November 1st 10:41 am
October 31st
Why is it I see myself in Characters like Raskolnikov and Humbert Humbert and not the likes of Daisy Buchanan or Little Bo Beep?
October 30th
Atopia. Non place. A state of placelesness. We are cosmic Eggs Hatching! Luteal, the unwanted woman. Have his lungs dried for me?
October 29th
I’m the only star
still alive
who cares to shine
in the dark night sky
It’s so quiet
on my own
I’m the loneliest girl
in the great
wide world
Is there a medicine
For that?
october 28th 3:27 pm
listening to soothsayers on the internet. To ladybirds, robins that fly in the window and look up at the ceiling before flying away. Hover there like a humminbird, ‘a 3,300 year old soul waits to meet another.’ His main spirt guide he calls by name, everything else is gesturing at the sky. The monad. Ancient substance of time. Aether. What fills the heavens above. The scar in the black night sky. I watched a film Yesterday. “La Bola Negra” Lacuna, a gap, absence, missing part. Did I offer my skin to the void too early? And now it has tasted me it is satisfied? Though that which I long to be consumed by is fed by endlessness and has a hunger that cannot be satisfied by flesh alone.
October 27th
Sea thorn, eyes in throat. Pallendrome of emptiness. Went on a date to the Chateau this evening with E.
October 26th
Lunacy comes from the word Lunatic. Lunatic comes from Lunar, from one that is in madness with the moon. Epilepsy and madness, diseases thought to be caused by the moon. Moon grows worms in the belly, grows snakes in the stars. Arranges phenomena in the closet, in the hallway between bedroom and bathroom, arranges scars in the earth, wounds in the astral plane, music in the lungs to be sang and sang. There is memory here of a time where I was so happy I could die. There is memory here of a time when I was sick with sadness. Now I am suspended, ballerina dreamer, his limbs don’t feel the same.
October 25th
Fuscous. viscous. a clog in the Dream artery. The sound of alien flowers as they seed in the earth. The soil that permits them access to another world. The limbs and feather of the lingus, the web of bacteria that connects us. The dreams we remember and the ones we forget.
The checkout man at a 7 eleven is the same wherever you go.
october 24th
back in california. sea blue dream drifter. silence is the most thunderous sound.
October 23rd 1:46 pm
I was resigned to believing i’d made fantasy again. That he didn’t feel for me what I feel for him. I watch him reject a pickle in the sky. it looks like dry salamander skin. It is a good thing not to eat it. We speak through aviation headsets. I ask him about ground control. Later at his apartment, he puts his hand on my leg.
October 22nd
something in me throbs and aches and wants
october 21st 10:01 am
Deepening within dreams, closing out the hollow world. What has been granted to me through agony is a private universe of endless beauty. i stomach blades and they grow into tall flowers that reach out my throat for a look at the stars. I grow flowers that phosphorize in darkness. I grow night vegetables and night fruits that hide under soil in daylight.
october 21st 1:03 am
Do you think a good goal to aspire toward is to be so lovely as a human being that people would like to be haunted by you once you are dead?
october 21st 1:01 am
Sometimes all a demon is is a sleepy angel .
Radiance is alabaster, something illusive on the cheek, a pheromone maybe, something that rots.
I am enchanted only by dark things. I am gnawing at the teeth with light. When she troubles me with her death wish, I sink into the base of myself. The fumes of hell leak from her, taunt me with breath, lure in me, some secret thing.
I am wishless when not dreaming. What keeps me from sleep keeps me from dreams, and so those evenings of swollen and alone, of radioactive loneliness, come from reaching out into a world that is not my own. Into the living world. Loneliness is denying the grace of solitude. Extraction of memory from some distant chamber within the heart. Within the quiet heart. The heart is maybe silent. The heart is maybe entirely alone. As I age, I find the stars speak to me less and speak to me more. I have learned to understand their language. The sky has collapsed on me. I am nauseous with radiance, starved of darkness. Playing in the rain to hide my tears.
october 20th 3:39 pm
i awoke this morning with scars in my thraot. with small cuts along the asophageous. Ectsasy or AgonY, something luring itself through my stomach from the dream world. It seems I am used like a drug mule for dreams. Like my organs are stuffed full of them in sleep and carried to the waking realm. I am not payed good money for this, but I am given honorable favor with the Gods.
october 20th 1:36 am
wet earth daydreamer. has my psychological, metaphysical journey through time and space ended and been replaced by dates with “founders” of iphone applications and dreams of eccentric, autistic, 60 year old cock? of course it is possible this is a wrinkle in the fabric of my destiny that only deepens and offers respite from the need to traverse any great planes of existence, dimensional and non dimensional reality and spectral stratospheric phenomena of altruistic space and time. I can experience what it is to be a creature of pavement, ritual, oblivion and still worship the void in the black, night sky.
october 20th 1:18 am
again it gnaws at me, this ache for. him. he is of course, invisible and visible, here but not here, like every good thing in my life. i drive to the beach, run on the sands, the blue, wet, warm horizon. the foam from the sea as it curls around my ankles. i was surprised when i got to his house today and saw her there. is she fucking him? she can’t be fucking him, can she? i think i’d let him do anything to me. i like how human i become in his presence. how void of stars. how all i want to do is clean his kitchen and suck his cock. it becomes very vital to be encased in flesh. to become something enterable, to become real. he is older than me, i am frothing like the sea. there are no poetic ways to say “i need you inside of me.” i want his animal nature. i want to express. something in me longs to leak itself.
i desire him immensly. i probably should have kept this for my journal, though he’ll never read this. i wish he would. i wonder if he did read this, would he know i was speaking of him.? he has a U in his name. it;s impossible for me to hide from this feeling. I want nothing from him but to be fucked repeatadly and in whatever way he desires me. What a twisted thing to admit on the internet to a small group of strangers.
october 19th 1:11 am
in dreams i am encumbered by a strange, black flower. extends its hands around me, and i am choking on it, sinking through the afterglow. the bones that lay inside the ocean, sleep before the dream unfolds. her tongue extends for ants, retracts by mooncry, by larvae, by paradox of paradox. the acid melts inside the mouth, into the teeth, the throat, the stomach, sinking through the body now, until only heaven, radiant illusion, and life before life. sound out the ocean, the ways in which i’ve yearned. lay to rest the swamp feast, the ribs which throb and ache, the cool and mangled body, the parasite that dies. she sleeps inside a photograph. we come through them, then we come through a beautiful wave, mad with fevers, mad with black hole. persist or deny the heartsong, blood of life and life of blood. quiver through memory like cells wobbling the earth, stomachs filled to death by love for what is behind them, and teeth gnashed free of pain. these are all prayer worthy operas. but here lay the bones which ache, fluid in the neck, thoughts of hearts like they are beating, and for me, lungs dry, his, and the breath empties out of the body.
but i, still waiting for the words to come flying in like aliens to carry me away from this sick world. since the telephone dries, i dry, waiting for a destination to find whatever it is i’m looking for. but since his torso is full of ants, and since they shuffle about in little arrows pointing to this gaping hole inside his abdomen where his heart has fallen, since he has been stuffed full with metal bolts and balls of hair, i will instead post this photograph on the internet in hopes it will make me feel less and less alien, or less and less alone.
sunday october 18th 2026
it’s not unusual, through blood support, to find another world to watch the stars from. twitch, hide, scream or be quiet, i am constantly inside of dreams. Undulating between the phenomena of restlessness and ecstasy. it seems to me there is no place greater to witness life than Some otherwise enchanted glyph. we speak in ways we understand. there is little here for the dreamers. there is little left here for the ones who live on dreams.
