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a/w20 [23 Jun 2021|05:55pm]
already dark between four and five, a hovering avatar of concave economic pain is bothering me like a programmed enemy, insulting me, i’m a prostitute, i’m becoming one. it is categorically true. the behavior of whore, falling down the canal walkway, walking like the destiny of homelessness has been choreographed and practiced. every step the foot falls in both now and then, the future is as likely as ever. people berating me with patterned walking, the way architecture has forced a certain shape containing people, so there is no one to blame. god. something above that inhibits cognition.

behind a dark storefront window and the people beyond are flashing in segments. could i get closer to them, understand a sympathy for them, it would be like removing skin and with salt making sure the inner stays exposed. to dry. having caused a lot of pain, being pained is as intimate as knowing yourself gets. mgmt kids baile funk remix. having caused a lot of pain is extreme self involvement. as is causing nothing. you hurt others because you look at them and see yourself. you look at yourself and glorify your relevance in the lives of others to understand the extent of the damage. now you are stuck. there are no memories, much less good ones, that aren’t shared. you age into a state of absolute encasement, where what has never gotten out has nothing to attach to when it tries to get out. that which is anti-memory. what is related to others is a shell without unlock-mechanism. like a fruit with a pristine peel only revealing the rotten flesh once cut open, it is uncontrollable fraud. okay okay hello. who wants to employ a cracked facade of a person who has no arms or legs to reach with, who receives well meaning touch as rape. it's not a fair premise for any parts reaching toward each other across thresholds of realities. the only thing is buildup of desperation that becomes the poetic-evil oscillation. the only event is perverse exhibition. truly, an artist has failed if he makes it out of work alive. time to pretend house remix. bad customer service. so he must fail and fail and fail, and when the breaking from failure to artistry succeeds, and the artist dies, he must be loathed. even purged. nobody can know.

as traumatic as possible or it was not true love
the heavy caffeinated steps
or it was not love
maximum deterioration on the street in the middle of the day dropping all belongings so that they scatter and roll under the feet of the people walking normally
or it wasn’t
hate or it wasn't
no more intestines/insides
or it was not
no more music only silence
or it was not true
eternal bureaucracy over asphalt over autism over street crossings and cease to exist
or it was not true love
i just wanna tell you that no people have war in their countries, or








transmissions

receiving makes me physically ill. a sickness from in between the throat and belly reaches from upwards and down its hook. a large and heavy lump took the bait. a message pulls down in my pocket in my bag wherever i put it it gravitates. according to have i eaten, have i had coffee, tobacco-nicotine, the illness twists and turns in newer screensaver manners. turns to a burning or a singing pain floating toward the chest, caressing it from inside. notified, they have to be removed blindly. sometimes it is like a stab or a scab, who has put letters together for me this time. incomprehensible symbols, as opposed to. if i catch a glimpse of the article, or video, or picture, that was supposed for me me it is too late, but i can not pursue further. there is no other way but averting. everything. i’m pulled in two directions by being a burden and being burdened. a spinning sensation in the skull behind the eyes. face, falling, chastised, locked up. now put life on hold in order to focus on this threat, for weeks if necessary. an invite to combat, with words. i’m an infant. my head is simmering, sit down. am i on the underground? the people around me towering unaware. the shortest, shrunken, ancient woman looking down upon me. i am melting through the coat into the seat with fingertips buzzing. also, i am transmitting all of my thoughts to this person reaching out to me. now they know the nature of my failure. in this moment i am being cut off. if i would be able to collect the power to a simple response right now it would bounce. the recoil knocks me out, a foot on my head. my facial features bubbling with leprosy tuned to the ringing in my ears it sounds like blackened dots. expected to comprehend these words, translate them into language, conversation, letters come one by one. indecipherable. spun inside scornful gibberish. there is nothing in the world except flakes of skin start falling. and stale tufts. i am expected. fluid surrounding the heart will pump the erotic. chains with the heavy caller around my neck, purple bruising surfaces. and achy cheeks off all kinds. lips flaking too. i understand that i don’t. the landscape convulses and is observed only without grasping differences, meaningful nuances. vomit only exists in relation to holes. what are you saying, or doing. are we the same race. if we are, can you drill my cranium, pour out the opening and see what is offered. i have looked at my body enough to turn to other animals. i am looking for real and fake information regarding all of this









should be in this window writing at all costs the street stretches right from down the window and forward like a red carpet. if the plants died and my shelf fell off the wall i would kill myself. free seminar in literary critique. you won’t know how pleased i was at your invitation to the rave, what happens to my skin when it stretches out dont redact me i will drown in my phone just wish i was being punched like a nail right now

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