fucking is like church

by v.l.v.

it's obvious he waits for an answer
so i flippantly clean the dirt from underneath my finger nails
clear my throat
get ready cut him down with some sassy little rebuttal oozing with subtext
and then
incoming!

fucking is like church
speaking languages we feel, but don't understand
if God doesnt exist
and it's me who's been orchestrating this whole thing
well then it feels like bursting capillaries
visible, but caught under the surface

 and my blood circulates backward,
maybe that's why my thoughts do too
but it leaves room for him to try to make me new

he says he wants to get in my head, but if he were IN my head, he'd want OUT instead

i try to tell him he's mad!
but he replies, "you see what you want to."

i see blue jays who don't sing anymore perched on spruce trees

animal carcasses on pavement made of the same

i see celebrations for hollow days by hollow people
carving pumpkins with their own bones

people who'd rather watch you turn to ghost, than turn you on.

i see sliver linings on copper-toned tongues,
the excess slobber pitter pattering like morning dew upon faces
who call a house, a home but won't call a neighbor a friend.

maybe there just isn't time
to care about the ripples we leave in other people's lives

maybe, that i am there in the first place is enough.
i just hope that when im gone, they remember the good stuff

problems are your brain masterbating

write something new
write something new


buying a week's worth of groceries and going out to dinner EVERY SINGLE NIGHT


puke out complex emotions for thoughts that have no illuminating subtext


i can't make one goddamn life decision before on or directly after my menstrual cycle
i guess ill save decisions for my 40s

we save records to repeat historical pleasures

pleasure is fleeting enough to make me happy


stop thinking and start taking whatever breaks fastest

the pieces settle where you throw them


you are always going to be the rat, i tell him
why not make your own maze???
instead of letting other people build the walls despite you



left alone is not alone
and that's
always been the
unachieved
fix

but highs
demand
fixes
and lows
only need more fuel

problems are your brain masturbating

Post title

i'll care when i won't

i'll love you when i don't

the artist is now a survivalist

art has never been about passion or outlets or sharing
but right now
the artist is a survivalist

art is the last notion of surviving in a place where we wonder exactly why we're so fat,
casually forgetting we fatten up our legs riding escalators with blank stares, putting olympic-sized effort into achieving the nearest parking space,
while feeding our children McDonald's as they learn that love is how much time they get with the iPad

the greasy vomit of admitting
we've systematically surrounded ourselves with shit
and somehow expect not to develop a taste for it?

you see i call myself a feminist
but still avoid the scale at the gym
and draw on layers of black eyeliner
like with each line my confidence slowly peaks over the horizon
to say hi to other creatures who do exactly the same to confirm that the cheaply made chemicals i've put on my face is normal, but even more hard to swallow, necessary.

that's the thing about shit, it begets shit

our heros are men who beat their bodies to shit for 20 million a year
men who greet strangers with the end of a shotgun
our heros are not subtle
they're big and loud and they fuck a lot of shit up

shit shit shit shit fuck

our heros are men who use their erections like candle sticks to light the way for the masses
and we praise them, smiling wide as they squirt white hot liquid onto our faces 8 hours a days, then let out a long sigh and ask, "Was it as good for you as it was for me?"

And we say yes. politely and safely. we say yes. all the fucking time saying yes for no reason at all. yes yes yes yes yes.

No.

Art has never been about passion, it's about survival

it's about preserving that life-saving moment where at least one thing makes sense about why we are here!

art has never been about the artists
it's about those messy-faced whores dressed in daily drag
strutting in their high heels, business suits, neck ties, painted finger nails, loafers, cuff links and pencil skirts
modeling for the masses
each faking it better than the last
until we can no longer remember what faking it even felt like
but there's no time
because as we say in biz,
the
show
must
go on.

overripe

it's so ugly
i watch it until days go by
i watch it until months go by
until i no longer have to

i havent felt this before
an ugly thats in my guts
mangling anything beautiful that's put inside

an ugly that yelps for attention
and then barks for the privacy
just to keep it up
sickly, deranged

ugly like nothing that has to do with fashion
or even your fat shins
or dead ends of hair that stick out from where
you used to care that hair was there

but it's hard to compare
the ugly that's festered and no longer needs to argue why

i don't watch; i abide

if you love something

if you love something, keep it to yourself. tell the world only what it absolutely has to know.

keep sacred what you can when you can because they feed off corrupting the pure

and they always

eventually

they will eat it

and leave the bones

if you love something, keep it buried, in the backyard, if you have to
tell no one

except the one whose life it will change

s l o w

there's a reason the slow burn has been romanticized
and not a fast one
quickness is ruler of our everyday lives
we remember the what's slow
how do we enjoy things? slow
slow is the power to fuck a woman
really fuck a woman
 accumulation of instances
all leading up to something
something we've thought about; we get to keep thinking; think about

slow is life, but fast is our lives

watch me and I'm gone

slow me down and i'm your's

slow motion see me let go; we tend to die young

2 thoughts on “Save some time for howlin at the moon”

1. vixon says:

   May 24, 2013 at 11:18 am

   We like you separated, Kyle. Burning softly, quietly.

   taste as fast as we talk
   split second ego tripping like sample-sized romance sifting
   couple up, saddle up, don’t watch the horizon too contently
   when you get close, you’re only farther away