longer is, ours, a condemnation of possession in the form of crashing, uphill climbing, eyes dividing/i can’t tell which way you looked so i only looked further and found you and all of your parts, this great sets of parts, pieces put together prying open pleasing pinches i am in pieces, you make me fall/in pieces i remain, but a whole nonetheless, a holistic totality of unrivaled proportions, shrinking smaller in the most beautiful and bitter of ways but glowing nonetheless,  i am tripping less and less and that which made me in the first place is what i see first/ did you know you make my skin scream and you make my skin scream and ache and how it aches and arches and screams and pulls and wants and begs and aches and screams more and more more more/ did you know the morning is time for pretending but did you also know this sun doesn’t let me/ so i pool and pile and come back again, a week spent in oscillation between that which you can grab and that which you can only watch/ i sing you into this dirt and forget to wash you off my hands at lunch time/you stopped half way or maybe it cut off that way but i know the rest of the way and i hope you’ll come with me/i tell the sea all about you in the morning, using no words our sounds at all so my two front teeth did all the listening and all the spilling and all the holding, but mostly the spilling/yesterday i forgot the name of the fish i met last week and i wish you could have met him too/ i wonder when i will, i wonder when i’ll, i wonder us into five hundred different configurations, constellations, conflagrations of that cold air we left in june, spring forward july is a special kind of turning, i rotate on the 6th and hope you’ll know where i end/the story of our telos is undying, there is none and that is what we must know/ endings at beginnings, stretch me into an undying loop of your most favorite flavor/everybody keeps telling me what i know and what i know so much more than the immediacy of your skin, i know all the ways and know it in my bones, so it makes it’s way there and the rushing happens upon rising but this is how i define majesty and magic and magic and magic/alchemy is better in the morning and we stole the spell book a long time ago but just learned to read/“she reads to me in the evening sun and touches my head and in those moments i know i’ve found all the sweetness in the whole world, falling off this little rock, in front of all this screaming, across a river flowing into the sea…she makes me turn in all the ways i never knew i could turn”/////////////////

[bsides-of-roygbiv]

what happens when you let the tide come

nearing the ocean you stop short of the shore and brace yourself for the eventual turning of the tides. the tides are turning and you are standing with your feet in the sand, wondering about particle size, mass, and volume, wondering about the depth of your toes and soles and heels and wondering what’s necessary to catalyze movement and release. the tides begin to turn but then you remember you’ve found yourself at the edge of a tideless sea, and such churning is an imaginary of rotation, how could you ever have known that? so you try to take your feet out of the sand, they’ve been sandsubmerged for some time now. when you try to calculate the amount of minutes seconds hours (measures of movement) you realize the earth has nearly turned one whole rotation, so with your feet still firmly planted (plants, growing. heads, falling) you let your head fall back (off the bed) and scream the air out of your lungs. listen to me, this is the expulsion of the century, the catapult of doom, you’re riding right there with it waving at everyone as you zoom past, all hot breathe, cigarette smoke, amber, and blood rushing past and behind you, she’s yelling about the combinations and their magnificence but words are weightless and they sink into your fingernails that invite anything anything anything into them. you try to lift your feet out of the sand once more, contemplate particle size, think about toe depth, think about earth turnings, tide churnings. look up: the sky is filled with wires, you are filled with noise of unfamiliar varieties and you are soaked saturated submerged in such qualities of strangess. what’s it like to be stuck 800 feet under concrete, rapidly almost always but never really reaching that which you know is directly in front of you? strangeness. concrete submergance. the sand stops to be that which it is and it becomes something which it isn’t but that which it is part of, you are sinking in concrete, the tides are the constant hurling/receding of cars and particle size becomes insignificant as there are none to consider. in your dreams the sand comes back, the particles are bigger this time, and everything around you is on fire, you and them are rapidly rising towards the sky (you’ve been freed, they freed you ) and you’re both watching everything and everyone burn beneath you, billowing smoke moves you further and further away, you are screaming into each others mouths, “fill the crevices, get in my cracks, consume my vacant spaces, occupy that which is vacuous, i love you i love you, please fill me”. the sky has come to an end and you can not rise any further, you are awake now and the sand again loses its particle constitution, you displace apostrophes and move the parentheses and overhead, again, hangs the wires and underneath holds the coming and goings, hundreds of millions of pounds of stuff hurling forward and backwards, meanwhile you are without recourse to movement. you are without recourse to movement. recourse to movement? look towards they sea, they said. just cut the tree down, look straight ahead, and go ahead, jump right in. particle constitution. trees. unimaginable unmovement and unthinking and unbreathing, i am undone. i’m not done, i never was, and i never will be (finish). lift my feet out of the sand, head back towards the sky, the magnificent expulsion empties you out and makes you clean again. but, what do i do once i’m free, once i can move away from the shore, what do i do when i can understand the true nature of feetsand fitting, of particle constitution, of all the substance in the tides and all that you left behind when you left (left, back, up, come back double speed, triple volume). in the morning the sun hits your weak and shriveled feet and you kiss them 800 times, and stack your vertebrae on top of them and you know that you must do something with this kind of permission (a premonition). you leave. you are hopelessly trapped inside of the overhead wires, screaming back at the tides and their churning and their substance and their particles and their constitution. and the wires eat you. when you are dead you realize that all you had to do was go back. go back. return. backwards movement must resist the categorizations below those integers you needed needed needed to get. resist the categories, go back, you are free, and you can move in this way. HEY.

