I’m a teacher. Im used to repeating myself over and over.
I have 2 tongue piercings, aka “venoms” got them done the same day my husband got his double ouroboros tattoo.
I have 6 tattoos, my husband has 4. Albeit his are much bigger than mine. 2 of our tattoos are matching. We have the same tattoo on the base of our nape, and the underside our left upper arm.
He’s an engineer. I’m a teacher. Really basic, boring, middle class suburban stuff.
And we are gods. But not really. But totally, nonetheless. For we have manifested ourselves across every emanation, fortune or the illusion of that springs forth from us.
Or it used to. That stopped when I got really really sick last year. And when I shared some “secrets” with others… well… That was the falling of the tower of Babylon…
In much more recent times, you can say that it was the falling of the dark tower. Idris Elba was Heimdall and he was the gunslinger. I am the rainbow bridge, the rainbow connection, I am the bifrost or Norse legend, and the dark tower of the Stephen King version.
Superman? Kal-el. For “el” is the marker of the divine. Of “god”. Before I was married I was KAT. And now I am KAT-el. Or KAL.
Superman’s weakness? Kryptonite. Krypton is the 36th element of the periodic table. Potassium is the 19th. They are the either side of the 4th line. Potassium is an alkali metal, krypton is a noble gas. Non reactive.
Kryptonite is probably a fictional crystallized version of the gas, so likely some form of salt, or nitre. Kimberlite is what diamonds are found within… I am a geode, and with the subtle art of alchemy you can distill the philosophers stone.
Now, I’m no chemist. I don’t know shit about shit. I’m just a wordsmith, I know the weight of my wordsworth. I know the value of words.
I give them out freely.
But I am sick, again. I feel it in my veins. In my blood.
For I am also diabetic. And feel my emotions course through my veins. They take my soul on a rollercoaster ride through fucking hell, and it makes me want to throw the fuck up. And so… I throw up words. Because I can’t keep them in.
Because metaphors are fucking real. No matter what I try to do, I have to keep on spinning. Fucking gamblers fucking den. Lotus fucking eaters.
I rue the memory of my once right hand jaded soldier.
My prophet echo said he’s going away for weeks. Storm is going to prison. And I am left standing here. With this little vomit bucket. And what do you know, there’s a damned hole in my bucket, dear Liza dear Liza, a-hole.
Categories: The Real Deal