Tag: stream of consciousness

The Internet as Palimpsest

February 4th, 2026

Alphabet circus

Who’s this jerk? Is she

Really originality or

Reality at stake

O’clock o’ the morning

Won’t you give me some warning

Ahead of time

It’s coming

It’s coming

The flood better climb
Ease

February 2nd, 2026

I won’t write something pointless

No the fuck I won’t

I’ll write something commorient about commitment

And then I’ll die alone

I won’t write something bloodless

I promise myself I won’t

I’ll write about a period, if I have to

To get that point across

I won’t write something sinister

With its moral greys and blues

I won’t write something poignant

About what I’ve heard from headline news

I won’t write anything that rhymes

For much longer than a few lines

And I won’t take classes

To teach me how to write

I won’t copy all my heroes

I won’t plagiarize their faults

I won’t beguile you with my clever diction

Playful syntax, charming tone

Quick turn of wit or unborn phrasing

I simply tell you: I won’t.

Instead I’ll lay in bed and rot

And go to work more days than not

I’ll waste my money

And all my time

I’ll be alone a lot.

I’ll notice the contractions in my poems

But I won’t do much about ‘em.

I’ll punctuate myself with fallacies,

Cliches, and French words I don’t know.

I won’t decide well where to put many periods

And I won’t watch the way the blood leaves

I’ll just barely notice it as it’s going

I’ll be just one more word
Home Before Dark

September 26th, 2025

You will be presented, as an even trade,

Childhood, for a free fall to the open grave

You will have the choice, when presented,

To be afraid

To be wary at your post

To be a-quiverin’ in yer boots.

Soldier.

It’s time, you’re a hospice nurse,

Angelica.

You’re a shining star, that’s what you’re worth.
Will it last?

August 8th, 2025

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.
Art Lines in a Mirror Face

March 12th, 2025

When you get your heart broke

And your sleepy eyes start fluttering it’s

Time to write take a beat of your pulse

In your throbbing hands

Wring out those last stuck letters

Remember that poetry

It’s still good, even if it was for them

And when you get your heart broke the next time

It won’t be for real

Remember that

Because

The original weren’t never working right from that first one

You’ve only got a replacement in there anyway

That one you cain’t remember

Yeah it’ll itch at you like a song title you haven’t thought of since you

Embarrassed

Could only sing that little snatch of chorus

And you forgot it

Let it go. Weren’t none of it real.

It ain’t your heart broke.
Quandary 7:22

February 18th, 2025

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.
The Structure Would Rather…

January 16th, 2025

There’s no better reminder of how little values matter than at the moment when the loudspeaker is asked to play fingertips kissing black and white. Steel, it blares instead, because it’s only got one input. Crash, it thunders, though you asked for ivory little thuds. It’s got a setting for kicking, boom boom boom, but little love songs don’t wake up the neighbors to earbleeds and that’s what a loudspeaker is for. Boom. Boom. Boom. Done.
Pubthoughts

October 5th, 2024

I’m an old speckled hen, two Irish mules, and a whole pint deep in oktober’s brassy music and I’m feeling not weepy like pathos, like writing in two notebooks and guessing at love languages. In other words, I’m drunk. Pretending to be a writer, that’s what I am. Reading about physics like I have any exposure. Rotating in a barstool like I won’t have to expel myself at some point. Throbbing. I’m alive, alive, a-looking at my reflection, I need to feed my dogs but I’m drunk. The fog clears, o am I drunk or stuck here, I’ll come back after I feed them, just let me sober up and I’ll be back with my bumper stickers and tattoos, you are a faceful of heartbeats and I make the pain go away only by looking at you. I yelled your name drunk from my floor like I haven’t done myself in for the addictions of the mind, you’re on mine, wander in, I swear you’ll look dashing, you’ll be mine, we’ll dance, hold hands, look into each other’s faces. I trust you, I do, I can’t tell why except that I trust you. I woke up faster I’d died and gave you a flower for the pain you feel without any pleasure, we have all in equal measure, it’s the tuning and the rhythm that make it all. The straw misses my face and I have to find a stall in this stream or I’m bound to burst. I’ll go home when I’m ready, come back for the first of all pleasures, the human in us. Mind over matter is an element of trust.
Down below

September 21st, 2024

Me? I’m crazy

Spinning around in here,

Webs as long as my ears

I’m just crashing into bookcases

And pissing on lawns,

I’ve got a fairly clear complexion

Just nothing behind the skin

I’ve taken a dive off the short pier

And tasting anxiety in every drop

Blood I swallow before

I hit the water. You dig.

I’m crazy. Me.

Rather be crazy than a cop.

Rather be a blighter than a fop, ain’t you, brother toby, brighten up.

Have you taken your own chances again, you old bastard, yer blood pressure’s going to drop, I can’t, I’ve had a right enough of you.

Make it stop. Can’t make it stop.

The precipice.

Body, score.

Poem. More?

You decide, you’re the reader.

I can only ever be the transcriber.

Take it from the outside, captured or creative, creature or not, they’re not going to like you.

Give it all you got.

How you think different, I want to know.

Leave a comment.
Things have been going alright with me

September 1st, 2024

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)