october 17th
Oneiric, Chthonic, evanescent
This too, cannot be explained only experienced and even then, slightly. Surrendering the human need to control or understand and with gentleness. allowing the psychedelia of experience to have its way with you. Unfolding and blooming in the iris of time. A petal unfolds to itself in same measure it unfolds to the world. There is no preparatory unfolding. It just is. If I am to share the waves of slop I am to share the seams of allowing. It is medicine to preform ecstasy in the graveyard. There are few sacred spaces left on this plane, and death is one of them. one we still dance around, awed by its emptiness. You can wear the perfect old boots with the perfect jean shorts and eat a slice of pizzA while you cross the street without care and be considered a modern angel because you are and because you belong to the world that lives. Those of us who belong to the world that sheds and bleeds and dies must question everything not because we want to but because we must. It can be a tiring lonely existence to be the witness, but so and so it is. Explore under fertile microscope the dust and waves of dust within particle psychosis. Psychosis is freedom from something. Every state is freedom from every other state.
october 17th 2026
sometime in August i was thinking: “Disintegration” by The Cure can remedy even the deepest feelings of loneliness if played at high volume whilst walking alone through a graveyard or preferably a natural, empty expanse where one can dissolve their senses in the magic of the earth and feel subliminally those things too deep to name. Allow the subtle body to dance or cry within the stillness of a body walking itself down the street.
october 16th
if there is distance between hypnotic states it is because the body must acclimate to new heights of experience otherwise classified as hysteria
october 15th
are we oblivion together? i dream your dreams nightly. seems we are oblivion to one another.
october 14th
you want a heart that’s changing. that’s how you know you’re still alive.
october 13th
Spinal memory
Follicular voice that speaks after bleeding
if i am lacking vision it is because god has his two hands over my eyes.
october 13th
I JUST WANT TO FEEL SOMETHING IS SACRED IN THE EVER FEVER OF THE WORLD.
October 12th
“When I forget I am a vessel, I become a wound.”
“When I forget I am a vessel, I become a wound.”
“When I forget I am a vessel, I become a wound.”
october 11th
2:11 am
Her plants grew so tall and her garden so healthy because of the tears she cried. Endless and nutritious and always in the open air.
OCTOBER 10TH
2:10 am
Romance feels religious. Through the mineral world. The original sound. The scar in the sky which grows from it the five elemental bodies. Sex feels amphibious. Nature is so deeply erotic and unapologetic in its consumption and need. It devours in equal measure as it regenerates. Dies and lives so effortlessly. Like the uterus monthly. Must die perpetually in order to create the habitat for life. I find sexuality beginning and ending upon the skin of another to be so limited. When someone is truly embodied in their sexuality they are experiencing union with the natural, carnal world. And making love to the earth, her waters, to trees and soil through pure devotion and awe can be sometimes more profound than making love to a human. Because the trees themselves are not clouded, shrouded by thought, making love to them is like making love to the center of the universe, selfishly becoming home again. Then you meet maybe once in your life a human who is like a tree, and it is a bliss unknown.
october 10th
tranquility within mystery. terminal whimsy
if you’re shapeless i will hold you
anyways
october 9th
I am designed for imaginary living, so why do I judge myself for fantasy?
october 9th 2026
why must sexuality justify itself a empowerment at all? Why can’t it simply be desire? Oblivion? Why must every encounter become a statement about autonomy, identity, or healing? Why is sex required to perform a political or therapeutic function? Are we over identifying to the point of entrapment? Self-enslavement to the pris(on)(m) of societal, flesh warfare? Either way… I am waiting on the necromancer. I watch him slip into the sea and morph my body to fit inside the bulb in the lighthouse. I wait for him there. Guide him back home to me.
october 8TH
A flower is not ambivalent toward the sun. Are plants, the mineral world, in a dom/sub relationship with weather (god) / time?
october 7th
There is a ripple in the pond where my heart used to be. My heart has been skipped like a stone across a glass pond. I am a child who likes to play with the brutality of things. I am the child who thinks of but never skins the animal. This is my blessing and my curse. The unlived life is full of radiance. Of something I will never meet.
october 8th 2026
OUR MOST INTERIOR THOUGHTS WE MUST KEEP INTERIOR, SACRED.
OCTOBER 7th 2026, 2:02 am
we live in the sublunar world but we belong to the dark night sky. exosphere radiance, luminiferous aether, the space between dreams. waves crash against time, long for the blued shapeless, for time immemorial. ... here we are, infinite beings..... Hot stars heat a dark ocean. Waves crash against rocks. A lighthouse grows from a dark ocean. The lighthouse bursts from sea like an erection. Stars whizz by. Sometimes a storm can take us to unknown, beautiful places. Places calm waters could only dream of.
october 6th 1:43 am
Cauterized, yellow at the edges. A cosmic artery stands and drinks the water from the bath. I too secrete fluid, membrane in the bath, it is my task and also pleasure. I drink fingers in the bath, wait for the nodding head. Digest the particles by which life begins. He lifts the stopper from the drain and my body goes limp and narrow. I fill the tubes with scales and skin and flecks of matter, I am shapeless and obscure. My body sends for the sea. Where it is night. Where bright stars soar overhead.
OCTOBER 5TH 1:06 am
blood red static on the little pussy
dreams a backwards alphabet through the time draiN
Waves bleat against rocks birds fly
this is the invisible sound of dying
OCTOBER 4th
10;43 pm
The emporium of dreams. How have I been offered the sun when I long for the moon? Nauseous with phantoms, nauseous with fantasy. Is this what I get for being made up of stars and memory? A long walk back through extraordinary phenomena. Eggs are dying out of me. Falling out from me. Crying out for me. For him. I feel lost in this vacant world. Simultaneous sundown. I’ve wished upon so many stars now I could read the sky to you.
october 3rd
‘work in progress’
“55 and oil drum”
In praise of ecstasy, she lingers on his tongue. Dries the fruit by the palm by the oil lamp where flies have collected and died in the hundreds. (Like Jonestown. Like comiccon. Suicide in search of light. Suicide by dawn enchantment.) Ectastic dancing, memory, he hogs his memories of me. Cans them and stores them for winter. Sticks his finger in the persimmon jelly, licks it. Bits of oil come off and into his mouth. He lays down but does not sleep. Lives above a banana split shop. Lives above a Chinese foot parlour. Finds it disgusting, though he likes feet. My feet were two perfect doves, he said. When I left him he thought about cutting them from my ankles and laying them in a cage to fly at funerals and weddings. To release at burials. Could make money off these feet and worship them in their off time. He worried less about leaving me amputated than he did about whether the feet would be ruined if not connected to the body. Was unsure about this. Hadn’t tried it. Wondered how would he remove the feet and maintain their perfectness? How much of the ankle would he take? If he’s going to take the ankle should he not take the leg? And if the leg, not the ass, and if the ass not the torso? The breast? Shoulder? Why not the whole body then? “I can’t take the eyes.” He thought. The way the eyes looked at him he did not like. They reflected in him his longing, but projected nothing in return.
