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Disclaimer: I did make these myself, and didn’t find them from the old web. The first and third dividers were made using @snailspng transparent edits.

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anatomical hearts i

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Michael Ondaatje 

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scorching bodies; lucky souls

when the night falls with a loud thud

on the ceiling above

with you on all fours

the beautiful dove of constant

loud and intense love

fills my heart with longing

bonding our sweat-ridden bodies fast

to each others' beating hearts

when the bright day illuminates

the marks on your back

my brain cracked out of my skull

ruminates the terminate ailment

we so proudly wear on our pate

if we are to be sentenced to death

if burning or crucifixion shines

at the far end

let us rejoice in the shrines

we have been dealt

for since the beginning of times

my heart's fate has been to melt

alongside yours

listen now, your head besides mine

how loudly the rain pours outside

and the flames keep on burning

in the crevices of our sinful bodies

side by side

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she doesn’t understand the rage others impose on being 

she learns quickly that the unfamiliar faces are disturbed 

when their features shrivel into horrendous shapes 

she comprehends the contours of how things should be 

or at least how they say they should be 

still everything that is the other seems to her an empty shell 

emptiness seems to flow through the social strata like a river 

there are patterns of it everywhere in her surroundings, 

their blood, their intestines 

it seems like a farce

she plays her role in the theater of cruelty until it fills her core 

hollow, hollow, hollow

she howls into the void

a grotesque play upon a white sheet, 

blood sprayed within,

yet unstained from the outside

they may have expelled you for your faggotry, 

you, the bearded lunatic of Majáles,

you immoral menace

still howls are continued to be heard, Allen 

(the poet, not the pederast)

the void does not have eyes,

contrary to popular opinion. 

he does. 

he glimpses for the first time a familiar countenance

breathes, and stops the fall of occurrences

breaths, previously manual 

now come easily 

               in and out!

a great discovery!

operating lungs!

the flesh assembled from empty shells 

alive at last!

our century of postmodern brilliance

cyber-faggots of the future

shit on your congregations of discrepancies

between your idiotic so-called soul

with what you project onto us 

and the heavy loads of the universe 

stanzas of gibberish dominate your lofty incantations

(We finally know what sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open your skulls and ate up your brains and imagination. 

It is no longer a question, 

                 an answer is a working defense. 

You should be afraid. 

Keep your hands clasped together while we finish the job.)

to hell with the “best minds of our generation” (destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, or whatever Ginsberg howled) 

beyond repair 

he decides then, in white rooms, behind blue curtains

watching the long hallways stretch out 

he will sing those obscene odes

from the top of his living lungs 

till the days the decay takes him 

dig up his body, say what you will 

the bones will not care 

the flesh, now melted

still howls at the moon

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Finished up Poe from 2022 🪱🪱🪱👹

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call upon the faithful, 

the sunday mass shall begin!

oh yes, 

      now see

     be more than grateful, since

             the ichor, on this very day!

flows like the rivers, you might say 

even when the very essence shivers 

                          and out come the sounds 

                          of cold doses of prescriptions via diction

                          you survive the description provided to you on a piece of paper 

the later the better 

so you have a lot to say 

do not dare to pray for me!

I may just let the crossings reign 

falling on you like burning rain 

                            thousands upon thousands of insects pouring down 

oh yes,

                            they are falling from the sky beautiful like red roses 

                                                           blood upon the hands of Moses 

acquisition! not from heaven 

    this time

angel of the 

            Oh Lord! forgive me for i have sinned a million sins and I am not keeping these                       behind closed doors,

                 of course 

            I make you watch me get ravaged,

            legs spread out in your house of prayer

                                                encouraged by the crowds 

                                                                                 with vigor 

            let me sing my own praises high up to the clouds 

                                                   turning grayer, ready to pour

            do not avert your gazes or try to tether me to the cross 

it will only get me closer 

            bolster my lust for the almighty God 

the time has come for my my enlightenment, 

                                                       I am not sorry for your loss 

there must have been a reckoning 

                            to pay for your entitlement 

               the constant threatening 

stares, 

where is your power now?

I ask you again, 

does this look like I am experiencing hardship? 

it is so that worship is my daily bread 

           I scream devotions in pleasure, 

                      embracing all the dead 

           saints 

           my rightful place always on my bruised knees 

                    now 

                                                                         please

           fill me up oh holy spirit, oh!

                                         holy is my infertility 

in the eyes of the beholder lies the possibility 

of pure conception 

   of my realization of self 

staining the walls, 

              poetry killed the prosaic 

prophet, oh holy death in all your might!

                       the Bible ends with white 

   dripping from a pristine mosaic

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machinic brains in machinic bodies

vomit out blood, shoot it up my veins

piss in my mouth and split my brains

in half 

pass me a spoon, will you?

I can still see you with

my eyes gouged out,

reflection realized

love is a hammer in your hand

smashing my skull in 

making the one that shivers in fear

bask in sunlight 

love is a hammer in my hand,

smile on your face

and brains meticulously 

spread out 

walking paths that swirl up

like intestines inside your shell

love is a hammer in one’s hand

breaking a mirror to reveal 

another one

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I want pink hair again :(

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Amanda Feilding, beyond the dura mater

Conjure something beyond words,

then write it down. 

Talk like you are speaking the unspeakable. 

Communicate by homespun surgery, 

a hole in your brain. 

Let the film roll, let the crowds boo 

but do not fear! 

“Against instinct” they say. 

And against instinct you go 

the only way upwards 

through your skull. 

Possibilities of the theatre of cruelty, 

assaulting you audience to bring them prophecies, 

making them believe what your body echoed 

since the first day you remember, 

since the first drop of blood revealed 

the brilliant radiance of freedom. 

Since you opened your mouth

for the very first time 

to scream and beg 

and beseech them. 

Do not let the cranial bones close!

Do not let me be caged!

Let me go, let me be free 

to eternally circulate.

Their minds rejected you,

their ears closed up to your pleas. 

Now came your chance 

to take revenge.

Feel the heartbeat contained in your brain.

Reveal yourself, welcome the spring 

of your becoming. 

Let the art critics dub your existence avant-garde, 

let them distance themselves from the truth. 

Let the surreal swim up to the surface where everyone can see 

the blood-covered white gown upon your head. 

Let the whole world forget chorales, 

let them sing the heavenly song to the honor of

the eternal glory of the Divine. 

The mystical power 

of the ineffable transcendence 

of self-trepanation.

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