Happy Birthday Berlin my Love. A series of horror stories and poems for the city that saved me. Why horror? If you have to ask, then she’s not for you 😉. Available for purchase on Amazon, iTunes, Barnes&Nobles, and many more!!!
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It seems that you have stumbled upon this site, for which I have no answer as to why you are here. All I have for you are more questions. Questions upon questions upon questions. So, if you don’t want to think, or you expect some kind of answer, then run little one. Run very quickly away. For this is not the place for you, and you have stumbled into an ever expanding mind with no foreseeable exit.
It’s not you, it’s me. I sweat profusely, I don’t know how to dress, and, frankly, I don’t know how to treat you right or respect you baby I don’t know. Maybe I was supposed to know you, love you, respect you, feel you because you remind me of my body. An organism with a self-cooling capability that produces water as easily as Mother Earth does from the sky, and I wonder if this was part of your game? To create forced connections with water? To sweat out the discomfort to prove my humanity and to force me to feel something. Yes, I have this body, yes I am real, and yes I do feel … discomfort being reminded of my body’s homeostasis. Its liquid sliding scale.
However, I do intensely enjoy the other component of my fluid homeostasis, but why is cumming so much more pleasurable than sweating? Both create pools in my bed, but only one is a pleasure to sleep in. Okay, in reality neither, and I really need to wash my sheets. Why do we sweat things out? Why do we (some of us) squirt? Why is an orgasm a flood or a push? Why do we create things we push away from when we are really pushing away from ourselves? Why is it so uncomfortable being human?
So you see Summer, I hate that you remind me of myself and my humanity. You will never be Autumn, Summer. Whenever you are in full bloom, I always want to recede and hibernate. Whenever you are smiling, I want it to rain. I know its strange being a Summer baby, but I grow in winter while the trees reserve their energy for the next cycle. You don’t do that Summer, you drain me.
And yet, I do have a fondness for you. Memories I will always associate with you. You are the hills on fire and the ash that I had to wipe off my windshield like snow. You were scabbed knees and burned feet. You will never be Autumn. I didn’t know Autumn growing up. In Southern California, we had two seasons, fire and sun, and there was no mention of Autumn. What did she look like? Who lived with her? I had heard about the changing color of leaves and the rumored “coat season” but had never experienced it myself. Even when visiting Ohio, I was only ever witness to Summer and Winter. You always did like to follow me wherever I went.
But where is Autumn? I had met an Autumn in high school and thought I had found her, but she moved a year later. I wondered if she would ever return. Where did she go? And what kind of cruel parents would raise a kid named Autumn in Southern California. I didn’t have the courage to say hello and, I mean, what would she think of my clothes? I had hoped she was not as judgmental as Wednesday or Noon. Fuck Noon. Her parents paid her full ride to college and she never worked a day in her life, so fuck Noon. Also, your name means “bread.” God I love bread. Bring me your sweet loaf, so I may nestle in your yeasty folds. Okay, that sounded disgusting. Why is “yeasty” so gross? Why is discharge? Why is everything associated with the human body perceived in such negative connotative terms? Especially for women? I can’t help where my sweat collects in my folds.
the sound of an
turning on and
Check out the full performance here: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=wHZqcU6ciiQ
Mama never said I was pretty growing up
She said it was cuz
She didn’t want it to be my
So I believed to be ugly
And when my breasts grew full
And my knees ached from the weight of them
I was called a tomboy
Flooded with hormones, aggression, and hairy pits,
And became the Beast from the Middle East
So I believed to be ugly
Until the two towers fell
While walking down glass corridor halls
And the Christian Youth had found their new crusade
And I believed to be hated.
But all these things I had believed to be
Had become disillusionments
in my 20’s
My mind ravaged by a man
As my faith was raped by the system
Body buried beneath forms x, 1040, and C
While tinnitus buzzed in the left
A feeling about being reminded of something
Someone I had once believed to be
But I could not think of self
While trying to survive
Learning self-inoculation against
The gravity of global virolity
The fury of each new pain
Remembers caliced conquests
lessening the intensity
I am believed
to be learned, experienced, pseudo-spiritual
Searching to satiate the thirst of
A fluid life
I do not know
What I believe.