His parents were traveling musicians in eastern Canada. Sang at hotels and motels, outdoor swimming pools at night. It was the seventies. Mom and Dad would come home drunk and fight and then fuck in the double bed closer to the window. He would lay underneath the scratchy sheets and pretend to be asleep. He carried a little case around and wore suspenders and had big ears and was pale like a vampire and had dark black hair and blue, icy blue eyes. He didn’t have a home or a school or other kids to play with. He was the child of the hotel motel circus. Which traveled, I’m sure, by car or by bus or scooby doo van. He didn’t know a girl his age who wore a flower in her hair, tucked behind her ear, who collected woodchips and earthworms and put the worms in her pocket and took them home and made them little paper hats out of old Christmas wrapping paper. He didn’t know a girl like that to give him nothing and everything by just existing on the rusty swing, going back and forth and making it squeak with each pump of the knees and ankles. Turning the sunlight into fragrance in her hair. He carried a little toy car in his pocket. Imagine it blue or red. It doesn’t matter. He had the imagination of being a color blind boy, though he was not. The radiance and obscurity of things like colors overwhelmed him. So he liked to imagine a powder blue world. He didn’t have a mailbox or an address of his own or a summer camp where he could meet kids to send him letters in the mail, but if he did, it would be powder blue.
The first time he felt something akin to ecstasy, he was hiding under the table playing with his toy car when he saw a woman’s ankle, connected to the foot, decorated by the perfect strappy contraption which was called a high heel; something he would spend decades combing the internet for. Ebay. Etsy. Also Goodwill and other charity shops along Wilshire boulevard. He would grow into a tinkerer, a tattoo artist, a painter, an illegal Canadian Alien hiding out in sunny California. A handyman for money, a drummer. A mechanic. He looked nordic and beautiful. He looked like Bill Compton from True Blood. Except more handsome and brutal. His grandmother was from Norway, his mother was from Norway. His father was not spoken much of. I’ve found men who resemble their father almost exactly, resent them. Like the splitting and replicating of the DNA strand creates a quiet hatred between the two. For something to become replicated it must first be separated.
We met for the first time years before the affair. I call it an affair because he was my ex’s friend. He was also twice my age. He worked on my ex’s old Lincoln Continental and tattooed a demon on his back, over the side where his heart was, the place where a pediatrician might check your lungs as a child, and say “this will be a little cold.” On many occasions I only met his legs, his torso. His head and arms were often obscured by the engine of whatever car he was deep in. He was always dirty and so we never really touched back then. “I would shake your hand, but..” and he would hold his hand out in front of me. His hand was beautiful and strong and stained from the inners of the car, its spit up and grease. I can tell what a man’s cock will look like based on the shape and feeling of his hand. I first saw his torso when the Lincoln was broken down on a side street off Los Feliz boulevard. It was night. The car had broken down when my ex was on his way to my house for the first time. Maybe the Universe was trying to save us a lot of trouble. The Universe hadn’t prepared for Uber. (Everything is perfect in God’s world.)
I won’t scan the ugly details. It’s 4 years of life and this is to be a short story. The notes are as follows: His soul was all mood and fragrance. His spirit had a language that left me feeling exposed. He really looked at you. Whereas my “husband” looked through you, or at your edges. We weren’t legally married, but we had a wedding, and we LARPED as husband and wife, even though a “husband”, I would tell him, wasn’t just a word, but something you had to embody, and he didn’t do that very well. I don’t want to talk about that man. It would cheapen and taint the essence of the story. The central pulse of my life has been deemed irrelevant.
55 brought me shoes from Goodwill when he came to my house. He gave them to me in front of my ex. My ex knew he had “a foot thing” but didn’t care. I asked him how he knew my size, he said he could just tell. The shoes he got me were half a size too small, but I kept them, partly because they were beautiful but mainly because he gave them to me. They collected dust on my front porch for 4 years. When we got together, he cleaned them off for me. It felt like he was cleaning off my life, like a scab I didn’t think was ready to pick was really just a painting of a scab that he knew how to wash away, or paint over. My life has sometimes been like that. A scab, or a painting of one.
When he was a child, I imagine him lurking by the ice machine to watch the women walk back into their rooms at night. To get a glimpse of the feet which carried their sleepy bodies from the backstage to the stage to the backstage to the backseat of the car of a man who belongs to them and everybody. Who is a cherry cheeked, maple syrup drinking, beer goggled, jolly Canadian fella who smokes cigarettes and ashes them in the center of the cupholder of his oxidized car. I don’t know what music they like up there, but I know the way they like to fuck the women from the backstage of the motel hotel show.
He chokes them during sex, the kindest ones like to do that. The cherry cheeks get cherrier that way. The oxygen from women goes into them like that. Goes straight to cheeks and pools there like two little bloody ping pong balls, and they have to smile like that, in the way that makes you trust them, not because they're particularly good but because they're holding two blood filled ping pong balls in their cheeks.
I imagine him asking his mother for a bit of loose change to go to the vending machine and buy himself a soda and a candybar. I had to google if they had vending machines in the 70s. They were very common, google says.
We ran into each other on a night in November almost a year ago now. It was the night before I came down with a threatening cold which led me a week later to slipping down my front stairs in the rain and slicing my left heel open, 2 cm from my achilles. 9 stitches. Crutches for 7 weeks. What would he think of me now I was maimed? We ran into each other at a show for a band I didn’t know or care for but I needed, wanted to see people. I went with my friend Ella who’d been suffering from mono. We joked that I gave it to her since she got it when we first met. It’s not funny anymore because she’s been sick for a year.
‘work in progress...’
october 3rd 2026
A BODY IS AN OYSTER IN THE RAIN
a body is made of triangles and nebula. storms rage. i live in between time. kairos, chronus. no place to arrive to, no destiny greater than the destiny of now and then or here and there. i write stories on my laptop in the airport. words like ‘rain’ and ‘pheromone.’ the body is odor and movement. i am somewhere between. sublunar creature gnawing at teeth with balls of hair and memory. sticking fingers in the drain.
OCTOBER 2ND 2026
if i could freeze these beautiful days, would i?
october 1st
can't tell another's story
without ignorance, bleeding.
September 31st
my body is floating in outer space and you are dancing with my halogen skeleton
Obsession devours love.
You have cut off my feet and you are dancing with them. Fucking the bloody ankles
september 30th
I lay in his bed. He sweats throughout sleep. We said we are sexy angels. I do not know the time. Maybe it’s around 10. I barely slept. I’m glad with the place we set threshold. He kept calling me a gift, a gift. “Te quiero mucho” He says.
I love you very much.
september 29th
Flowing in it beautifully now. Amniotic moon bath. Cistern of flesh. I must not judge the man who judges me. Who dares i negotiate with my dreams. Maybe it is like this: I should not stop dreaming but stop sharing those dreams with those incacpable of belieivng. At the pub with R last night, he feels this need to gag me. I prematurely gag myself for him. He believes in his way alone. I Often feel judged by him. Do I ever feel really seen? Or only in backwards reflection? Do I need someone sitting across from me telling me I am foolish for belieiving in magic? I suppose a wizard just casts spells... doesn’t sit around chatting about it. It is my responsibility to stay consciously ever linked to the realm of infinite possibility and dreams.
september 28th
August 1st
Pre birthday blues. Feel numb. Feel unreal. This loneliness is radioactive. It has grown teeth and hair. I question the atmosphere. Find myself floating some distant blue. There is no shape exists which I am. No lunar calendar. All that makes sense is nothing. I lie in bed until blue morning hear “this is your last day on earth” I don’t want to die. I want the fairytale. I am dying to the old life. Where am I to go? Where is my shelter? My home has been drowned to the bottom of the sea. 47 is everywhere. you are everywhere. I am no where and no thing. I saw you were in Oklahoma City. Why? Is there a woman there? I miss you. I miss your soft animal skin. I don’t sleep anymore.
July 30th
I am like fog. I am like fog.
Can fog see through itself? I cannot remember where I was this time last year. I remember I was in Las Vegas. Paradise, Las Vegas, Nevada. Yes. I am moving everforward. But days like these, when you remember who you’ve spent them with before, and that those people aren’t here anymore, for one reason and another, a strange liquid grief comes into you, wetting the candles of celebration, staining your face with tears.