[bsides-of-roygbiv]

water/rotations/skin

excavate dead skin from your insides, show them to the sun and feel the lightness. know that everybody else moves rapidly forward and that your acceleration can only be your own (accelerate on your own). by the time you're twenty-one you'll have gone through either 7 or 3 skins depending on who you ask and who you believe. the one's you've shed are forever gone. remember your rotations and their fibrous constitutions, double back and come back again, find yourself right here, in the newest sort of skin there is, a momentous moment of right now! the only one we can really know, all knowing and new with our new skins and our right now knowing, look at us! new and knowing, nearly glowing in the 3rd rotation of particle constitution, we rotate with everything else. what does the center point tell us? marx says we don't exist in circles, he says existence cannot be rendered to that point of a circle which is the point of infinite (re)return, but how could we not?! we all spin together and even though we might all spin in different patterns, with our new skins, with our right now new skins, we're all still spinning! we're all still spinning and it's the water that holds us together: all new and knowing, the repository of every skin there has ever been (the greatest sort of absorption), but, did you know that it's the water that holds us together? it always has been the water, it always will be the water and as such it shall continue. when i was a kid i sat in my mom's car listening to the radio and that's when i found out that if you drink too much water you'll die, our skin cannot absorb it, we become the old skin the water holds, a gurgling mess of all the wrong tides and moons, constituted in different sorts of geometry, edges all sharp, joined at different points, all moving and definitely drowning. the water is your skin. you are new and knowing and you are virtuous through your infinite rotations. come back to the center point, the aqueous vacuum of all your old skins awaits you, and you breathe differently than before. under here it is different and under here it is different and so you breathe different. i want to be held by the water and i want to feel all of my skin fall away into it, i want to be held by the water and i want it to take my skin with it, i want to be held by the water and i want to cast my skin off and into it, i want to be held by the water and i want to be held by and i want to be held and i want to be and i want to, i want to, i want to...

[bsides-of-roygbiv]

what it felt/feels like to get my heart broken at 21

heartbreak feels like that really deep and really big thing that’s hiding under your skin, you can’t really feel it all the time, maybe you once did, but as time moves forward and the earth turns more rotations, it fades out of constant view and sinks into those sub-dermal peripheries. heartbreak feels like beaming all the way until 4pm and then getting hit by the train that was supposed to arrive at 330, but it didn’t and you thought you missed it, so you stand in the middle of the tracks, but nonetheless, it comes and there it is: a train hitting you in the middle of a sunny sunshine day at 4pm, out of nowhere and 30 minutes too late. the train takes you with it and all the boxes you drew for yourself to step into for the rest of the day get erased by the steam flowing behind you. you are hurtling you into that uncertain future you had nightmares about 4 months ago. to think about the time which has passed is to think about your emptiness and the relative nature of distance in a small town, between two people and their fingertips, this spatial reconfiguration is unending and undying, constantly confusing and propelling you nonetheless, forward.

heartbreak is like learning how to see all over again. you get really good at looking, that neck which pointed forwards for so long now turns on a swivel; i hate people with shaved heads, i hate the higher placements of the color red and the lower (middle) of orange, i hate dance, i hate people who dance, i hate you (but you know you could never). you wonder when you’ll stop looking, you wonder when the automatic turn-reflex will stop turning, when you’ll stop looking for that which isn’t there and doesn’t want to be there, which can’t be there. you’ve gotten so good at looking that someday you wonder if your gaze will become emboldened with a secret power to transform that which isn’t there into that which you need to be there, that which you must. what you want waits for you in places you can’t find no matter how hard you search. maybe if you look enough the air in between all that isn’t will turn into all that was. still, you find your search is unending, the undying swivel of doom, the impending doom of swivel, a swivel of dooming-like qualities: you can never un-swivel, continue to look but know that no matter how hard you look you’ll never see. learn how to see differently and wonder when you’ll stop looking. keep driving around in the middle of the night, keep dragging yourself through this town with everything that's ever been inside of you leaking out all over the street, trying to find, trying to look, just trying to see. and when you see those little remnants, those detached attachments, sitting on the side of the road you re-imagine what it was like, what it was like when you were. and you run around this town and find nothing but those little pieces left behind, a swivel towards the left behind, reconstituted under a sun that is no longer both of yours, in a town that still is. what about the wild flowers this spring? how many of them are in this field, how much of them is in this field? learn how to see that which no longer exists and learn how to see it right now, in-this-moment kind of right now. a necessary transportation translation of sorts, you put yourself back in the same spaces that once were and fill them with different fillings, imagining them stuffed with the same threads from 2 springs ago. but simultaneously you are filling and you are knowing deep down you can’t fill the same way you once did. you know must learn how to see and fill once more.

