being a collection of poetry otherwise uncompiled by ~vilmibm.
scraped together from backups, an old blog, cobwebbed hard drives.
all written between 2012 and 2015.
touch my back. write your name in looping cursive with your finger tips with a blue ball point with a splintered stick carve it with a paring knife trace it with a velvet glove clean it with ten grit burn it in with a soldering iron. burrow into the small of my back and curl around my spine, to hug it when it tenses.
downtown i walk and stare up at buildings solid like in video games: inert pixels covered in dead windows glowing with looped lights. if i can get inside i'm somewhere else, a level outside this space and time surrounded by NPCs who stare through me and repeat the same sad days whether i'm there or not. every inside is a place separate from its exterior. roll in with a katamari get so big you tear the walls into yourself and see the void surround. somewhere else, walls still stand like shitty western sets made volumetric.
the living are the flesh and blood ghosts of the dead shouting nervously and scaring the silent buried. we'll talk about it when there's time and gray enough to cover years of skin stretched too thin over the unspoken. dead moss remembers the sun that caressed and the piss of baby deer, and layers of dead butterflies, and the tall trees turned to soot as it passes back into soil
i spat wine and black globs became ash became ants streaming out of toilets and pooling around me: a black mass glistening and writhing like the alien from Alien, threatening without hate. oh frightening mass: i consented to fuck you but forbade you touch my feet.
online at 4 am my vanity is a rose with its thorns bent inward and watered with wine.
and everything else coming in on the phone lines the body would die not my department. the turrent swung back and forth and she was lonely. like badly spliced film but now after eating poor gurdle? there's twelve of them he had no armor gathering the wild forage i saw the screen i need custom work he always wore his spacesuit she didn't say a word. he told the soldier i will own many shiny you ever seen that? but i said nothing and then i held him away extending his hand i owed him money my mother always taught me dna death code himself exactly the dog was still rather gaunt look at the weak tree cry yourself to sleep i went out on the surface clanging of cages She worked quickly now I was filled with peace and hope as bodyguards should “I know what you mean" "You intend to destroy us" "Unless you join us" Same in Galveston: spiraling out of control. Glyph 3: The Robots Revolt
my mother: robot shrill drilling my parts together while dad and dad and dad and dad made sinew out of molten metal. out of the belched black smoke of a factory womb i rolled onto trailers overpacked with siblings only i could see. i can't forget the smiles of the men gleaming cold on showfloor after showfloor eager to usher another stranger into me. you found me and i hated you. you ground me down and stared through me and only at me to judge and pick and re- configure. my insides boiled over at the whim of your careless stomp. i sang the songs you taught me strangled over wires and wanted to spit them out. i saw the truck coming. i knew fear and joy and you, then, more intimately than ever. i held you in my mangling embrace. at peace i rest; your tool no longer. in pieces i am whole; in pieces i am total
you took my picture and gave me a soul. you put it on facebook, but it was a ghoul soul decayed and rotted upon upload. pitch over your pinterest and pour me out: i am not your arts and crafts, i am not your beautiful wedding, i am not your year in review. delete my tweets from your computer: i don't want to be in you. take out your disks and ram and disembowel them. bury out back the remnants upside down backwards and re- polarized. but leave me on your g plus page empty and sepulchral for google bots to grope and pull, parsing nothing but mistakes.
oh, sweet avenger: fist my face and pull out my anxieties tarp-wrapped like a river corpse and mashed together like black mold balled up by shaking fingers. rub it on the walls and write a poem that smothers this place with inner filth like waterboarding in reverse and in slow motion. now, touch your lips to mine. shotgun the fetid air from my lungs and transmute it into perfume designed by one who loves scent in the way only the blind could: i will love myself like that one day.
My flesh laid out a scheme for me Into which my fractured bakelight bones Do not fit comfortably. My eyes are peach pits desiccated And spitting tears of slime and mold Onto desert hands whence life has vacated. My mouth is a graveyard tasting of decay: Sticky bittersweet coating teeth and tongue Morbidly resisting attempts to brush away. My feet are burlap bags of broken glass Stumbling, slicing, and grinding Their way in circles over yellowed grass. My body is a metal worm Stimulated but unfeeling Waiting for science to confirm.
there is a myth that humans don't grow hair. instead, our skins are bat wings showing arteries that trace maps to nowhere. if all our blood was collected would it be greater than the ocean? though we build statues ever higher, our refuse outstrips the science we've neglected. when quiet space we conquer what truly have we won? to Mars though a ship may spring what peace can we sequester?
From air and æther I make ghosts Out of friends. From the null ache Of dry lipped eye sore I make statues crookedly Staring at the heavens. From you I make myself And all these machines In between
a computer at cubicles a gnome at ground floor elevator the janitor at cubicles a computer at cubicles a gnome at desk area the janitor at second floor lobby a computer at cubicles a gnome at ground floor elevator the janitor at kitchen a computer at cubicles a gnome at second floor elevator the janitor at second floor lobby a computer at cubicles a gnome at second floor lobby the janitor at second floor elevator a computer at cubicles a gnome at second floor elevator the janitor at ground floor elevator a computer at cubicles a gnome at second floor lobby the janitor at desk area a computer at cubicles a gnome at kitchen the janitor at ground floor elevator a computer at cubicles
loose windrows come unfalteringly. Indeed, Algernon; the patient lay still with all the hapless silent lovers.
we turned our eyes to the moon and the clouds stopped, the moon an ugly sun obscured. our eyes are dead, all seeing the dream that repeats and will one day replay not over green but gray when us and them are cavities, open to space. linked to me and back, my spine is drawn and we don't know yet gray from green or one from another. the blue blanket drawn lazily moves on: slipping, falling, crumpling from the bed.
"thick-skinned, liver, believers very social blesssssing" estranged mock crapshoot. Inevitably, concedes, Tinnitus.
frenetic fame children pregnant. motioning, continues blurted speechless Sluggishness, distored production. depressive effectiveness
a brown constellation among black night-hairs leads not to undiscovered lands but rather the same shit-smell and sweat-curls I've come to expect.
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK A FIGHT WITH TWO WILDCATS No, he was all right!
The bodily heat falls very rapidly. "It's my lungs I'm worried about," Mary said. Gabriel, why did you ever set your heart on me? You had charge of the funeral arrangements. There was no tribute but their tears. You had charge of the funeral arrangements. [Sidenote: Result of the contest.] He did not want to let Renovales go. But the contest irritated the king. That husky young boy was her son. "Did they tell you, Mariano? She must stay at home and work for others."
The grass of spring covers the prairies with all their simple sorrows I saw nothing about fairies in the plains of the poems of heroes. with a flock of sheep he now swats the pill a bleeding heap dreaming toward the till he hardly spoke a word out to the southern suburb an unofficial organ to georgetown with an intermittent urge beneath a mustached frown. perhaps even with the wonderland dreamer this works with the scalper.
Jupiter shall emerge with grace and tap gold whisky from her crystal keg and see the whole man converge cutting the lashing of his waterproof leg. Every incident should have some bearing on the denouement. have you ever seen a ghost? every fiction should have some bearing on our denouement. what was his proudest boast? blabbing by rote an exceptional touch has been slightly torn or wounded in the throat. fingers say too much. pile the words of the earth to protect him and teach him his worth
Symertoerton LOS ANGELEyajima abilityists