Waves of grief crash upon my shores. Is this the kind of tide that washes up or washes away?
Wednesday July 29th
I see you collapse through days of agony. A frog in the ghost machine. I watch the planets blurr and thunder. I watch the planets whirl. Radioactive sweater weather. Are you amphibious to the trance of that which possesses you? Do you have a choice in your insanity? Spider, cobweb, walker. We have reached our hurricane. Is it really like this? I can’t seem to see through in my mind anymore. I watch you collapse, leap, seep through the cracks in concrete, cum into me, crawl out of me. Crawl. Wrist twitch for the sound of heaven through the loop of synesthezia. A synthesizer on the playlist for Euthanasia. It is very time now to begin. It is very time now. We have no choice but to belong to one another’s love.
july 30th
Nauseated with dreams of missing him... but who is he?
july 29th
waves of soft silence
lost in a cave
P A R A L Y S I S
july 28th
Some people keep time by years,
others, seasons
those of us most lucky keep time by the amount and ferocity of nightmares had july 27th 2026
journal entry from June 22nd
Slept like a beautiful corpse. Disembalmed, empty and able to be ever filled by movies in my mind and soul. Have been in hysteric infatuation with my merman. Killing flowers for their fortune teller petals. Clogging the genie lamp with sand by worrying myself with the human world. My YouTube is like a shrine to a certain desperation of consciousness that must know everything and must know now. Is my algorithm proof in my distrust of the divine? Or in my impatience? Or more tenderly, my childlike impulse and desire to hear more chapters of the fairytale read allowed to me in my bed before I have lived them myself. Now I shall surrender back into my world, in which , excitement, fantasy, dreaminess, wondering, dillusion, wishing, praying, cumming, dancing, crying, falling, all have a home here.
july 27th
Sometime in November 2025 I was
listening to Dead Can Dance “Spleen and Ideal”
it’s an album that makes me feel orgasmic with life and death. ‘Circumradiant Dawn’ in particular.
I like music that you can cry, dance, and fuck to. all at the same time even
july 26th
Where does the split occur? Between primal self and curated self?
It’s like a rudimentary phenotype of existence where parallels resist to exist in relationship with their mirrored image. Like an amplifier genome which releases the sound “ah ah ah” or “oo oo oo” and calls the scientific limit on existence as understood by the mind. We ask for answers in our heads from the same creator of problems and wonder why we cannot escape unconquerable ground. Our mind is not the creator of our baseline reality, it is the narrator and observer of what it dictates the eye to digest through experience and prejudice and not wanting to be tricked into new, or more honestly, primitive reality where we acknowledge ourselves as not stardust but the thing beyond stardust, beneath stardust, that is both formless and total form. We are gifted the mirror of self through observing the world around us and witnessing these total repetitions that exist within our biology (spiritual/primal/unchanging
self) and the biology (spiritual/primal/unchanging self) of the natural world and also the man-made world. The highways and railroad tracks which replicate the veins in our body which replicate the roots of a tree which replicates the neural network inside our brain which is a mirrored image of the cosmic web. We have all of the tools to piece together this “great puzzle,” but we refuse this gift by wanting to be conquerors instead of “witnessers.” The witness being the evolving self that does not force or judge but becomes by nature its own destiny and intuitively relates to magic and love as the fabric of all existence. A sad day is the day when a child becomes a self conscious being with an internal dialogue surrounding who they are, because no longer are they purely interpreting and reacting to moment to moment existence, but judging and reducing moments into a mental log which builds this narrative in any direction other than what’s present. And overtime the danger is not only our collected experiences and traumas but our internal narrative about who we are, because once we begin on that journey of “I am this this and this” – Not, “I love soccer, I love cooking, I love singing” but “I AM a soccer player, I AM a chef, I AM a singer” now our baseline identity (reality) is morphed into external actions as the root of our existence, which, when you don’t get THAT job or win that game or you burn your food, now YOUR worth is lessened. As opposed to that loving detachment that you get when you are in JOY with something, i.e. co-creation. Pre-Self Conscious Children are constantly co-creating with the universe, hence the absolute endless stream of imaginary wonder and creative power and resilience that emanates from them. They are living a moment to moment existence where their deepest self is playing with life. There are no mistakes or errors, because there are no stakes. That is freedom. The freedom to explore uninhibited. When we focus on these
You cannot cut open the head of a child and pour knowledge inside and call that “education.” Education is a practice of self soothing through the inevitable rise and fall continuum of life's pendulum.
Sometime in los angeles at Chateau Marmont
undated
in this world there is beautiful music. there are silent spaces, an invisible long thin line. we are, without dreaming, like sacks of nothing, not even death. death is full of everything. at the Chateau, brain seperated from skull by inches. watching grease haired man order sushi on his telephone screen.
july 24th
The pathless rapture of oblivion and the stories we tell ourselves to stay tethered to invisible entropy.
A man, jester, from deep heaven, appears in my mind like an apparition. It is obvious to me he is entirely ghost and yet when he presses into me he crosses not through me but fills me entirely with his ghost love. Is it psychopathy or psychic gift? When your body merges with my body and we become heavenly, I am sunken in. Holding you is like holding a star in my hand. Being held by you is like being a star.
july 2nd
earthworm fog. drops of saliva. drops of acid. dew sleep is the medicine i’ve been raiding the pharmeceuatical closet of my soul for. sleep summons, sinks my soul back into the soft frame of my body. becoming, remembering and remembering. infinty, the loop, merry go round and round. goddess sleeps until she rises, fills the body up with stars, with soul. harvests from the dream world that which the living world can’t give to her. the underworld. to belong to the underworld.
july 1st
Tectonic warfare of the cosmic disease. my brain enigma of green like a kaleidoscope of dead sticks and fevers. I write with his finger in my ear and dream about plugging away the noise but if i am to block the noise from outside I will be stuck with interior noise and so I am quiet in the dilemma. It is very hard for someone with my retarded brain to undergo bug infestation, which inflames and engorges the membranes. very hard to let go. But the moon is very big tonight. And the fish do not swim in the air
The popsicles are delicious and tiny, and I ride under tunnels through oceans and imagine breathing through the cement with a snorkel or with gills. Now his hand is on my thigh and our Uber driver’s license plate says 777 so I might as well try to erase the world I do not live in and start remembering the bath
And the fragments of heaven
Oh, the moon
It’s bleeding again
june 31st 2026
lungs swollen and filled with ants
the earth throbs around me and my skin deforms
lifting the elbow is like a suicide and i am here numbly. evacuating each day out of my bowels and seeming to just do it all again and again
i want to cry and rage and cry and rage and cry and rage but its just looping and looping and there's no way to get out. the sound vacates the pores of a yellow sinkhole and just keeps screaming and nobody knows how to get free anymore and that’s a really big problem when you’re so far below the atmosphere and further still below this echo of blues. sleep or dream.
exhaust. i am like floating in a sense and i am like sinking but i am neither. only stillness is the thing that preys upon me slowly and like silence, i am impossible, empty.
june 30th 2026
Dreams last night
Billy, you have stars in your throat. I can taste them when I kiss you. Scars in your throat. A petals lost flower. Fantasia for the afterworld. Sleep many hours to let the soul come back home. there are memories of shadowpuppets, of glamour. glamour will keep us all alive. I am philosiphizing of late about our apocalyptic eroticism. Have not all civilizations throughout time Immemorial believed it to be the end of the world? of life? because it is, each time, each incarnation, the end of us? is Earth meant for a mass awakening... or? Oh, too wide a butterfly net for this gentle morning. I am learning how to open and close the trap door at the top of my head. sometimes it is easy and sometimes it is hard to do.