heartbreak is screaming through this whole entire town, rapidly rotating and swirling, undying and whirling, eyes peeled back and catapulted at the sky, mouth stretched open screaming “why” in downhill velocities in those darkest kind of vacuums. you imagine you don’t have a face or arms, only eyes with which to look and a mouth with which to speak/scream the only word you know. if you wonder enough and scream loud enough maybe one day you’ll know and maybe one day you’ll see, but you know that you never actually will. in the dark, you scream through this whole entire town that was once filled with you both and you assign meaning to that which is already filled with it, meaning made out of a vacuum and meaning made singularly, without any sort of conjoining or veritable unity to speak of. dragging yourself through this town in the dark and screaming, screaming over and into the river, screaming into the sea, wondering if your waters, your aqueous projections, your sanctity that is covered in salt, you are wondering if they’ll ever reach them. you’re wondering if the waters will carry all your noise and all of your matter, but you know they are like a letter sent with no destination, doomed to sender (surrender)-return.

heartbreak is falling to your knees in the forest in the middle of the day, on a wednesday, on a wednesday that is perfectly normal except you have fallen to your knees in the middle of the forest in the middle of the day, on a wednesday, and no you are not being dramatic, and yes, it really hurts this bad. the trees feel bad for you and their circular standing makes the ground feel softer and they coo and jeer at you when the wind blows their leaves to make the sounds that make you feel. the middle of the forest is where you have come to your knees on this wednesday, but it is just one location of knee-falling, alas, there are many more, many in the past and many yet to be had. scream into the trees and remember how you and them used to run here, run here and scream into each others mouths as loud as you could, your reverberations filled this whole forest and the whole city which it holds underneath it.

heartbreak is the most tragic kind of sunday morning salty sweaty sacred madness, reconstituted in your same sheets but without that which made the sun shine most magnificently onto them. these sundays are the abyss, you are heartbroken and every sunday is a vacuum which sucks you deeper and deeper with every single rotation. drag yourself through this town on a sunday and scream into the trees, let all of yourself leak out all over you, all behind you. this is following you and flowing out of you. there is no mopping to be done today, on this salty sweaty sacred mad sunday morning, the mopping cannot occur because the flooding has moved past the point of redress. you swim around in that flood which you let fall out of you and you notice your knees are bloody from all the falling and all the dragging, your voice hoarse from all the screaming and it is hoarse from screaming the only word you know how to say.

heartbreak is the most devastating kind of quiet. it is a silence unlike any other, it is heavy and it is full and empty at the same time, a special kind of torturous duality that forbids all movement and sound. do not move inside of this kind of quiet because to break it is to stop that which must move on its own accord. you try to lift the veil and you see the sun for a moment, but it hides beneath the clouds once more and you retreat and retract back into those devastatingly quiet spaces you’ve found yourself in for the amount of weeks you’ve now stopped counting. you find other kinds of quiet amidst this one and recognize some are better than others but you remember that the better kinds of quiet are still shrouded in that big one, that big deafening silence, boring holes in everything that was, everything that was so full and big and bright and becoming, a becoming that was the most magnificent sort of mystification. it bores holes in everything you once knew. you are forbidden to move or shout, you watch it erode at everything you were left with and everything you were left to build and remake with. this kind of quiet eats away at your skin, at your bones, and your flesh. in different kinds of (rotational) rotations and (navigational) navigations it eats away at everything you are and at the end of the day, where the darkness is that one righteous place of your own personally constituted personal quiet, your hands move over your skin that doesn’t so much feel like your own anymore, and you feel all the ways this kind of quiet has made you smaller. it has transformed your skin. all of your fibers and threads are reconstituted, a reconstitution in accordance with the lack of those 180 degree turned out vibrations, in this deafening kind of quiet you are eaten away, a different sack of flesh and bones eroded by the silence. this kind of quiet does something to your form and it is different than any other form you have ever know before, a strange shape cast out of that silence arising from the most catalytic of explosions.

