I would be surprised if anyone reads this within a week from now. If you still keep tabs of this journal, wow. I am working on my MFA thesis, part of which I'm looking at old LJ posts from 2002 which denote what my aesthetic was as a 19-year-old.* It's funny because everyone's thesis has a confessional element. Somebody from CalArts is using people he dated. I'm resorting to old entrees. It seems somewhat counterintuitive to write about the past and this venture will be somewhat clandestine until the thesis is published. I am glad you reached this journal but I am sympathetic to you too because I am not consistent. I might be gone for another three years. I am pursuing a second master's degree. Could you believe:*

Control (2002)

WAILINGANGELSFAL/L/ING//+
    enchanting hatred! & screams
                    const e l lationter ror

 7   7        CONTROL!and grieving fear
        sociometry
  blithe overtaken bybli ndp ride--fear

      `   ``          foresaw

Would come to anything? I did at the time and abandoned that until now. I'll be reworking these. I think anything apart from objective or the future might seem somewhat confessional and self-indulgent. I don't want to be Anne Sexton.

'Mistaken for apathy I am sure....'
'...and you are right. ... this afternoon;
...because of you.'



How dare you make the slightest of notion I write without feeling.
I choose everything I say carefully to form a perfect symmetrical pyramid.

Tomorrow is not a can-do attitude. Cheesecake digests, worse than
ice cream better than most; gentle going up the esophagus as it is
coming down. Do it daily to develop strong reflex muscles and before
your stomach acid beats you to wicked pudge-forming food.

Learn to let go. (Not in the way you already know of.) ~Christopher G.

  I WILL GET MY REVENGE
I WILL GET MY REVENGE
      I WILL GET MY REVENGE
       I WILL GET MY REVENGE

chandeliers fell, the
world is changing lights
"but i am faster than the world"

earthward down the grass
fire following me
long walls, glowing smoke

i ran to the river
i ran past the trees
i said i cannot die
"i am faster than fire"
kept following me

on your next train journey try staring at one point on the window while the scenery
flies past try staring at that one point and see if your gaze doesn't wander
wander to another part of the window or a tree in the distance

YOU SEE? CAN'T SEE YOU CAN'T see you cant
you cant nobody can

some guy, the makeup.
not the coat, the band.

( http://www.jeffreestar.com )

embodiedyour-buried-memory
tombstone-gravedigger
as another threashold
is reached at your kneel
ing-dry-v elvet-corp se- warm-b ullet-h eart
real pist ols are not "pretty" ,finger gripped
split second destroyed eye
repeatrepeat severed key
nail postured ha nd s
scribble & they heckle
at the chameleon-gun-
shy-assassinated away
cross-stiched-in shame-
imaginary vomit chapped
-blue-lip-regu rgita tion
gutted-tongue-in-cheek-
chokehold-swallow-twin-sister
regurgitator-ta s ter

to-the-left-->







rechargi## bat#er###





|||
programmed orgasm we're naïve 
if we actually believe they will last.

swollen ## the# limit with the supreme anguish,
louder than war turbulent tearstripped land 

abolished the deep traced yearning
escape

*
behold come,the slow death of all that
 lives in the placidveil eyes, 
the world forgotten,
For this moment brings
a steady pulse, 
+how the flood surmounts 


Subdue the 
mortal trembling suspend its 
eternal beats
of two fluttering hands, the pain is already
 above all, your hands 
to your breast.


Take care See, 
see how your 
slowly, arms crossed, 
eyes glazed also to the sea. 
the infinite tendernesswrenched 
march of the final smile,invading the sleeping ships.waters 
swelling deaf murmur Come and see
 the mute shuddering bellslike arrows 
toprayers.flying wreckage of altars.

       _       #
opalescent
falling monolith field
hydrogen prism with
a steady pulse to the programmed world
|
"he once thought what he did
didn't matter at all"

pointed straight back
his black fingers stream like rays
rising walking
frowning
at the street,
at the glass lay cracked
beneath his feet,

what
smooth end part of the
narrow perpendicular elbow
slightly disjointed arm stub from the dark sun,
on the ground looking down,

what
spread emaciated legs
his prostitute shadow
exposed naked helpless
on the tracing table,

like the wage slave
unable to find will to slide along,

like the outstretched roots
of a thirsty flowered plant,
with unsympathetic opened pair
of black scissors beneath the heads,

like the stabbing of young petite eyes
open wide with surprise,

like the
jaw tight
fight
|

|  #

it's a penis genious





"ease up my baby, your future is secure,
your throbbing moneybag heart is mine
i will make it completely pure"

i.o.u.

with love.

nineteen years &
no longer am i considered the good-wife teen.
my angst bullshit has a body-count &
i sit idly by as events that affect me unfold to 
change the course     of my life     while
i have never taken a stand i will defend.

(i have trouble remembering their names !)

now i walk around my 
fag-bag with no fucking mind
to hide the warm gun still inside,
i wish i knew what to do to put myself 
on the right  track
i reminisce and take a look back
at the train that past  the   station
heading for a permanent vacation

and now it comes 
to the final solution
how is it wrong when things are so fun?
living     the good life, climbing the vine
to     disembodied      soul-prostitution

i giggle & play 
the batting eyelashes better than
that ordinary le_ femme babe-product until those
net stockings snap at me sharp
confining        my legs tight, like
holding me in a locked gateway

where is the wind coming from ?
i asked myself,
could it have been my brain's hollow state? my guide?
i   followed those  resonating  voices,
so here is a real sad song  i sing,
but this is the song that must be sung,

"when we were all kids all we wanted to do was play
& your money was ours while we got our way
someday you will get over the generation battle
these streets are not yours, your
sickness & sorrow will not be heard of any more"

"think of me merely..."
okay, never mind... take two




think of me
merely a thought clung to
that anorexia-paranoia inside your gutless womb
and if gastric bile didn't already reach your tongue
don't speak; make me the only choice that you could see
when easy distraction is your attraction

"does it hurt?" you hope

why am i 
just like the fly? with the corroded crowded face, 
giant face of wounded pride, net eyes, 
but smallest part of the biggest things
and if you unplug my back stitched pockets, 
steal those transplanted wings away from me
rape me, penetrate me, concentrate me where those
corpse-pulp sockets run deep

"i came to pretty up, not patch up." i confess

well 
now 
why am i just like the sea?
floating below air where the sun sets
i am shallower than you are deep
you said nothing to me because you could not see
me covered by the solar skin current
cast your shadow








oh dim,
moving on but never there