October 31st
Why is it I see myself in Characters like Raskolnikov and Humbert Humbert and not the likes of Daisy Buchanan or Little Bo Beep?
October 30th
Atopia. Non place. A state of placelesness. We are cosmic Eggs Hatching! Luteal, the unwanted woman. Have his lungs dried for me?
October 29th
I’m the only star
still alive
who cares to shine
in the dark night sky
It’s so quiet
on my own
I’m the loneliest girl
in the great
wide world
Is there a medicine
For that?
october 28th 3:27 pm
listening to soothsayers on the internet. To ladybirds, robins that fly in the window and look up at the ceiling before flying away. Hover there like a humminbird, ‘a 3,300 year old soul waits to meet another.’ His main spirt guide he calls by name, everything else is gesturing at the sky. The monad. Ancient substance of time. Aether. What fills the heavens above. The scar in the black night sky. I watched a film Yesterday. “La Bola Negra” Lacuna, a gap, absence, missing part. Did I offer my skin to the void too early? And now it has tasted me it is satisfied? Though that which I long to be consumed by is fed by endlessness and has a hunger that cannot be satisfied by flesh alone.
October 27th
Sea thorn, eyes in throat. Pallendrome of emptiness. Went on a date to the Chateau this evening with E.
October 26th
Lunacy comes from the word Lunatic. Lunatic comes from Lunar, from one that is in madness with the moon. Epilepsy and madness, diseases thought to be caused by the moon. Moon grows worms in the belly, grows snakes in the stars. Arranges phenomena in the closet, in the hallway between bedroom and bathroom, arranges scars in the earth, wounds in the astral plane, music in the lungs to be sang and sang. There is memory here of a time where I was so happy I could die. There is memory here of a time when I was sick with sadness. Now I am suspended, ballerina dreamer, his limbs don’t feel the same.
October 25th
Fuscous. viscous. a clog in the Dream artery. The sound of alien flowers as they seed in the earth. The soil that permits them access to another world. The limbs and feather of the lingus, the web of bacteria that connects us. The dreams we remember and the ones we forget.
The checkout man at a 7 eleven is the same wherever you go.
october 24th
back in california. sea blue dream drifter. silence is the most thunderous sound.
October 23rd 1:46 pm
I was resigned to believing i’d made fantasy again. That he didn’t feel for me what I feel for him. I watch him reject a pickle in the sky. it looks like dry salamander skin. It is a good thing not to eat it. We speak through aviation headsets. I ask him about ground control. Later at his apartment, he puts his hand on my leg.
October 22nd
something in me throbs and aches and wants
october 21st 10:01 am
Deepening within dreams, closing out the hollow world. What has been granted to me through agony is a private universe of endless beauty. i stomach blades and they grow into tall flowers that reach out my throat for a look at the stars. I grow flowers that phosphorize in darkness. I grow night vegetables and night fruits that hide under soil in daylight.
october 21st 1:03 am
Do you think a good goal to aspire toward is to be so lovely as a human being that people would like to be haunted by you once you are dead?
october 21st 1:01 am
Sometimes all a demon is is a sleepy angel .
Radiance is alabaster, something illusive on the cheek, a pheromone maybe, something that rots.
I am enchanted only by dark things. I am gnawing at the teeth with light. When she troubles me with her death wish, I sink into the base of myself. The fumes of hell leak from her, taunt me with breath, lure in me, some secret thing.
I am wishless when not dreaming. What keeps me from sleep keeps me from dreams, and so those evenings of swollen and alone, of radioactive loneliness, come from reaching out into a world that is not my own. Into the living world. Loneliness is denying the grace of solitude. Extraction of memory from some distant chamber within the heart. Within the quiet heart. The heart is maybe silent. The heart is maybe entirely alone. As I age, I find the stars speak to me less and speak to me more. I have learned to understand their language. The sky has collapsed on me. I am nauseous with radiance, starved of darkness. Playing in the rain to hide my tears.
october 20th 3:39 pm
i awoke this morning with scars in my thraot. with small cuts along the asophageous. Ectsasy or AgonY, something luring itself through my stomach from the dream world. It seems I am used like a drug mule for dreams. Like my organs are stuffed full of them in sleep and carried to the waking realm. I am not payed good money for this, but I am given honorable favor with the Gods.
october 20th 1:36 am
wet earth daydreamer. has my psychological, metaphysical journey through time and space ended and been replaced by dates with “founders” of iphone applications and dreams of eccentric, autistic, 60 year old cock? of course it is possible this is a wrinkle in the fabric of my destiny that only deepens and offers respite from the need to traverse any great planes of existence, dimensional and non dimensional reality and spectral stratospheric phenomena of altruistic space and time. I can experience what it is to be a creature of pavement, ritual, oblivion and still worship the void in the black, night sky.
october 20th 1:18 am
again it gnaws at me, this ache for. him. he is of course, invisible and visible, here but not here, like every good thing in my life. i drive to the beach, run on the sands, the blue, wet, warm horizon. the foam from the sea as it curls around my ankles. i was surprised when i got to his house today and saw her there. is she fucking him? she can’t be fucking him, can she? i think i’d let him do anything to me. i like how human i become in his presence. how void of stars. how all i want to do is clean his kitchen and suck his cock. it becomes very vital to be encased in flesh. to become something enterable, to become real. he is older than me, i am frothing like the sea. there are no poetic ways to say “i need you inside of me.” i want his animal nature. i want to express. something in me longs to leak itself.
i desire him immensly. i probably should have kept this for my journal, though he’ll never read this. i wish he would. i wonder if he did read this, would he know i was speaking of him.? he has a U in his name. it;s impossible for me to hide from this feeling. I want nothing from him but to be fucked repeatadly and in whatever way he desires me. What a twisted thing to admit on the internet to a small group of strangers.
october 19th 1:11 am
in dreams i am encumbered by a strange, black flower. extends its hands around me, and i am choking on it, sinking through the afterglow. the bones that lay inside the ocean, sleep before the dream unfolds. her tongue extends for ants, retracts by mooncry, by larvae, by paradox of paradox. the acid melts inside the mouth, into the teeth, the throat, the stomach, sinking through the body now, until only heaven, radiant illusion, and life before life. sound out the ocean, the ways in which i’ve yearned. lay to rest the swamp feast, the ribs which throb and ache, the cool and mangled body, the parasite that dies. she sleeps inside a photograph. we come through them, then we come through a beautiful wave, mad with fevers, mad with black hole. persist or deny the heartsong, blood of life and life of blood. quiver through memory like cells wobbling the earth, stomachs filled to death by love for what is behind them, and teeth gnashed free of pain. these are all prayer worthy operas. but here lay the bones which ache, fluid in the neck, thoughts of hearts like they are beating, and for me, lungs dry, his, and the breath empties out of the body.
but i, still waiting for the words to come flying in like aliens to carry me away from this sick world. since the telephone dries, i dry, waiting for a destination to find whatever it is i’m looking for. but since his torso is full of ants, and since they shuffle about in little arrows pointing to this gaping hole inside his abdomen where his heart has fallen, since he has been stuffed full with metal bolts and balls of hair, i will instead post this photograph on the internet in hopes it will make me feel less and less alien, or less and less alone.
sunday october 18th 2026
it’s not unusual, through blood support, to find another world to watch the stars from. twitch, hide, scream or be quiet, i am constantly inside of dreams. Undulating between the phenomena of restlessness and ecstasy. it seems to me there is no place greater to witness life than Some otherwise enchanted glyph. we speak in ways we understand. there is little here for the dreamers. there is little left here for the ones who live on dreams.
