zero politics

I am also entertaining fears that i am wasting my potential talent. Today wasn't about being political. If i was really po-mo i'd say fuck you (!) and your shampoo planet. Talent-wasting was so "reality bites". But forget it. So all the world is a semiotic, so what. It never becomes 'nothing is meaningful': it just asks us why. Perhaps. And is it true, that divinity only exists when what we feel can't be reduced to a type of emotional sensibility > Emotional Intelligence (feelings logically disseminated into pre-conditioned causation patterns). That's why feeling is trite these days.
But believe me when I say that there are still things we don't understand, and some of them will never be reduced to relative truth. There's always hope,
enough.

Pigtails, I have always discouraged myself from their baby girl connotations - catholic tramp with knee socks. (forgive me for this image, I did not create it, and this is always my excuse); point is:

Define her:
[Entry:] woman
[Function:] noun
[Definition:] female
[Synonyms:] babe, bird, bride, broad, chick, chicken, companion, dame, debutante, doll, gal, gentlewoman, girl, girlfriend, inamorata, kitten, lady, lass, love, lover, maid, maiden, mama, mate, matron, miss, mistress, moll, Mrs., nymph, old lady, paramour, partner, pigeon, rib, she, skirt, spinster, spouse, squaw, sweetheart, tomato, tootsie, virgin, wife
[Concept:] animal
[Source:] Roget's Interactive Thesaurus, First Edition (v 1.0.0)
Copyright © 2004 by Lexico Publishing Group, LLC. All rights reserved.



defy it.

blue eyes seeking same (SWF)

__________________________________________
Slender girl-wrists stem your soft palms,
limb(inals) pinky-patchy from the weather-raw.
Woman I could warm you;
The rings on your fingers I would slip,
cold metal also, from thumbs and toes;
fumble my weak hands towards your neck curves,
and earlobes.
Compose Libidos, on narrow chests,
breasts touching hands touching, thighs which slip
as we mirror parallel hips, with pregnant vision.
Deep-dipped into humbled likeness of the
feminine (re)positioned
>promt
quaking organs with our Twinly
declaration and virile transposition of,
measure corrupted.
Finger-tips subject(ed) to pivot on the desire
of fleshy scenery remote,
but seeking-same in your shallow blue eyes

We go down to the river. I am pleased to show him parts of this city he has never seen before. We both agree that the train bridge with its high steel angles is our favorite - good to drink on. Searching between the ice sheets, I try to catch the light off of the water to gauge its speed. The temperature is just below zero, and the snow from two weeks ago still covers the dock stairs and the surrounding ice. We seek solace, but the night is all but quiet. Five boys shout from behind the trees. Calls of “man down!” are followed by eruptious laughter, songlike screams, and five seemingly independent conversations. The light from nearby downtown stores backlights their motions in silhouette. They begin to beat box together while entertaining dance moves. Puppet-like motions mock the cool; the hip-hop soldiers slide into limp formation with their bodies in interpretive rigidity. One break flows into the next; they are a little tornado of swaying beats and gyrating form. “We’re a new band” one shouts, “Man-down!” at this, they laugh and throw one of the guys into a snow bank. More laughter, “Man-down!” the fallen band-mate screams, and they all echo. We whoop and holler to encourage this developing carnival and they are happy to play for an audience of two for several minutes before taking their show elsewhere.

We are playing on the train tracks, giggling and trying to toss each other off the rails into the snowdrifts. He tells me I’m competitive and I reply that he only thinks this because he is losing our little game. He smiles and then endeavors to call me on the challenge. There is no winner, and we eventually give up and decide to walk together in the empty streets. He says this reminds him of two children he saw playing in the street once. The two were chasing each other, entertaining non-sensical games and teasing, only to hug for a moment and then start over. I laugh in nervousness because we are in this moment, and I slip his arms around the small of my back and press my chest to his. And I hold on to the feeling of possibility that this could be a new beginning.

late night card shark

we smoke cuban cigars. i know enough not to inhale but i breathe in some of the chocolate smoke by mistake. it doesn't feel good on the way down; hits my stomach as if I swallowed a tennis ball: fuzzy and round. But i must supress my cough reflex, I am one of the boys now.

it's silently acknowledged that we only talk when one of us is dealing, otherwise its too difficult to think about stragegies. a game of hearts has never been so loveless. this one is about justice for a change, we follow the rules exactly. In the candlelight I can keep my composure. I select un-flirty topics of conversation, I don't want to be 'the chick'. I keep my score in the middle by avoiding the black queen at all costs, and I am winning half way through the game - for one round. game-of-hearts, fair enough, but i'm starting to think there's nothing more banal than an easy metaphor.

plant protein (modified)

_________________________________________
Blue and pink spectrum of lock and key,
chemistry sires micro-fi bio-sci pi-oneers
They slip their fingers to their genitals
through holes in those deep laboratory pockets;
touch their own reproduction,
clit against the curved cold metal tap
Envision very own sugar-acid staircase rows
decending on heli-copter plasmic-magic,
by all accounts,
rabbit is now in the lab coat pocket

worry:some:you?
As if we could pattern
the glowing eyes of my children,
iris as blueprint;
they may be colour-coded, but at least,
in theory,
I own my own eyes.

As a farmer holds seed,
palming life (potential)
Her wrist gently flickers, flutters, mothers the summer’s harvest,
deified, reified,
she will feed her farm-raised children with
essential oils {anti-trans fat fans will know the niche market value}

Mother-rage against the cauliflower brains
which pulse I.P. with the lucky foot of peter's rabbit.
That's right.
Mummy told me how the other seed-fields are sown
in techno-trans and technology lands,
which can’t be (re)produced,
on their own

out of the trees, into the woods

The essay deadlines are looming now, and that means that I am spending hours participating in completely unrelated projects of little or no worth. Be appalled, be very appalled: at my lack of discipline, my desire to write love songs and stare at walls, to make excuses for academic sloth with a childlike willingness to conceal petty crime. Yeah, I stole food from the university cafeteria. I stuffed those little cream cheese packets into my pockets and I just walked out. I took a plastic knife too. And just like that, I am criminal. I want my adept little fingers to glide over my keyboard as if it were illegal, taking without license all the possibility of plastic alphabets. Spell check never recongises my genius. But pretending I am dangerously self-important always makes me feel better.