SLUTS
IT'S AUTUMN
EVERYTHING IS DYING
TIS THE SEASON I PRETEND TO BE A CATHOLICK
BY DRINKING A LOT OF WINE

IMMA TEAR UP THE PROLAPSED ANUS OF THIS TOWN
AND OMG, GONNA RECLAIM THE SOUL
AS AN OBJECT OF STUDY
NO GODS NO RULERS
STILL SWIMMIN IN THE DIVINE

PIERCE MY HEART WITH THE PINPRICK OF THE WILLIS TOWER
I
WILL
BE
GOOOOOOOOOOOOD

crickets, new hamshire

screaming, car brakes, creaking spires.
disintegration has noises that have no place to go
they ricochet off walls at random--one enters my window
where, like a spider hungry, i wait
once eaten i say i have disintegrated
now and again under and over these sounds
i havent seen any of your faces in quite a long time
tell me where i am:
silence.
ill ask a stranger
instead.

omg middle class assholes
moving would be much easier
if we didn't own so many books
whose fucking books are these?!

To do and to say is to admit a desire, but to never have desire is the way a girl ought to be

oh me, friday night and here i am again

kneel at the window
in all of your furs
slither the spoon to your mouth

watch the emergency crew
escort a saronged woman into the back of the truck
it's not an ice cream ad, lovely
it's just you and your cheap dress

twilight on the northside of chicago, an underpass kind of gray
oh haha what a lark
to stand at ashland and clark
to stand anywhere really and holding your breath, plug your nose
and pretend you can't smell anything

oh me, the perfective despressive
i really ought to learn to let go
oh me, saturday night and here i am again
sorry i didn't say
"i know a real bed you can sleep in"
"haha the bed's mine"
"haha what'll we do once we get there"
i liked your peppered hair

is it that i like you quiet boys?
who wouldn't ever put a hand on the back of my neck
to grab the wisps of hair there
i mean my motto is
i can do anything
if only someone would let me
waiting for invitations
i'm too scared to put a hand softly on your breast pocket
too scared to lean in and breathe in your ear

if you're reading this,
i kindly request you force my hand
my wanting you shouldn't have to be a choice

there is always something that happens
to make a drunk look like an imbecile
rather than smart, smart!

well, so be it
as long as it is no more complicated
than taking my shirt off
and sopping it up

so i do
blue meets red
on the thread of dead lacquered wood
no one knows the obvious

a wedding
his family gathers near
children appear

i hear a girl in the background
and nearly roll my eyes into her
at the attempt to make childhood last in 2012
im typing and sipping

i toast to you little one
make it count
for me too

Post-Sea Punk or How to Get Dressed in the Morning

some thoughts on witch house/ghost pop/grave wave:
in honor of its predecessor shoegaze
for a while the genre was actually being called rapegaze
(before everyone realized this was a terrible idea)
and i think it speaks volumes
there's a strange doublevision of girlhood here
the girl is dead-eyed and vague, maybe already a ghost (hair bleached out, sallow faces)
so she is dangerous, suffused with revenge and strange magical powers because of trauma
(some sort of Madea)
but her voice is always thin and distant
just an echo of something more immediate
so she's nothing
or a wisp, a slip, and a hand disappearing round a corner

the trouble with the look
is that the candy-floss hair and spikes/leather/silk/tulle ensembles
are straight out of magazines
very high fashion and very expensive looking
and the erotic boredom is American Apparel all over
so any danger
is somehow mixed in with an infinitely purchasable "breeziness"
the rich girl's straightforward simplicity of good fabrics and shoes that last
very Chanel
so you know, it's very alive, in a yacht in St. Tropez kind of way
and witch house girls are dead

but here's the thing about fashion
you know, it's a man repeller?
apparently
you're not gonna fuck anyone
if you wear that studded headband and necklace of baby dolls that you've ripped the head off
and if you wear three layers of mesh
and shoes that would be still technically be flats if it weren't for the HUGE platforms at the bottom
and that friendly BDSM look 
so that's confusing

but also, these kids love dirty south rap
i suspect for no real sociological reasons
but because the droning, prayerful, psychedelic quality
(Weezy does not have to put down the Dextromethorphan)
IS BORING
like a perfect kind of boredom, a grown ups blowing spit bubbles
boredom
that feels transcendental - it feels great have nothing to do in the 21st century, it feels horrible to have nothing to do in the 21st century
so here's an erotic boredom that can be turned into purpose
with procreation I guess
if this were actually an AA ad
but these girls are ghosts
you can't fuck a ghost (unless you are one)
so you can't turn the boredom on its head
which all the symbols in the titles is really about
you know ≈Ω≈Ω≈Ω≈Ω≈Ω≈Ω≈Ω≈Ω≈ etc
make it hard to find on the internet
and no one will overturn your boredom

every time I listen to one of these albums I think about The Flu Season. "I've felt a lot. Many people have. Where I distinguish myself  is, I stand outside at night."

it feels important but it might just be the stupidest thing
dwelling in the cauldron of the internet
so sort of leftover from girls pretending to be super into horror movies to seem cool to boys
OR
the edge of danger
girls being celebrated for being sickly, perverse, out of control, unpredictable, murderous
is important or somehow new
a kind of self-drag that we've all been waiting for
OR
it's just a version of the Virgin Suicides girl
broken and unreachable
and not really a person
but a place for a boy to rest his heart

honestly, i don't know, i just want to wear some knuckle dusters

P.S. they're might be more to say on the subject of the spiritually empty use of occult symbols and devil things but i think it might just be trappings

i was not raised by many hands
i was not raised by trees calling out for me to climb higher
to dare to race the wind
i was not raised by many faces who knew my many names
and let me crawl on their limbs
and whispered the family histories of soil, rocks and grandmothers in my ear

i was raised in small rooms
and by equally transplanted squares of grass
i was raised by a few orphaned souls, a trundle bed and and a tall rusted fence
i was raised to think that everything can be thrown away:
napkins, houses, plants, old friends, cats, clothing, one's name, one's parents
and that i would.

but once the wind spoke to me,
and maybe once or twice i felt related to a story i read in a book
that i found in the tower that houses all the other anonymous books,
and the crying that often came late at night
kept me alive and knowing there were things worth caring for.
that needed to be found.

i may be new here,
but know that i come humbly.
know that i come hungry for the company of sounds
and for spending many nights with you on the front porch looking at the stars
and for rooms covered in the soft shells of time and dust
and for watching each other change and grow.

and i may not have been raised
to know this is the place i would one day want to protect,
but my heart knows how to stretch itself big
and my spirit knows pride in our pain
and my body knows what it feels like
to stand on the cliffside
alongside the family of ghosts.