My eyes are watering and I can not see, there’s been this very persistent pounding in my heart, my hands. My head. I took some pills to fall asleep. Why isn’t anyone attracted to me? I’m drowsy and falling asleep in my bed, isn’t there someone who wants to hold my heart? I know that I’m a little ugly. But it’s coyote season baby, learn to take a joke. I would water your garden; I would hold your hand; we are what we hold between us, are the storm, the rack.
Category: Strange Thoughts
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I really have nothing to say, I’m just sleepy and feeling unuseful. This won’t be my best work. I’m just typing.
I got a rejection letter today, I started that another day. I can’t really tell what rhymes and it seems I’m high all the time. I’m just typing.
I listen to a lot of YouTube healers, carry it around my neck, I do, I listen on my lunch break. I can’t stop me express myself, but I got a letter in the mail.
Well actually I got an email.
Something about me isn’t quite right for them. They haven’t seen me, I have a tattoo of a pen. I don’t look quite right to anybody, about my beauty is on the fence and who wants to read me my voice is weird and my background is a history, there’s no fact here, hence nothing they’d like to try to pronounce dead-upon-scene, I haven’t the slack for academia, I’m writing at my own creed.
I’m just typing. I’m just typing. I’m just trying out a voice, I can’t spend my life writing seven of the same sentences over clouds over clouds over clouds again. The time is now, bitches, get up out of bed and be witches, bitches, it’s all gone to our heads, can’t you hear the horn now? A-woooooga, that’s a brass section, mama, wake up your daughter’s on reefer again.
I’m just typing. For the love of my life I could do better. I’m just typing. For the love of starvation I could eat nothing. I’m just typing. I could start a revolution right here in my bed. If only I could get all the bedsheets out of my head. What will they think that means?
You’ll go crazy. Don’t think about it. Get up and go somewhere else. You freak. Get up the nerve, sicko, get up the nerve. You haven’t seen me going over the Manitoba falls, sir, no sir you don’t.
Won’t is such a…word…you know?
God you have to be as strange as you can be to yourself between the gaps of your thoughts so you can take a pair of pliers to your wires and know it’s you who lightsed-out and not some copy of yourself on a seldom-heard-of freak of nature’s metacognition platform on x’s dime, no no no. I have too much to say.
You have no idea what you started until you’re dead. I’m just typing. How to convey how mad I am? I am irate, furious, shrieking even, but you’d rather I tear a hole in my body than open the unobstructed in your own and just listen for one fucking second.
I’m just typing.
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My mother gave a cry in her sleep, a cry in her shower when she didn’t slip, there’s a difference in the recovery story, isn’t it?
My ears have not been working for some time I now hear on breath and memory, it’s the side of my spine that’s on the wire on the left, some trigonometry that’s
Ligamentally wrong. It throws off my facing- pacing, spelled wrong.
And when to pinpoint, or when to punish, when to pretend to have had a point, and when to have lost it in the end. when to publish, my friend?
Never, these are inside thoughts.
(Deleted: regret)
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Wave your hands in front of it, first. If that doesn’t get you an answer, try to pick up a corner and peek underneath. Not all of them can be dealt with this way, many will just likely slide through your two little fingers, you’ll remember, you are alone. You’re never with a ghost. The absence isn’t there any more than anything is there, it’s just nothing with a shape. You might try walking through it. 5 to 7 chance the shiver will tell you something. Hold your hand in the cold, that’s an idea, the whispers might travel clear enough through your bones to hit your ear drums, you might hear something. Ignoring it with your back is another strategy, but your back is more sensitive, gives away more, than you think it does, and then the ghost starts learning about you, better ways to conspicuously avoid you into your most vacuous state. Then you’d be a ghost, too, and then you might understand it better. Though at that point it doesn’t matter. You’re not matter anymore. Matter grips anti-matter, never goes well, always leaves a scar.
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Can you hear how good you all are?
A list of your classifiers wouldn’t suffice, I’ve seen enough to love you twice, your smile is up, and up is down won’t you come be a rodeo clown with me, cowboy, ride the sound.
Sounders spinning algorithm ride the favorite but couldn’t fill ‘3
Eh-hem. I have not AI to say. I am a citizen of the Milky Way. Affirm me, Great Star Command, I’m grounded infinity away- give us this thanks, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, while we level those who trespass against us, but lead us never towards temptation, but for that stick of gum gum we shoot boys. For His is the Kingdom, White Power, and The Glory, in every conceivable universe, world with a nasty end, Amen.
(The scene you’re supposed to have seen there is a young person contacting astral support in mass, and when mentally interrupted by a physical Father, the turn of the most lordly prayer to what they sarcast about it.)
All of this is to say I think you’re fantastic, you makers of art. Anything you do has got my heart. Make it weird, say something too loud, show us the soul that hosts our feelings most proud, change them, I’ll follow you into the ground. Bombs away.