heartbreak is wanting to reach your hands inside your mouth and grab onto all of your guts in a fist. in the fist your guts squirm and they squeal, and when you take your hand out of your mouth, past your esophagus and your teeth, you find your fist full of guts in the sunlight, and you feel a kind of sickness you’ve never felt before. heartbreak makes you want to reach inside your mouth and grab your guts to stuff inside your fist, just so you can throw them into the sea and ask god for new ones because these ones make you feel so sick. you feel so sick and it is a kind of unrivaled and unknown illness arising from a place you did not know existed. your guts bear reminiscent pieces of the past and you must forget that which is not not no longer, so you expunge and you expel, hoping that this springtime brings you newness in only the most golden of varieties. one week you figure out how to reach far enough and on the way out of your insides, towards the outside, none of your guts get stuck on your teeth, not a back molar nor a canine. your hands look more golden in this kind of sunshine, and you wonder if you’ve finally achieved that kind of golden, glowing, gut transference you’d been waiting for the amount of weeks you’ve stopped counting. the sun turns that which wasn’t golden, golden, and it glows the most magnificent kind of gold. it stays back in you, in your depths, for sometime. it stays for some time in the sea, you scream without any leaking, figure out how to expand your vocabulary from that one word that made the inside of your throat raw and hoarse, you sing a dialectic of sun and wind and so you sing, you sing! you start to smell like the wind, it is an unprecedented kind of filling with this special kind of golden glowing gut transference. so, you wait a few days and wake up on a tuesday, or maybe it’s a thursday, and maybe you stayed up a little too late the night before, and you remember, you remember that heartbreak feels like a kind of sickness you never knew you could have before, a pervasive kind of filling that takes over every single part of you, and you remember that you are sick deep in your marrow and matter, it is that inexpugnable SICK that refuses retreat. it is an illness imbued with those kind of pathogens that do not care about your golden gut transference because both of you know that it is deeper than that, it is deeper than that and it is a depth granted with the most resistant kind of resistance. these are the kinds that detest the churning of the tides and the rotating of the earth; the moon has no effect, the cosmos you tie your strings to have no effect, they do not take effect, for this sickness inside of you, this sickness inside of you that has taken over all that you are, it does not go. it stays. it stays here. reach inside of your mouth on a tuesday morning when the sun is shining and remind yourself that no matter how hard you pull and how far you reach, how much you want to find where it is, where they are, where they went, remind yourself that you cannot and that you never will be able to. you will remember this when you are dead, your bones will remember this kind of sickness, it is the illness driving you into the earth. one day you tell yourself you just want to feel your weight on top of the earth (“I just want to feel all my pounds on the ground”) and when you finally let yourself fall you feel this sickness falling with and faster than you. heartbreak makes you sick. the colors red and orange make you sick, the color red in upper formations and the color orange in those lower ones. those colors they make you sick, those people, they make you sick, those people with shaved heads and smiles that can fill a whole house and an entire city, they make you sick. those people with shaved heads and smiles of a deep and constant reverberation…they make you a special kind of sick that is now all that you are: you are sick.

heartbreak is wondering if it all ever did happen and then remembering that it did and then watching your skin and bones shrink in size at double speed. the floor is your best friend and it is where you find yourself in the darkness, you repeat that one word your mouth knows how to say, it is the cause of your hoarseness, the screaming is the cause of your hoarseness it is the cause of these sores; it causes you to be sore in ways you didn’t know you could. heartbreak is undying newness that catapults you into a dimension without dimensions, there is no sort of structure to speak and all of your matter bends in one hundred different directions at similar and vastly different moments in time, it is incomprehensible--a deep web of filled nothingness.

heartbreak is looking back at you in the mirror when you wake up in the morning. heartbreak waits for your moments of clarity and sanctity to remind you that it exists, that it is the undying affliction chasing you through your best moments and running you down to your worst, it is the phone that doesn’t stop ringing and it is the unmoving mass inside of you that you don’t know how to tell anybody about because you know that even if you tried to, and even if they tried to know it or see it, they would never find it, they would never know it. they’d never know the way its texture feels, they’d never know whether it’s spiky or smooth, never know what times of day it looks more like those forbidden forms of red and orange, they’d never know how it casts itself out of you on friday afternoons in great big green fields when you’re endlessly looking for that which isn’t there. they’d never know how it reconstitutes all the air around you into that which you demand it to be into that which simply is not, they’d never know the way it wakes up on sunday mornings and how it stops the sun from falling where it used to. you realize that nobody will ever know and you are condemned to move through the matter around you with this kind of absence.