At base level, money is a mere concept. Most people grasp its abstract nature, but this is trivial amid its ubiquitous dominance. And although it seems that hard cash is as infallible as the law of gravity, modern society is proving that it’s as bendable as a penny. During the COVID-19 crisis we’ve witnessed the limitations of our financial system, rekindling discussions about economic overhaul. Digital currency, universal basic income, and preparations for a post-scarcity society have entered global dialogues. Perhaps it’s time to reconsider our relationship with money. How much do we really trust it? How might we function without it? (gasp)
My tits are melting. My armpits are melting. My eyes are melting. I’m producing more fluids than an orgy and feeling far less sexy.
Do people ever truly feel sexy in an orgy? Do people ever truly feel sexy when they’re melting?
sexy metal melting
hashtags of heat
extra savory salaciousness
never ending numerical
determinations of comfort
25, 31, 38
75, 82, 96
numbers, grades, degrees, and fahrenheit
Does knowing the melting point help ease the inevitable discomfort? Why are melting and freezing given points? Does the spectrum help humanize and personify our bodies subjugation?
Perhaps. Perhaps they remind us that we are subjects lined up on points and spectrums of creations we do not make but give name to. Are we no better than cretins or parasites? Viruses easily disturbed by numerical extremes. Or, maybe we are more like bacteria rather than a virus. Depending on the spectrum and refusing to fall off the edge.
Sometimes, I wish I could melt when the rain falls and that each drop would pull me down into the earth, down into its core, where the temperatures are unfathomable and it’s vulcan movement blends all the elements together to create new ones.
Sometimes, I wish all my elements had melted and been absorbed in the core, so I could no longer feel what it is to melt as my skin pools pockets of sweat in all my glorious folds and crevices sitting on the underground thinking about if they had dug just a little deeper, we would be in the belly of the Earth pulsing with her rhythms and reminded that it any minute she could swallow us whole, break us down, and make us into something new.
I once met a girl who had melted. She explained it quite matter-of-factly. She had gotten up that morning at her usual time, took the same tramline, and drank the same two latte macchiatos she always did. She was giving a presentation to a major tech company about the importance of employee engagement and receiving feedback when she pointed to the board realizing that there was a dripping stump where her index finger used to be. As the presentation continued, she was forced to slam her elbows on the keyboard to switch slides as her hands had completely dissipated. Yet, she persisted until her tongue had melted in her mouth, and she had accidentally swallowed it like you do with snot when you have a runny nose. She continued until all that was left were her shins and feet rigidly planted between the projector screen and the computer.
Three days later, the attendees submitted their presentation feedback report unanimously agreeing that it was the most informative presentation they had ever had, but the presenter herself was a bit “lackluster.”
She re-emerged two weeks later, still no head, swimming in the canal, splashing and bubbling about. She paddled through me as I melted into the Spree.
Hey Everybody! If you got some time and an open mind, check it out! This is my third ever podcast session, so I truly hope you enjoy the listen.
Colour is a powerful yet often overlooked force. In our hyperactive age, it’s easy to forget that colours have long solidified allegiance, status, brands, and tradition. Is it time to reconsider this everyday phenomenon? How, for example, might colour affect someone who is colorblind? What might skin tone indicate in a future society where whites are no longer the majority? And are we exploiting colour to toxic levels? Welcome to the Wicked Podcast, where imagination unfurls! PLUS: Following the outro music, hear a poem from our special guest, Nia Calloway — winner of April’s Wicked Poetry Slam also themed Colours.
My cat turned into a person this morning.
Going about doing her normal daily routines.
I watched a person shit in a box in front of me.
Eat from the floor. Sunbathe nude. Then turn back into my cat.