The Real Deal

The Holy Ghost

I have scheduled posts. I started setting them up since the close of last month. So…

I guess what I’m trying to say is goodbye. Again.

I know I’ve said that a bunch of times. And I never follow through. I mean, I never really leave because I always come back.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Everything is wrong. Everything feels wrong.

If I lose my place, my purpose, my direction… It’s hard to find my way back… both internally and externally.

Why does everything have to be so damn fucking hard and opposite for me?

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SO FUCK IT. FUCK IT ALL TO HELL.

i hate everything i do. seriously. fuck it. i got nothing. just wanted to not spew anger and self hate. i just sit here and not know what to write. so i read. and try to plan something else. try and catch up on any of the things i said i was going to do.

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excerpt from that paid poetry pdf i just finished

I had just been scrolling through my WordPress feed when I had read a couple of poems posted by a particular blogger. I was going through some pretty crazy paranoia, although I do want to clarify that my paranoia was more along the lines of frustrated bemusement, rather than anything outright psychotic or hysterical.

I was seeing a pattern in the poetry of recent followers; a correlation between specific metaphors, motifs and word choices I’d use in my writing, and the next day I’d see it in the writings of others. (how about that synchronicity?!)

So, with this locomotive thought hellbound for Patterni-City in my brain, I thought of myself as a queen raging out in poetic form. I wrote it in a private forum, imagining myself as (one of my online personas) Queen K of the summer courts, addressing her council of knights. This ‘world’ is a syncretisation of elements from Arthurian legend, the Kalevala, and C.S. Lewis’ Alice in Wonderland.

but fuck it, right? no one wants to read that shit. and even if they did, too late, right?

I’m too slow. So sad, too bad. just go ahead and break all 27 bones in each of my hands. cut out my tongue so I cannot speak. sew my lips and my eyes so I never have to cry.

I can be your beautifully preserved taxidermied memory of better days in the past, and vindication in the present. The dawn of a new day on the western horizon. The shadows of the future are looking brighter than ever.

 


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grandiose delusional paranoia

it’s  paranoid, grandiose, self-delusional schizophrenic to think that messages are hidden for you or from you in the mass communication publications. that there is some subtle secret, conspiratorial agenda hidden away. SOMETHING IS GOING ON RIGHT UNDER YOUR NOSE and you don’t know about it?!

To be fair, that type of shit does happen. You’d be right to be paranoid and think that this message (just like any and every other message out there) is for you. From me. Because every blog or printed media that uses the words “you” or “me” or “love” or “free” is really just my very powerful psychic brainwaves taking form and influencing every other pleb and proletariat.

Hands up! I started it! It was me first and then the gimme-kimmies! Grubby little mitten grasping at kittens.

 


chopper+2

 

 

ugh! you shot me down, bang bang.

I had my hands up. I surrendered.

My baby… shot me… down…

hardenup

 

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