heartbreak feels like all you are and all you can be, even when you don’t want to be. the moments you entertain its existence cease to matter because it exists whether you entertain it or not. you put away the special glasses and forks, and remind yourself that to indulge this break is the same as to not do so, so you sink further into the earth, get a little smaller, scream at the trees with the only word you know how to say, drag your bloody knees through this town and fill it with all of the undying sickness that leaks everywhere without you even trying. you try to get other people to see, but your eyes have become those sort of special ones which can only see that which isn’t there while simultaneously being rendered unable, unable to verify this kind of visibility because it is a vision filled as far as it could be filled with everything you were not and can not be.

heartbreak is reliability. you know you can always return to it when you want to. like an old friend waiting for you to pick up the phone, it unfailingly answers and waits for you to speak first. so, you speak first and you wait for it to say something back, but the only thing you can hear is…that most deafening kind of quiet.

[bsides-of-roygbiv]

3 months into 21, field behind kresge, sun between weeks of rain. 1.5 quarters of college left, stepping into news skins and hearts. new and with more power than ever. strong, stronger, growing.

[bsides-of-roygbiv]

i got my  heartbroken on the last day of january. 

i love you so much, i can’t stop thinking about our feet over rivers and our faces upside down in the sun, i miss the way you feel and i don’t understand why you had to hurt me so so so so so so so bad it hurts so so so so so so bad. 

[bsides-of-roygbiv]

20, Sunday morning, pleasure point

[bsides-of-roygbiv]

can we exist without the expectation, i love you is like a liberation, i leveled up motherfuckers, i just moved into my next self cuz i said it under the biggreat moon and the church bells were ringing and how much more fucking idyllic could it have gotten. i cried the whole way home for lots of different reasons beginning with the slurs and ending with my Nana’s kitchen table (displaced from it’s original position). i can’t remember what we heard but we sped through three eternities our mind existing in dual universes, maybe yours has more shimmer than mine at the moment and i’d like to exist there for now. how do i make you feel? does it feel right, am i doing a good job do i make you feel as i think you should feel or is my predestination of emotions filling us and i’m sorry but no, i can’t control it and i didn’t see any vision in the first place.

the rotations are kind of the same this fall, except i feel bigger. sprinting out of bed, toes tile toes tiles running out the door, toast falling out of my mouth into the ocean into your mouth type shit. iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou three hundred sixty eight degrees around, did you know I could move to the left this way, i keep these things in a box, only reserved for special left side rotations around the sun, dissolving into three eight by eight neat squares packed away for next christmas, next to all of the lights and ornaments (hopefully next to you), i wonder when I’ll come home again he asks she asks i ask, and the returning sentiments contain absolutely zero meaning so the conclusion end up being alright

[bsides-of-roygbiv]

i truly think that the whole dilemma of my life is smoking spliffs and trying to do things at the same time. apocalypse now.

[bsides-of-roygbiv]

how to win:

1. always call your mom back

2. wake up for the high tide

3. eat lots of organic veggies

[bsides-of-roygbiv]

Yayyuuuhhhhh

[bsides-of-roygbiv]

I hate money and my ex boyfriend.

[bsides-of-roygbiv]

a list written in capitals for some apparent reasons, but only halfheartedly reaching/nearing completion:

QUEST FOR NORMALCY

DECONSTRUCTED IN REALITY

TILE SPACES (UN)MISTAKABLY SPLIT

HALF OF ME RECONSTITUTED

64,000 FEET UP LOOKING BACK (UP, DOWN)

7 BOXES OF FRUIT LOOPS, ONE BAG

DETOX ON CLEAN COUNTERTOPS

MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT COUNSEL & CLARITY

NIGHT LIGHT WHISPERS INTO CARPET

FALLING WATER, PINK UPPER RIGHT

WE SHARE THE SAME SPIT

LOOKING FOR ME LOOKING FOR YOU IN LOOKING FOR ME

STRANGE AND UNRELENTING DNA

SOLIPSISM AND BLOOD (UNREACHABLE)

NEW COUCHES AND SHAMEFUL QUIVERING (WE’RE ALONE)

NECESSITY BINDS US TO STRICT PATTERNS

UNEQUIVOCATED DESIRES CROSS PHONE LINES AND GENERATION SPINES

TWIN MATTRESS: SORE BACK: QUEEN MATTRESS: NO SLEEP

UNADJUSTED AND UNACCEPTED FAKE TIME ZONES

IF IT ISN’T REAL, IT ISN’T REAL

CREATION BORN STRICTLY AND SOLIDLY OUT OF LACK

MAYBE I SHOULD START WRITING POETRY AGAIN

INSECT SURVIVIAL VIA PRESSURIZED CABINS (R U AFRAID?)

CLIMATE CONTROL TO KILL

DO YOU KNOW HOW TO SPELL CHICAGO?