october 17th
Oneiric, Chthonic, evanescent
This too, cannot be explained only experienced and even then, slightly. Surrendering the human need to control or understand and with gentleness. allowing the psychedelia of experience to have its way with you. Unfolding and blooming in the iris of time. A petal unfolds to itself in same measure it unfolds to the world. There is no preparatory unfolding. It just is. If I am to share the waves of slop I am to share the seams of allowing. It is medicine to preform ecstasy in the graveyard. There are few sacred spaces left on this plane, and death is one of them. one we still dance around, awed by its emptiness. You can wear the perfect old boots with the perfect jean shorts and eat a slice of pizzA while you cross the street without care and be considered a modern angel because you are and because you belong to the world that lives. Those of us who belong to the world that sheds and bleeds and dies must question everything not because we want to but because we must. It can be a tiring lonely existence to be the witness, but so and so it is. Explore under fertile microscope the dust and waves of dust within particle psychosis. Psychosis is freedom from something. Every state is freedom from every other state.
october 17th 2026
sometime in August i was thinking: “Disintegration” by The Cure can remedy even the deepest feelings of loneliness if played at high volume whilst walking alone through a graveyard or preferably a natural, empty expanse where one can dissolve their senses in the magic of the earth and feel subliminally those things too deep to name. Allow the subtle body to dance or cry within the stillness of a body walking itself down the street.
october 16th
if there is distance between hypnotic states it is because the body must acclimate to new heights of experience otherwise classified as hysteria
october 15th
are we oblivion together? i dream your dreams nightly. seems we are oblivion to one another.
october 14th
you want a heart that’s changing. that’s how you know you’re still alive.
october 13th
Spinal memory
Follicular voice that speaks after bleeding
if i am lacking vision it is because god has his two hands over my eyes.
october 13th
I JUST WANT TO FEEL SOMETHING IS SACRED IN THE EVER FEVER OF THE WORLD.
October 12th
“When I forget I am a vessel, I become a wound.”
“When I forget I am a vessel, I become a wound.”
“When I forget I am a vessel, I become a wound.”
october 11th
2:11 am
Her plants grew so tall and her garden so healthy because of the tears she cried. Endless and nutritious and always in the open air.
OCTOBER 10TH
2:10 am
Romance feels religious. Through the mineral world. The original sound. The scar in the sky which grows from it the five elemental bodies. Sex feels amphibious. Nature is so deeply erotic and unapologetic in its consumption and need. It devours in equal measure as it regenerates. Dies and lives so effortlessly. Like the uterus monthly. Must die perpetually in order to create the habitat for life. I find sexuality beginning and ending upon the skin of another to be so limited. When someone is truly embodied in their sexuality they are experiencing union with the natural, carnal world. And making love to the earth, her waters, to trees and soil through pure devotion and awe can be sometimes more profound than making love to a human. Because the trees themselves are not clouded, shrouded by thought, making love to them is like making love to the center of the universe, selfishly becoming home again. Then you meet maybe once in your life a human who is like a tree, and it is a bliss unknown.
october 10th
tranquility within mystery. terminal whimsy
if you’re shapeless i will hold you
anyways
october 9th
I am designed for imaginary living, so why do I judge myself for fantasy?
october 9th 2026
why must sexuality justify itself a empowerment at all? Why can’t it simply be desire? Oblivion? Why must every encounter become a statement about autonomy, identity, or healing? Why is sex required to perform a political or therapeutic function? Are we over identifying to the point of entrapment? Self-enslavement to the pris(on)(m) of societal, flesh warfare? Either way… I am waiting on the necromancer. I watch him slip into the sea and morph my body to fit inside the bulb in the lighthouse. I wait for him there. Guide him back home to me.
october 8TH
A flower is not ambivalent toward the sun. Are plants, the mineral world, in a dom/sub relationship with weather (god) / time?
october 7th
There is a ripple in the pond where my heart used to be. My heart has been skipped like a stone across a glass pond. I am a child who likes to play with the brutality of things. I am the child who thinks of but never skins the animal. This is my blessing and my curse. The unlived life is full of radiance. Of something I will never meet.
october 8th 2026
OUR MOST INTERIOR THOUGHTS WE MUST KEEP INTERIOR, SACRED.
OCTOBER 7th 2026, 2:02 am
we live in the sublunar world but we belong to the dark night sky. exosphere radiance, luminiferous aether, the space between dreams. waves crash against time, long for the blued shapeless, for time immemorial. ... here we are, infinite beings..... Hot stars heat a dark ocean. Waves crash against rocks. A lighthouse grows from a dark ocean. The lighthouse bursts from sea like an erection. Stars whizz by. Sometimes a storm can take us to unknown, beautiful places. Places calm waters could only dream of.
october 6th 1:43 am
Cauterized, yellow at the edges. A cosmic artery stands and drinks the water from the bath. I too secrete fluid, membrane in the bath, it is my task and also pleasure. I drink fingers in the bath, wait for the nodding head. Digest the particles by which life begins. He lifts the stopper from the drain and my body goes limp and narrow. I fill the tubes with scales and skin and flecks of matter, I am shapeless and obscure. My body sends for the sea. Where it is night. Where bright stars soar overhead.
OCTOBER 5TH 1:06 am
blood red static on the little pussy
dreams a backwards alphabet through the time draiN
Waves bleat against rocks birds fly
this is the invisible sound of dying
OCTOBER 4th
10;43 pm
The emporium of dreams. How have I been offered the sun when I long for the moon? Nauseous with phantoms, nauseous with fantasy. Is this what I get for being made up of stars and memory? A long walk back through extraordinary phenomena. Eggs are dying out of me. Falling out from me. Crying out for me. For him. I feel lost in this vacant world. Simultaneous sundown. I’ve wished upon so many stars now I could read the sky to you.
october 3rd
‘work in progress’
“55 and oil drum”
In praise of ecstasy, she lingers on his tongue. Dries the fruit by the palm by the oil lamp where flies have collected and died in the hundreds. (Like Jonestown. Like comiccon. Suicide in search of light. Suicide by dawn enchantment.) Ectastic dancing, memory, he hogs his memories of me. Cans them and stores them for winter. Sticks his finger in the persimmon jelly, licks it. Bits of oil come off and into his mouth. He lays down but does not sleep. Lives above a banana split shop. Lives above a Chinese foot parlour. Finds it disgusting, though he likes feet. My feet were two perfect doves, he said. When I left him he thought about cutting them from my ankles and laying them in a cage to fly at funerals and weddings. To release at burials. Could make money off these feet and worship them in their off time. He worried less about leaving me amputated than he did about whether the feet would be ruined if not connected to the body. Was unsure about this. Hadn’t tried it. Wondered how would he remove the feet and maintain their perfectness? How much of the ankle would he take? If he’s going to take the ankle should he not take the leg? And if the leg, not the ass, and if the ass not the torso? The breast? Shoulder? Why not the whole body then? “I can’t take the eyes.” He thought. The way the eyes looked at him he did not like. They reflected in him his longing, but projected nothing in return.
