Po-uh-tree? Ware Weir Goin We Woahnt Kneed Po-uh-tree.
Eye want moar
than langwich
kan giv me.
Eye want moar
than grammer
n speling
kan nertur
in me.
Eye want moar
than psyens
n relijen
kan give me.
Eye want yew
n yor blud
n bone n sinew.
Eye want yore
thawt prosess
befor yew put
it into werds -
thatz y eye
wrote thiz lyk
thiz so yew kewd
c how much effert
goez into vocab
n sintax n etimologie
n seperayshun from
breyn 2 payper.
So scroo all that
n give me pyur
unadulteratid
YEW.
“When the beautiful young man drowned— accidentally, swimming at dawn in a current too swift for him, or obedient to some cult of total immersion that promised the bather would come up divine, mortality rinsed from him— Hadrian placed his image everywhere, a marble Antinoüs staring across the public squares where a few dogs always scuffled, planted in every squalid little crossroads at the furthest corners of the Empire. What do we want in any body but the world? And if the lover’s inimitable form was nowhere, then he would find it everywhere, though the boy became simply more dead as the sculptors embodied him. Wherever Hadrian might travel, the beloved figure would be there first: the turn of his shoulders, the exact marble nipples, the drowned face not really lost to the Nile—which has no appetite, merely takes in anything without judgment or expectation— but lost into its own multiplication, an artifice rubbed with oils and acid so that the skin might shine. Which of these did I love? Here is his hair, here his hair again. Here the chiseled liquid waist I hold because I cannot hold it. If only one of you, he might have said to any of the thousand marble boys anywhere, would speak. Or the statues might have been enough, the drowned boy blurred as much by memory as by water, molded toward an essential, remote ideal. Longing, of course, become its own object, the way that desire can make anything into a god.”
—The Death of Antinoüs, Mark Doty.Genesis 2.0
And on the eighth day, God said
“Let there be Tumblr
For this world of my creation
And the children for whom I created it
Wander not in circles
But in straight lines of clear thought and innovation.”
And there was Tumblr
And it was good
To man, God’s regent on Earth, He said
“My child
Take this Tumblr that I have created
Take it and stop
Stop the unwavering path of discovery
Stop the ascension
Stop the march toward enlightenment
Halt
Cease the advancement
Use Tumblr to linger at length on the plateau of the gullible.”
And into the arms of man
God did place Tumblr
Into Tumblr did man pour his time
And man stopped
Depressing the economy of knowledge
Old thoughts recycled
Painted as thoughts anew
New works devalued
For no idea could best ideas hither-to conceived
Man began to crave only that he already knew
Expelling those few who deigned the past be left forgotten
God watched his regent stall
And knowing it was good, He said
“Let Tumblr remain
For my children stormed the heights
And very nearly looked upon me
They are made in my image
But to them
They may see I am made in theirs
Let Tumblr halt their minds
Stall their creativity
Let Tumblr stop man knowing they are akin to God.”
Tumblr spread upon the Earth
While man wandered circles
Forgetting straight paths
Forgetting the progression that lead to heaven
And it was good
For God
Remained a god in the eyes of man
Stardust
I look in the mirror. I am ugly,
I think.
I hate the thickness of my brows.
I hate the freckle on my neck.
I hate the color of my eyes.
No, not today, I say.
I drag my skeleton from the
veil of skin.
I plop my heart into the sink.
I turn it over with my hands,
my fingers staining in pomegranate-coloring.
I listen to it beat.
I am alive, I think.
I learned somewhere that
human beings consist of stardust.
I am stardust, I say.
I listen to myself breathe.
I count all of the times
I should have been dead
and something saved me.
I can do this, I tremble.
I watch my lungs fill
with air.
I watch my stomach
fill with butterflies.
I look outside and
admire the constellations
in the cold sky.
I am stardust, I repeat.
I am comforted by being
a part of a star,
rebirthed,
living.
I place my skin back on
and smile at myself,
knowing that I’ll have
to repeat the process tomorrow,
but that is okay,
because I am still here,
and that’s all that matters.
Literary
An Orwellian lover is really a downer
Apologizing to fate for calling it love
The Asimov just feels eldritch
Pardon me for laughing
How the Hemingway wraps you
In a storm of powerful characters
Like hurricanes and earthquakes
Enduring accusations from heartless laughter
The Lord Byron broods
An exile of variety
Squinting into his espresso at Starbucks
Falling silent mid-phrase
Stares at you wistfully
Before penetrating the blank
Patch ‘pon the canvas
Spouting song lyrics
While the Steven King grins maniacally
Lowering the curtain
Unseen twins in the corner
He would indulge your secret fetish
But then probably lock you in a closet
For a rainy day
The victim wears a shade of bliss
A Fitzgerald speaks of introspection
And longing
As if it were some obstacle
To finding our forbidden selves
But find me a Frost
Demanding reality
With simple words that resonate
A thousand fathoms deep
‘haps I shall seek the company of an Amy Lowell
Devoid of charms
Excavating a rusted dalliance
Why, we’ll just create new patterns
Watching Billy Collins take off Emily Dickinson’s clothes
And finding buttercups underneath.
…..
Collaboration between Lady Mycroft and Tim Gunn of Stray Notions
silly boy, commitments are for men.
i’ve always written my suicide notes on Sundays
with a No. 2 pencil
next to the gun (with an empty chamber) a glass of
unopened scotch i stole from my
grandpa on his seventy-five birthday, it is Jim Beam
that i drink as I sink lower into my seat
it is usually night, and the sun is gone
i begin to write:
i want to die.
tonight i die
goodbye
however i am horrified of commitments
and erase the whole damn note
with my No. 2 pencils eraser
i want to die.tonight i diegoodbye
instead, i drink from the bottle
of Beam, pass out to dream
of a day when the pencil writes
in ink.
Prayer for the prey
Another nameless bullet takes a faceless future,
We mourn what was born in a chaotic catechism,
It’s senseless,
When incentives for killin sound more appealin then livin,
a lifestyle portrayed as unattainable, fuels the slayin of the youth,
Sell a couple rocks to be a mountain in the streets,
Spit a couple bars about being behind bars to become a hierarchy in the street pedigree,
The juxtaposition of innocent murders,
my humanity weeps,
Another nameless bullet,
Killin another unspoken Dream.
