the dimensions of outer space vision
comedy that attracts back to living
webs in solitude suspense in the living room


East, yet to be seen.
I want to be there, and feel the stares of people I will come to know.
And in the meantime, get to know the homegrown.
owned, breeded and sold.
purity, no washing of the product.
it’s the weekend. oh it’s a party.
but my party. and i will last through it. and sustain in the daytime.
sleep is close to secondary.
primary and a half.

and as the lights go out on the train, everyone is sent in a tender panic.
the changes are comforting to my own cycle.
and it has returned and i can maintain it.

i can see the natural white blonde which is stunning. in any setting.

my hunger unsettling. no problems with it.
blonde is like cream in my strawberry champagne
and i just want something to fill me.
as unappealing as the formentation white may be.
it settles a desire.

influences of kerouac, jack
discussions of junky and bringing it back (junkie)
sugar and her heart attacks
in the emotional standpoint
an aspect of which i have eliminated madness
and respect with total control.

today's date.

depart from this ego
comfort in your own state
learn to love yourself and the folk
it’s okay, sometimes.
to enjoy the sensitivity.


Careerism Cassandra

In a cool, dry, place, unkempt:
holding a hospital in yr claw, what should be holding you.

Stop, tether, stop. We don't walk so good.
Staggered amongst recordings, seeded and dead,
proceed to dive, without warmth.

I've gotten nowhere with these moans,
these nighttime initials.
Tumbling feelings, parasitic infections, burrowed in seagrass,
shivering between blades,
coming home to sand and a shell I expected to grow into.

But the flesh does not move unless by dragging, unless by wolves.
I do not grow myself,
Tumors don't diagnose, the plugging does.

Fix and kill, fix and kill, you can't plug a home because we do not rescue behaviour. Behaviour satisfies within cages. we do not monitor you.
They'll feed us to the dogs, Cassandra. ou'll eat yrself and I'll rattle through the howls...so fucking depressing, so fucking depressing. Fix us. Kill us. Stop. Tether. Stop.x
Bodies in a cool dry place, classified, and never known.


If I'm going to waltz I'll do it clumsily
sloppy and incomplete
wrist to wrist, like I sleep
because there's plenty of opportunities
to do things well.