SPLIFF LIGHT JACKIE CHAN NINJA!

GO!

[bsides-of-roygbiv]

necessity

these contemplations of necessities have got me boiling down bones into the own meat of themselves under halfsun. our various necessities must contribute to our multifarious fibers and threads. ah! at last, an explanation to our very own constitutions. which way do you wake up on sundays, is your head as you left it the night before? who goes there!? (the door was closed when i went to sleep, and that is all that matters). my constitution could essentially sit next to yours but i’m uncertain about their own correctabilities and the true nature of fitting. your necessity is none of my business, certainly but here i am and in the corner of my eye, i am watching you, i am engaging and the rarity of this engagement is something else, it’s something else (she said I’m something else). so, back to the necessities, as this is what this must all be about (pertaining to)…she’s buying flowers and she’s made at least 10 circles, but i’m uncertain about what to do with my feet (shift, shift, shuffle, shift) and then it dawns on me. necessity is presenting itself in floral rotations in uncertain (to me) public spaces and they are all so different, god they are so different and it doesn’t kill me (as i’d honestly like it to), but it’s more of an awakening than death would ever give me. so upon further contemplation and the departure from these floral floor rotations i have now decided to essential-ize and subjectivize in my own mind to make some better sense. bless me for a moment as i digress from this necessity i speak and roll around in, let us for a moment on focus on patience and rationality. my necessity for these virtues lies in very specific faculties of myself that may or may not have been defined and employed as of this very moment. a true statement would be that lately my necessities have been shapeshifting (dirty fuckers), and I’m unable to tell what is real and what is not, so then here comes the patience and reason manifesting itself so plainly as necessity and what is a girl to do when her fibers and threads are being destroyed maliciously by the reason without mercy and the very foundation and it’s subsequent constitution is being mauled to literal death by all the patience? the definition of my truest necessities are unavailable and un-arrive-able at this tender age of 19 and who is to say the appy polly loggies (Burgess, 10), cuz it’s sure as fuck not gonna be me and it’s sure as fuck not gonna be my Dad, cuz he doesn’t say sorry NO MA’AM. this apparent and maybe not so divergent digression has come to an end for now and you may set your eyes straight back in their sockets only slightly aligned to the right because that is where you’ll want to look. now look, let’s continue discourse delineating the necessity of necessitations and their inevitable constitution of bloodskinbonesbreath. i’ve got a desire to compartmentalize them but i’m not entirely sure if this is the right course of action (the course, of course, being to act). let’s run through some examples in our pretty pink bowtied course, shall we? my personal assumed necessities: kicking and punching room at 5pm on wednesdays and past 8am until about noon on sundays, the great big beautiful glorious majestic (how many more adjectives) ocean, a life time full of frequent orgrasms sustained through my own volition and pouring out of my own goddamn honeyed hips, boneshattering occuring through letters strung meant for shaking and occuring through downhill speeds not caring or interested and invested through the power of the spring (oh, how we hated the winter) breeze and wild flowers. so now here are these necessities, and here are my necessities driving my doing. my “doing" is being driven in these spaces my necessities have carved out in all of my secret spaces only known to two (fuck, i was so goddam afraid to show you). school is starting again soon. maybe i should buy some new clothes. so here i am, necessity driven (it/this can only and shall only be human)  and i’m watching my necessities shape the things molded to my skin molded on my skin, around it and it’s quite scary to think about really. the fright really comes and boils down to volition and when it comes and boils down to necessity, there was no volition, there was no choice. here i appeared, out of my mother’s womb a blank slate and fast forward all the summations of my parts and my troubles and here i sit buying clothes a reflection of and reflecting my necessities defined through my activities necessary to my being. are you aware of your necessities? i shall ask you again, which way do you wake up on sundays? therein lies the true answer to your necessities defined through your own sunday morning madness. i wake up on sundays drenched in sunshine and truly soaking and covered in all of my own substance, sticky with all of my threads my circular rotations are causing sweating not in controlled climates and i swore i fell asleep with the door open, but here i am, reaching the tops of my own peaks and topsidemountainsides and i am left shaking, shattering and vulnerable. which way do you wake up on sundays? what are your necessities? define, and deluge because this is the only key to understanding and without understanding we float mindless, numb, a whore to the great masses which lead us and drag us through broken and diseased glass without a care or even a grimmance in the right direction (the definition being?). listen to me (though nobody is/will…ever), for to not do so would be disrespectful. the true and inherent (imbedded within you) understanding of necessity in whichever form your chose (CHOSE) to define will ultimately lead you to a position on your topsidemountatinside which is telling of your sustenance and constitution. ready, set, GO. NECESSITY.

