i. exes, new boys, old boys, ex girls; i don't want a thing but myself & my guitar.

ii. cherub rock, get lost in it. i like it until the a.d.d. kicks in. too much cabaret-emotion and i go. it's never been long enough. these interactions do nothing for my soul.

i hate when it creeps in their eyes, this slow-growing adoration that comes too fast. i guess we all know at the beginning where we potentially stand with someone. maybe it's timing.

i don't like to touch or be touched.

sometimes i look at the crap i write, and i go, really? fanny, i'm going to fuck you up. there's reality, and then there's the bullshit you weave when you're riding some pretty space in you. yeah, it's a romance in its own way. you change the party-line & the vocabulary, but you are still a liar. you have no loyalties to beauty or love. you have no loyalties to anything but your whims & gratifications. fanny, i'd fuck you because you're hot and are made up of strange dichotomies. that's the prettier way of saying, inconsistent. boys look, and sometimes they call you chaos, but you know that they're just stupid and too dumb to accept that you're mercurial and not a muse of any kind. they want a girl to embody some eternal ideal, and you just want a body & psyche to play with until you want something else. romance is your bitch and territory, and you don't give a shit.

The concept is frames.

She asked where I hid it, and I said, "With my art supplies." People know to not touch my instruments.

--

If you gave me the alphabet & the colors, I could tell you how I felt, but without them, I am mute, trapped in the ocean of myself, where I am washed in waves and drifts, and there is only myself & the sky, in the dark colors of a storm, and the ocean, which is more than any storm.

I'm not lost.

I am in an endless ocean which I cannot control. Sometimes I go under, and sometimes I surface, tired & I am afloat, not purely of my own will. The next wave will knock the breath from me, and I will choke on strange water, and drown. I don't expect to come back up, but I don't think about coming back up. The wave hits me, and I am kicking and kicking, but it goes dark and I am drowning.  And then I wake, exhausted and worn. I am like a girl stumbling out of a fever, weak & dizzy, and still fighting, because if I stop, even when there is nothing in me that can, I will be dead.

--

There is a thin paper sheet between death and myself.

I lean against it, the way I'd rest my body on my bed, if it were a hard relief. Soft beds are pleasant, but I could do with smooth, dark stone.
I don't need it to offer me much, just a reliable resting place until I can keep moving. Sometimes I need to kneel, alone, and just take in the quiet. Sometimes I need to curl up, into a fetal ball that needs to hold onto myself for a moment. Sometimes I just need to lay my body down, and shut my eyes.

--

Bodies are okay.

I like them for sex or making love, whatever my mood is. Moods of a woman, people make humor, but we're lucky for the variation. There is a monotony of having only one experience during physical acts. People think they want the same thing over and over, but there is no constancy.

A body is a body, although I prefer healthy, expressive ones. I don't need a body by mine unless it's the right one. I don't need love.

So many strange souls are drawn to me. They want to hold me and carry me. They think, if they do, I will look from their thrown-upon-me safety and love them. There's the ugly flaw in this show. There is no love in force. They have their brash hero narrative, this romanticized evolution of caveman instincts, and I have my awareness. I have nothing for this self-made hero, this self-centered romanticizer. I am not the token object in somebody's amateur fantasy.

My love is pure; it cannot be bought with romance, nor material. It is not the prize, the digital achievement award dished out after trial & victory, in a game. I don't care if it's requited, although I wouldn't mind.

I don't want a bootlegged kind of love.

Love is truth and nakedness. People are stripped down of their aesthetics & identities, and it's not a play at anything. It's just two souls naked together, and both are wholeheartedly, earnestly saying yes.

hungarian sundays

hungarian sundays

i drink my coffee black from the paper cups
under dim barlights.
there's a strange comfort to being alone
with your fogged self where nobody really knows you.

the professional photographer has his beer over mortality,
and on one side we parry unfairly,
and the musician, he has his cheap red wine & himself, which is not bad,
but seat-side i am with me. i don't want to know.

as a child, you always ask,
as a child, you are always hungry and you need to ask for sustenance,
and if you are lucky, someone will have kindness enough to feed you.

but sometimes, you just have to feed yourself,
or not eat a thing.

gave my piece away; under.
ill & light. mouth &
things, child.

it was a choke and you are the sick toy that the girls grow bored of.
lights and orgasms, dimming and you are the wrong temperature.

i could, but i'm okay with the dirt on my skin. stones, below,
i am climbing along concrete, rusted metal frames
leave red on my palms and i am so close to the night sky.

i don't write for you, i don't sing for you, and i don't fuck for you.
the comics are eager to please, the laughter abates
a bitter toxin that runs in them; they could do with a breathmint.

i am laughing at the bar. the more it costs,
the slower i go. and they are so easy.

what makes it like this? what makes you think
that love had anything to do with this?