Pop girl

Made balloon songs that didn’t pop so I popped
Imaginary champagne like Papi— accolades from
Grammys and all that jazz didn’t kill any darlings but
Multiplied screaming mediocrities behind
Laptops closed like death’s blanket under the stars, the
Night;

I may sleep a good one for I’ve been honest and kind.
Well, I lied but it is only for a good cause— writing a
Lover girl’s mad song, a mad girl’s love song they are
All me (yay!) and I am one. I may respect the balance
Or I may not.

For now this will be my only testament
To my biggest vice: your love, your hatred.
Fine as a fiend possessed, a hand caressed, rhymes with
Depressed as the caressed hand of a fiend possessed—
Listening to bubblegum songs that didn’t pop just
Yet—

Nocturnal sunshine of a plotless mind

Dancing about architecture in words, I am at my worst. Behavior. Ignore my anxious alter-ego for she says nonsensical things while licking yellow popsicles, chronicles of many little deaths untold. They hide within the nocturnal, as the yellow moon shines round, as slow-burning lyrics stay with me, forming a past so I can build a broken identity, carrying baggage everywhere to call it home— Stop. S l o w d o w n, speed up to make room for the dance of the expanding heart: I build glitches, set innocent traps unlike Nosferatu revived. I often end up screaming underwater; my waves superficial and beyond, defying laws of physics: ripples pacified, frozen like wrinkles on the face of a human tested by exhaustion. My robotic observations, passive-aggressive commotions. Fight and fight to derail myself off the nocturnal sunshine of a plotless mind— in constant anticipation of the future until the pendulum swings back, back to dark, to anxiety— futureless or full of a future full of terror in distorted mirrors of circuses. No peace made with time, with the gift of the present divine. No power over moments, yet I ride the rhythm like my gentle horse. Heart: hijacked by catastrophes imagined, lived, imagined a thousand more times— I hide within the nocturnal sunshine with my plotless mind.

After reading Bukowski I wrote this piece of mind:

On this day I dream of
Being published in the New Yorker
Reading Bukowski write about the
New Yorker. Reading & reading
To fill in the gaps or to lose parts
& particles of myself— my unique
Self evaporating on an imaginary
Star on an imaginary pavement,
With my name on it, that belongs to
No single country. I consist
Of multitudes; off duty. We—
Watch my selves try while literary gods make
It look easy— for I am camera-shy &
I hate being seen so I memento mori:
Before worms reach the eyes of us—
Before worms reach the I’s of us—
Before worms freeze within the fiery ice
Of us—
Before we become the food of
Worms. I dream of immortality in
Words songs dreams more…

Ego-dream

My hysterical screams trapped in paint
Like Munch’s swirling scheme— immortal
Unlike my sad self pitying her selves assigning
Meaning after meaning to swim and drown in
Spirals feigning immortality, trapping infinity within
Minutes. My consciousness sentience covered in gray matter,
In bile covered in fake smiles half like Mona or maybe
Hers was the only real reel— wake up
To find my soul has to purge of its own
Volition; wish I could export all evil within
Through this purge urge merge submerge on—
I’m trying on rhymes like clothes when on
The verge of another surge.

Inspired by Charles Bukowski’s poetry collection “Burning in water, drowning in flame”
“You are in the ego-dream”
“Now when my soul has to puke / It will puke of its own / Volition / & not from a / Knock upon the / Door.”
“I didn’t have any immortal thoughts”

A floating whale

Partial explosions I bury. Nth degree
Burns: soul’s deficient armor.
Eyes all ice;
Alpha
State;
Dead.

I bite into problems
Until gums bleed with successful
Greed
From the shards of truth I chew.
Day bleeds.
Under the lens of blaze-red ray of rage.

Castles I’ve been building from
Salt, dried up tears a product of a shy
Hearts— a drought— I welcome
Abandoned
Love. I give
Birth
To implosions.
Singing lullabies. I write for
All.

My unborn children
Because— the world Has become a hot pot
Fire haven.

Questioning
As I murder all meaning—
Death. Birth.
God/s. Loneliness. Melt.
Under the lens of blaze-red ray of rage.

Shivering.
Under man-made heaven.
Little suns dancing around with no care.
Under the lens of blaze-red ray of rage.

In the swirl of a hypnosis session I am
Out and about
Befriending.
All the silence I can claim.

I hear my voice
Jumping.

Octaves:
Under the lens of blaze-red ray of rage.
Anxiety leaking out of my pores in the form of
Sticky cold drops of sweat, warning
Them to back off—
Under the lens of blaze-red ray of rage.
I become the bad news.

I hate carrying.
My head from room to
Room. From groom to gloom.
So,

From heartless to dead I become a
Floating whale.