[bsides-of-roygbiv]

Stripey Wednesday mornings on the air mattress at the foot on my Nana's bed feel strangely peaceful. Yesterday I went running through the manlius cemetery with my pink checkered vans on and when I tried to get out of bed this morning my legs complained. Sweat keeps pouring out of my armpits even though this whole town is fueled by a/c. I think I'm nervous.

[bsides-of-roygbiv]

the conductor man and his strings:

i think that the levels of my consciousness are being connected with silver strings controlled by a medium sized man in a white room. he’s got on a train conductor outfit and his feet seem a little too small for his body. when he was a baby, his parents promised to make him a priest, but it’s kinda like sitting in grey pools waiting for yellow, waiting for greens and blues but we’re here and we’re only feeling light drizzles and the continuance has yet to continue (thank you, very much). they told of his undecided start sides and his inability to grandly evade hilltops and mountain sides, falling all over the place and yelling all the while his mouth yelling straight to heaven. so in the white room he sits, a string tied to each finger, the conductor has stepped into the conductors room and is ready to conduct today (please, sit down). so the following ballet (routine) occurs and you must pay very close attention with your eyes fixed and your lips sealed tight and understand that the seriousness of these moving (movement) parts hold gravity in your palms and bend your knees (remember to lift from your core). understand (the under of standing). begin:

left pinky 3 inches towards the sky. inhale sharply and feel the ability ten thousand feet in the air, soaring you through the streets and carrying you deep into the ocean. I think that i was born here, i think i was small here, i think i was, i think i was, i think i. the illumination of your cells will cause stretching in places previously unstretchable. the carefully coordinated sublimation leaves you asleep in the sunset and awake just in time for the weird dead-day, dead-light, dead—sun lightening kind of thing that occurs.

right middle finger towards the underworld and this kind of light is so filling, i’m so full, i am. bathing and drenching, pouring through the window, by the way it’s the window, just as i, with my inability to hum, reach the peaks of my self sustained valleys (ohhhhhh). it’s incredible to watch the past destructions from the front row; didn’t you know my dad paid lots of money for this spot? the repetition of habitual evils now lands me here, and so hear i sit, unable to construct the necessary construction (wednesday, 6:45).

right thumb 3 inches to the left, three times, tris tris tris, the ending lies in the threes and my i’s aren’t lining up so good, all out of place, all filled with clutter, all filled (how did i get here?), i’m filled, i’m full. don’t ever step on the crack of the side walk because you’ll find your bike chain in twenty pieces all spread out over the sidewalk 15 feet in front of you (that’s right).

left index finger taps middle finger four times (sideways movement). the silence is boring holes in me and i have no room left for air expanding in dualities (two directions) and i’m feeling more and more useless as the days continue hurtling me towards the inevitable/i forgot how to breathe so long in this darkness.

right ring finger touches right thumb firmly but light enough to know the difference. i thought that i was light enough for it, i’m engulfed in your skin and i can’t tell whose limbs are whose. this unfortunate silence has got me imagining the insides of your thighs and your sighs, all the while what is swirling above me has got the shallow breaths and is covered in pink and white and i couldn’t tell the difference if i/you tried but all i know is it burns, it burns, it burns and i’ve gotta fucking go (you’ve gotta fuck me).

left middle finger finger up to the sky eight times, my superstitions are three double backs times a few unsuccessful back flips equalling some begging in a bungalow, the wrong kind though, fat tears all running down my face. so my face feels really strange having been touched by all ten fingers (digits) leaving behind dna (the traces of) wiped across my own galaxies, we fell there and we’ll never get up.

right pinky finger circles once counter clockwise but the hands are ticking so slowly and it’s the most beautiful thing i’ve got, all webbed up in the new day/ it’s sunday, it’s the special day, the sun is out today and it makes the plants breathe, did you know. 24 steps across tile (straight, left, sharp right) advancements have been reached today and the sun told me so, i swear, we talked in the night and nobody else can ever know.

left ring finger taps palm twice I sold some things and so continues the contemplation of continuation, dancing through my skull sitting in traffic maybe i’m longing for the trees and all the emptiness and all the nothingness forcing the filling of my vacuum with 800 rotations a minute (ow, my legs can’t handle any more), please don’t bend my legs back like that cuz i keep seeing our scene from the hidden camera in the corner and i’m seeing it again in mexican restaurants and i’m whispering this/our tragedy into different ears, but still the secrets all ours all locked up tight, more inside of me than inside of you—your ability for pouring (the pouring out, of you) has me jealous and wondrous at the same time and so now I’ll miss the marveling at your excellence, I forgot how to play hopscotch and how to double dutch but i’d bet a hundred bucks you’d relearn me and reteach me re-forgive me but there’s too much too forgive, there’s too much god here + i can’t do this anymore

left thumb curls (hurls) downwards, i’ve dried up on the beach showing in my hands on my feet but keeping moisture on the rest, zigzag lines on blacktop and perceptions of alterations with 5”3 men i’m so ashamed i barely even know my own name spinning into different dimensions, the realities i’m finding past three are skating me to just after 5 illuminated and destroyed by yellow skies, but did you ever notice that it gets light right before the sun goes down. these moments are defined by strict and few coincidences mesmerizing evening time and the left corners of my mind/brain/consciousness//i thought there was one more avocado left, but i thought and maybe i didn’t my brain matter keeps trailing behind me.