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When you know your English teacher is wat hi g you one does begin to mind for c’s and n’s. I couldn’t tell you what that u-turn of a phenomenon is termed when you take your a and d away from the conjunction. Palm trees. You know. So you end up your game and go to live theater for a spell, o by the bard we make our books, butlet’s face it: theater is cringe. I mean crying in a baby face vomit up blood disco dancing white cringe. Leave it in, it’ll sit worse with the audience. Did you catch the point of my spear, or the tip of my lance? Who says words about things anymore’s a champ, that’s amore. You can’t love anything more than what points out your temper tantrum to you. Work it through with a chuckle, buck, it doesn’t have to define you. Wait for the stranger to let go, just you try. I’ll sit in the wings to watch you sing and fly, took the razor’s edge chance because alive and watching your fall is my kind of exciting, death and rebirth is all part of the body. There is only one, there was never one, always there will be one. You are them all.
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I’ve been putting this off.
I’ve been putting this off because it hurts.
I’m putting this off even right at this moment because it makes my chest tight.
It’s circling my shoulder now, threatening my neck. At some point it’ll give up on the extremities and burrow instead into the deep flesh I hide in my torso.
The other thing I’ve heard is that in the past two years I would have to go back to each to break this.
You would definitely be able to tell, but you probably can’t tell, you would definitely be able to tell that I-
No, I can’t say it.
It hurts too much.
I was raised to believe that sharing my feelings for someone with concerned is bold, forward, female perverse, so wrong I’m eleven and being screamed at. That’s a story for another day.
I’m fighting the same battle. It’s never worked. The city is bankrupt. I have perspective and low funding. For two years I’ve changed my own hands. You’re not selling what I’m not buying. I’m only one flavor option, there’s no use picking my chalk up off the menu and throwing it in your face. Water districts know exactly what I mean.
It’s actually just charming. It goes beyond a fascinating life. It goes beyond charming. It’s a greeting but your teeth are yellow. Mine. I don’t think they are but they might as well be. I just don’t sell well here.
I haven’t said it yet. It’s ridiculous.
I have a hard time sticking around to write for very long because god don’t I know the side of the fence with all the writers for love has, right, filled up. There’s no space left for me.
I can’t believe I said that.
You didn’t hear this from me. I can tell you that way, if you didn’t hear this from me.
I’m lonely.
There. It’s out. Isn’t that ridiculous. I saw the zeroing each other out, I put it in two other directions through the dust. Isn’t that ridiculous. I’m selling myself through these white line stand-ins for my chattering teeth. I’d love you to think about what they’re hiding behind.
I can’t stand in my words, but I could stand in your room and sing some to you. They might not be mine, then, unless you put your two hands in and pull them out.
Who are you talking to, me?
This is silly. Ha. Ha ha ha.
Lonely lovesick limerick builder boulders through thick lonely love lines.
What? No poetic, just earwax.
I love you.
What? Who are you? We haven’t had dinner yet, I don’t know what you taste like with coffee.
Love is stupid. Ha.
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Like at least one other writer, I have bad skin. It does the unforgivable trick of itself all over my body. My body made of bones. It goes around my body being skin and starting small fires. I can feel it on the back of my neck, over the vertebrae, just sitting there, starting fires and being bad. Bad skin. It grows all the way down to my feet, you know, it sits there and it grows and it reaches my feet and starts fires. It is bad skin. It’s almost 6:00 and it, my bad skin, is still sitting there at work. I asked it to stop, the work, go home, but it’s been ignoring me for fifteen years. I’ve learned as much about this skin as i think I can, but it’s like trying to draw a map of a map of the moon without a telescope, but at the exact same time, at the exact same time, the whole thing is like looking at a plant cell under the microscope. Just one. One big, beige, plant cell. I’ve tried covering it in pictures to distract your eyes, but most of them are bad too. I just put out a fire on my shoulder where an old cat hides thirsty. And you know, the whole time I’ve been sitting here, my skin has been too, pretending to be me.
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It collects in the high corners first never stopping so slow it’s like dust on your fingers but you’ve stopped moving you’re not dead you’ve just stopped moving and anything like it is like that it starts in the ceiling corners and then it melts the walls brown and drippy like that time you had pneumonia and they put you in the hospital for tuberculosis of the grandfather and you read Bukowski and thought about entrapment, it’s sort of like that what you coughed up but it’s closer to the feeling between when they came for the cup and it’s sort of like when you haven’t quite pulled on the string that turns on the light, you’re just hanging there just hanging just hanging just look at what’s on the walls, be amused, be satisfied with what’s on the walls, wear your clothes inside you, outside in, it’s like that but it’s purple and it’s outside and it’s times no one is scheduled for when the hell is 6:24 is anything going to come of those songs no one hears me singing to myself halloooo I’m alone. It’s like that.
Lorraine The Wrighter 