His parents were traveling musicians in eastern Canada. Sang at hotels and motels, outdoor swimming pools at night. It was the seventies. Mom and Dad would come home drunk and fight and then fuck in the double bed closer to the window. He would lay underneath the scratchy sheets and pretend to be asleep. He carried a little case around and wore suspenders and had big ears and was pale like a vampire and had dark black hair and blue, icy blue eyes. He didn’t have a home or a school or other kids to play with. He was the child of the hotel motel circus. Which traveled, I’m sure, by car or by bus or scooby doo van. He didn’t know a girl his age who wore a flower in her hair, tucked behind her ear, who collected woodchips and earthworms and put the worms in her pocket and took them home and made them little paper hats out of old Christmas wrapping paper. He didn’t know a girl like that to give him nothing and everything by just existing on the rusty swing, going back and forth and making it squeak with each pump of the knees and ankles. Turning the sunlight into fragrance in her hair. He carried a little toy car in his pocket. Imagine it blue or red. It doesn’t matter. He had the imagination of being a color blind boy, though he was not. The radiance and obscurity of things like colors overwhelmed him. So he liked to imagine a powder blue world. He didn’t have a mailbox or an address of his own or a summer camp where he could meet kids to send him letters in the mail, but if he did, it would be powder blue.
The first time he felt something akin to ecstasy, he was hiding under the table playing with his toy car when he saw a woman’s ankle, connected to the foot, decorated by the perfect strappy contraption which was called a high heel; something he would spend decades combing the internet for. Ebay. Etsy. Also Goodwill and other charity shops along Wilshire boulevard. He would grow into a tinkerer, a tattoo artist, a painter, an illegal Canadian Alien hiding out in sunny California. A handyman for money, a drummer. A mechanic. He looked nordic and beautiful. He looked like Bill Compton from True Blood. Except more handsome and brutal. His grandmother was from Norway, his mother was from Norway. His father was not spoken much of. I’ve found men who resemble their father almost exactly, resent them. Like the splitting and replicating of the DNA strand creates a quiet hatred between the two. For something to become replicated it must first be separated.
We met for the first time years before the affair. I call it an affair because he was my ex’s friend. He was also twice my age. He worked on my ex’s old Lincoln Continental and tattooed a demon on his back, over the side where his heart was, the place where a pediatrician might check your lungs as a child, and say “this will be a little cold.” On many occasions I only met his legs, his torso. His head and arms were often obscured by the engine of whatever car he was deep in. He was always dirty and so we never really touched back then. “I would shake your hand, but..” and he would hold his hand out in front of me. His hand was beautiful and strong and stained from the inners of the car, its spit up and grease. I can tell what a man’s cock will look like based on the shape and feeling of his hand. I first saw his torso when the Lincoln was broken down on a side street off Los Feliz boulevard. It was night. The car had broken down when my ex was on his way to my house for the first time. Maybe the Universe was trying to save us a lot of trouble. The Universe hadn’t prepared for Uber. (Everything is perfect in God’s world.)
I won’t scan the ugly details. It’s 4 years of life and this is to be a short story. The notes are as follows: His soul was all mood and fragrance. His spirit had a language that left me feeling exposed. He really looked at you. Whereas my “husband” looked through you, or at your edges. We weren’t legally married, but we had a wedding, and we LARPED as husband and wife, even though a “husband”, I would tell him, wasn’t just a word, but something you had to embody, and he didn’t do that very well. I don’t want to talk about that man. It would cheapen and taint the essence of the story. The central pulse of my life has been deemed irrelevant.
55 brought me shoes from Goodwill when he came to my house. He gave them to me in front of my ex. My ex knew he had “a foot thing” but didn’t care. I asked him how he knew my size, he said he could just tell. The shoes he got me were half a size too small, but I kept them, partly because they were beautiful but mainly because he gave them to me. They collected dust on my front porch for 4 years. When we got together, he cleaned them off for me. It felt like he was cleaning off my life, like a scab I didn’t think was ready to pick was really just a painting of a scab that he knew how to wash away, or paint over. My life has sometimes been like that. A scab, or a painting of one.
When he was a child, I imagine him lurking by the ice machine to watch the women walk back into their rooms at night. To get a glimpse of the feet which carried their sleepy bodies from the backstage to the stage to the backstage to the backseat of the car of a man who belongs to them and everybody. Who is a cherry cheeked, maple syrup drinking, beer goggled, jolly Canadian fella who smokes cigarettes and ashes them in the center of the cupholder of his oxidized car. I don’t know what music they like up there, but I know the way they like to fuck the women from the backstage of the motel hotel show.
He chokes them during sex, the kindest ones like to do that. The cherry cheeks get cherrier that way. The oxygen from women goes into them like that. Goes straight to cheeks and pools there like two little bloody ping pong balls, and they have to smile like that, in the way that makes you trust them, not because they're particularly good but because they're holding two blood filled ping pong balls in their cheeks.
I imagine him asking his mother for a bit of loose change to go to the vending machine and buy himself a soda and a candybar. I had to google if they had vending machines in the 70s. They were very common, google says.
We ran into each other on a night in November almost a year ago now. It was the night before I came down with a threatening cold which led me a week later to slipping down my front stairs in the rain and slicing my left heel open, 2 cm from my achilles. 9 stitches. Crutches for 7 weeks. What would he think of me now I was maimed? We ran into each other at a show for a band I didn’t know or care for but I needed, wanted to see people. I went with my friend Ella who’d been suffering from mono. We joked that I gave it to her since she got it when we first met. It’s not funny anymore because she’s been sick for a year.
‘work in progress...’
october 3rd 2026
A BODY IS AN OYSTER IN THE RAIN
a body is made of triangles and nebula. storms rage. i live in between time. kairos, chronus. no place to arrive to, no destiny greater than the destiny of now and then or here and there. i write stories on my laptop in the airport. words like ‘rain’ and ‘pheromone.’ the body is odor and movement. i am somewhere between. sublunar creature gnawing at teeth with balls of hair and memory. sticking fingers in the drain.
OCTOBER 2ND 2026
if i could freeze these beautiful days, would i?
october 1st
can't tell another's story
without ignorance, bleeding.
September 31st
my body is floating in outer space and you are dancing with my halogen skeleton
Obsession devours love.
You have cut off my feet and you are dancing with them. Fucking the bloody ankles
september 30th
I lay in his bed. He sweats throughout sleep. We said we are sexy angels. I do not know the time. Maybe it’s around 10. I barely slept. I’m glad with the place we set threshold. He kept calling me a gift, a gift. “Te quiero mucho” He says.
I love you very much.
september 29th
Flowing in it beautifully now. Amniotic moon bath. Cistern of flesh. I must not judge the man who judges me. Who dares i negotiate with my dreams. Maybe it is like this: I should not stop dreaming but stop sharing those dreams with those incacpable of belieivng. At the pub with R last night, he feels this need to gag me. I prematurely gag myself for him. He believes in his way alone. I Often feel judged by him. Do I ever feel really seen? Or only in backwards reflection? Do I need someone sitting across from me telling me I am foolish for belieiving in magic? I suppose a wizard just casts spells... doesn’t sit around chatting about it. It is my responsibility to stay consciously ever linked to the realm of infinite possibility and dreams.
september 28th
August 1st
Pre birthday blues. Feel numb. Feel unreal. This loneliness is radioactive. It has grown teeth and hair. I question the atmosphere. Find myself floating some distant blue. There is no shape exists which I am. No lunar calendar. All that makes sense is nothing. I lie in bed until blue morning hear “this is your last day on earth” I don’t want to die. I want the fairytale. I am dying to the old life. Where am I to go? Where is my shelter? My home has been drowned to the bottom of the sea. 47 is everywhere. you are everywhere. I am no where and no thing. I saw you were in Oklahoma City. Why? Is there a woman there? I miss you. I miss your soft animal skin. I don’t sleep anymore.
July 30th
I am like fog. I am like fog.
Can fog see through itself? I cannot remember where I was this time last year. I remember I was in Las Vegas. Paradise, Las Vegas, Nevada. Yes. I am moving everforward. But days like these, when you remember who you’ve spent them with before, and that those people aren’t here anymore, for one reason and another, a strange liquid grief comes into you, wetting the candles of celebration, staining your face with tears.