right index finger points straight out ahead but i feel sick, gripping like a vice, the vice gripped me, i tried to grip but reality wasn’t in the spaces between chalk and skin so no grip was to occur on tuesday 7ish at night and the sky’s pink but i can’t find any water proof watches. so time is moving in seven thousand directions but all hurling me towards my gripping, all the while tripping over all the traffic cones, i forgot what it was like to feel four years passed and uncontrollable watering is occurring but the gardens are still dead, they’re still dead but the blooming is occurring straight out of my hips pouring the sunshine downwards towards the sideways white but only on the upside, right in time for a little down play. it’s 4pm and i’ve got some downtime to shrivel in the backyard with all of my imaginary misgivings, she said my brain is beautiful but i can’t cry any more and the uselessness of my queries won’t end stopping up all of my pores, the fibers and threads refuse to align in straight checkerboards always missing one or the other

the conductor man has finished his conducting and you may return with your two feet planted firmly in the earth and your 33 vertebrae stacked lugubriously on top of on another (there, they will return. the admittance of this weight (this seriousness) is going to leave you with your arms stretched tight behind you and you eyes astounding wide open wide stretched straight to the lord himself. the conductor man has finished his conducting and you can go home, now. (please).

[bsides-of-roygbiv]

8/3/17

i feel sick, gripping like a vice, the vice gripped me, i tried to grip but reality wasn’t in the spaces between chalk and skin so no grip was to occur on tuesday 7ish at night and the sky’s pink but i can’t find any water proof watches so time is moving in seven thousand directions but all hurling me towards my gripping, all the while tripping over all the traffic cones, i forgot what it was like to feel four years passed and uncontrollable watering is occurring but the gardens are still dead, they’re still dead but the blooming is occurring straight out of my hips pouring the sunshine downwards towards the sideways white but only on the upside, right in time for a little down play, it’s 4pm and i’ve got some downtime to shrivel in the backyard with all of my imaginary misgivings, she said my brain is beautiful but i can’t cry any more and the uselessness of my queries won’t end stopping up all of my pores, the fibers and threads refuse to align in straight checkerboards always missing one or the other

i’ve dried up on the beach showing in my hands on my feet but keeping moisture on the rest, zigzag lines on blacktop and perceptions of alterations with 5”3 men i’m so ashamed i barely even know my own name spinning into different dimensions, the realities i’m finding past three are skating me to just after 5 illuminated and destroyed by yellow skies, but did you ever notice that it gets light right before the sun goes down these moments are defined by strict and few coincidences mesmerizing evening time and the left corners of my mind/brain/consciousness//i thought there was one more avocado left, but i thought and maybe i didn’t my brain matter keeps trailing behind me

one day i’ll reveal the true meaning of sea foam and feed it into 300 different mouths begging for meaning and demanding explanations splayed out all over the beach over the course of eight weeks two shy of a complete circle, ingrained into my etchings through systematic systems presenting presentations in sitting circles of impressionable pink matter, we all thought that we were asleep until we jotted upright (middle of the night, dripping in sweat, where’s the fucking water) and we snapped, we snapped tight together like puzzle pieces once in a while and during the fit we figured out all of the correct hand grips and finger positions, the right way to grasp and hit the right vibrations (she sent me a picture of one)

I sold some things and so continues the contemplation of continuation, dancing through my skull sitting in traffic maybe i’m longing for the trees and all the emptiness and all the nothingness forcing the filling of my vacuum with 800 rotations a minute (ow, my legs can’t handle any more), please don’t bend my legs back like that cuz i keep seeing our scene from the hidden camera in the corner and i’m seeing it again in mexican restaurants and i’m whispering this/our tragedy into different ears, but still the secrets all ours all locked up tight, more inside of me than inside of you—your ability for pouring (the pouring out, of you) has me jealous and wondrous at the same time and so now I’ll miss the marveling at your excellence, I forgot how to play hopscotch and how to double dutch but i’d bet a hundred bucks you’d relearn me and reteach me re-forgive me but there’s too much too forgive, there’s too much god here + i can’t do this anymore