"It's about words, and words are all I have…"

my own private apocalypse

how does the unconscious know?

how does it eviscerate the scrim?


you know   that ultra thin veneer of:

hey everything’s okay  i’m gonna live

happilyeverafter  my rotting roof won’t   cave in


though my yellow mould covered house is palliative


even my tv shows have descended  from hi-art  into

sex+blood+drugs   the hyperstylization of bare ass

+goodhair  on a drool worthy fool


(but he went to Harvard ape!)


last night’s dream so real   the horror  oh the horror

minutiae of mephistopheles  the kind where u instantly know

you’re never going to unknow


apocalyptic bloodcurdle  renders Cormac’s  The Road  childsplay


no wonder u spent your waking dayafter in ruin  +almost

beat your covidridden mother to a fine pulp  queen of manip

brainfog  my asss


with my scrim in tatters  +husband #3 drinking beers in sweaty

manrooms  it is time to build alliances  with kindstrangers  people

who actually want to see me  +a MAID doctor or two



FALL 2020  ..jon bernthal is dead to me..

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