Waves of grief crash upon my shores. Is this the kind of tide that washes up or washes away?
Wednesday July 29th
I see you collapse through days of agony. A frog in the ghost machine. I watch the planets blurr and thunder. I watch the planets whirl. Radioactive sweater weather. Are you amphibious to the trance of that which possesses you? Do you have a choice in your insanity? Spider, cobweb, walker. We have reached our hurricane. Is it really like this? I can’t seem to see through in my mind anymore. I watch you collapse, leap, seep through the cracks in concrete, cum into me, crawl out of me. Crawl. Wrist twitch for the sound of heaven through the loop of synesthezia. A synthesizer on the playlist for Euthanasia. It is very time now to begin. It is very time now. We have no choice but to belong to one another’s love.
july 30th
Nauseated with dreams of missing him... but who is he?
july 29th
waves of soft silence
lost in a cave
P A R A L Y S I S
july 28th
Some people keep time by years,
others, seasons
those of us most lucky keep time by the amount and ferocity of nightmares had july 27th 2026
journal entry from June 22nd
Slept like a beautiful corpse. Disembalmed, empty and able to be ever filled by movies in my mind and soul. Have been in hysteric infatuation with my merman. Killing flowers for their fortune teller petals. Clogging the genie lamp with sand by worrying myself with the human world. My YouTube is like a shrine to a certain desperation of consciousness that must know everything and must know now. Is my algorithm proof in my distrust of the divine? Or in my impatience? Or more tenderly, my childlike impulse and desire to hear more chapters of the fairytale read allowed to me in my bed before I have lived them myself. Now I shall surrender back into my world, in which , excitement, fantasy, dreaminess, wondering, dillusion, wishing, praying, cumming, dancing, crying, falling, all have a home here.
july 27th
Sometime in November 2025 I was
listening to Dead Can Dance “Spleen and Ideal”
it’s an album that makes me feel orgasmic with life and death. ‘Circumradiant Dawn’ in particular.
I like music that you can cry, dance, and fuck to. all at the same time even
july 26th
Where does the split occur? Between primal self and curated self?
It’s like a rudimentary phenotype of existence where parallels resist to exist in relationship with their mirrored image. Like an amplifier genome which releases the sound “ah ah ah” or “oo oo oo” and calls the scientific limit on existence as understood by the mind. We ask for answers in our heads from the same creator of problems and wonder why we cannot escape unconquerable ground. Our mind is not the creator of our baseline reality, it is the narrator and observer of what it dictates the eye to digest through experience and prejudice and not wanting to be tricked into new, or more honestly, primitive reality where we acknowledge ourselves as not stardust but the thing beyond stardust, beneath stardust, that is both formless and total form. We are gifted the mirror of self through observing the world around us and witnessing these total repetitions that exist within our biology (spiritual/primal/unchanging
self) and the biology (spiritual/primal/unchanging self) of the natural world and also the man-made world. The highways and railroad tracks which replicate the veins in our body which replicate the roots of a tree which replicates the neural network inside our brain which is a mirrored image of the cosmic web. We have all of the tools to piece together this “great puzzle,” but we refuse this gift by wanting to be conquerors instead of “witnessers.” The witness being the evolving self that does not force or judge but becomes by nature its own destiny and intuitively relates to magic and love as the fabric of all existence. A sad day is the day when a child becomes a self conscious being with an internal dialogue surrounding who they are, because no longer are they purely interpreting and reacting to moment to moment existence, but judging and reducing moments into a mental log which builds this narrative in any direction other than what’s present. And overtime the danger is not only our collected experiences and traumas but our internal narrative about who we are, because once we begin on that journey of “I am this this and this” – Not, “I love soccer, I love cooking, I love singing” but “I AM a soccer player, I AM a chef, I AM a singer” now our baseline identity (reality) is morphed into external actions as the root of our existence, which, when you don’t get THAT job or win that game or you burn your food, now YOUR worth is lessened. As opposed to that loving detachment that you get when you are in JOY with something, i.e. co-creation. Pre-Self Conscious Children are constantly co-creating with the universe, hence the absolute endless stream of imaginary wonder and creative power and resilience that emanates from them. They are living a moment to moment existence where their deepest self is playing with life. There are no mistakes or errors, because there are no stakes. That is freedom. The freedom to explore uninhibited. When we focus on these
You cannot cut open the head of a child and pour knowledge inside and call that “education.” Education is a practice of self soothing through the inevitable rise and fall continuum of life's pendulum.
undated
in this world there is beautiful music. there are silent spaces, an invisible long thin line. we are, without dreaming, like sacks of nothing, not even death. death is full of everything. at the Chateau, brain seperated from skull by inches. watching grease haired man order sushi on his telephone screen.
july 24th
The pathless rapture of oblivion and the stories we tell ourselves to stay tethered to invisible entropy.
A man, jester, from deep heaven, appears in my mind like an apparition. It is obvious to me he is entirely ghost and yet when he presses into me he crosses not through me but fills me entirely with his ghost love. Is it psychopathy or psychic gift? When your body merges with my body and we become heavenly, I am sunken in. Holding you is like holding a star in my hand. Being held by you is like being a star.
july 2nd
earthworm fog. drops of saliva. drops of acid. dew sleep is the medicine i’ve been raiding the pharmeceuatical closet of my soul for. sleep summons, sinks my soul back into the soft frame of my body. becoming, remembering and remembering. infinty, the loop, merry go round and round. goddess sleeps until she rises, fills the body up with stars, with soul. harvests from the dream world that which the living world can’t give to her. the underworld. to belong to the underworld.
july 1st
Tectonic warfare of the cosmic disease. my brain enigma of green like a kaleidoscope of dead sticks and fevers. I write with his finger in my ear and dream about plugging away the noise but if i am to block the noise from outside I will be stuck with interior noise and so I am quiet in the dilemma. It is very hard for someone with my retarded brain to undergo bug infestation, which inflames and engorges the membranes. very hard to let go. But the moon is very big tonight. And the fish do not swim in the air
The popsicles are delicious and tiny, and I ride under tunnels through oceans and imagine breathing through the cement with a snorkel or with gills. Now his hand is on my thigh and our Uber driver’s license plate says 777 so I might as well try to erase the world I do not live in and start remembering the bath
And the fragments of heaven
Oh, the moon
It’s bleeding again
june 31st 2026
lungs swollen and filled with ants
the earth throbs around me and my skin deforms
lifting the elbow is like a suicide and i am here numbly. evacuating each day out of my bowels and seeming to just do it all again and again
i want to cry and rage and cry and rage and cry and rage but its just looping and looping and there's no way to get out. the sound vacates the pores of a yellow sinkhole and just keeps screaming and nobody knows how to get free anymore and that’s a really big problem when you’re so far below the atmosphere and further still below this echo of blues. sleep or dream.
exhaust. i am like floating in a sense and i am like sinking but i am neither. only stillness is the thing that preys upon me slowly and like silence, i am impossible, empty.
june 30th 2026
Dreams last night
Billy, you have stars in your throat. I can taste them when I kiss you. Scars in your throat. A petals lost flower. Fantasia for the afterworld. Sleep many hours to let the soul come back home. there are memories of shadowpuppets, of glamour. glamour will keep us all alive. I am philosiphizing of late about our apocalyptic eroticism. Have not all civilizations throughout time Immemorial believed it to be the end of the world? of life? because it is, each time, each incarnation, the end of us? is Earth meant for a mass awakening... or? Oh, too wide a butterfly net for this gentle morning. I am learning how to open and close the trap door at the top of my head. sometimes it is easy and sometimes it is hard to do.