fading into me
🎵i’m so ugly—that’s ok—cuz shit just sucks
(broken mirrors)
monday morning is every day for all i care
and i’m real scared, 🎵
but i’m also done imitating Kurt
(what did I just say about broken mirrors?)
lithium makes me feel like i’m in church suffocating again
without any religious experience
—so, in church suffocating again—
minus the hardon from girls in spring clothes
minus the promise of the Spring Yard Zone after benediction
minus the bear or some other gay indie shit on my playlist,
because mood stabilizers make you want to pretend you have feelings
and honestly,
i never listened to Kurt as a kid
because i was pretending to be a female wizard with a wild-looking staff
instead of pretending to be a friend 
pretending
to look up to a worldly male feminist and understand his fucking inscrutable lyrics 
it’s fun to have no win conditions and to be honest
and here’s a roleplaying scenario provided with the pretense of “building empathy”: 
you’re a Gulf War explosives expert standing at a concert slurring the words to “In Bloom”
when you leave the concert to get intoxicated at a strip club, hold 1
spend your hold to make the saddest rain ever, nothing close to a real rain
make a hard move, a soft move, a jack move
choice-stricken dancefloor
DDR
bang: she’s pregnant
(bang, bang):  men from Aberdeen
with something to prove
lose their heads
God looking through the crosshairs
speaking of 1990-something,
most of the mirrors 
in and around Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building 
were busted
 
gazing into me
fixation, when the work is slow (always)
🎵winter time, and the living is easy hellish🎵
routine is a dish best served at all
slow breathing, 
slow anger response
in the evenings, it’s time for waxing philosophical
as waning boys from the favela burn banter into my monitor
“Come to Braaasssil!” or 
“Any of you men Brazilian?”
in a quaint little mind-kitchen
transphobic father time sits down to a dinner of clocks
main course is hours (“ours!”)
don’t need no minute-man (Misdemeanor: “minute man”) (war crime: “Minuteman”)
sloppy seconds for everyone
a faggot boymoding at a funeral: their own: DOUBLE KILL
would Challenger Zilean have saved her?
a huge male jiggaboo with big fuckin’ jowls
mockery of a man, let alone a woman lol
empath is a genderlocked class
and i’ve got a temper as short as my nappy hair
that i pull out to settle disputes.
arrayed black carpet on the table in a threatening shape
that isn’t a gun that’s blue and cold
but usually this happens on 🎵another Saturday night🎵
ain’t good for nothin’... but
[ ]
my gender is basically a subroutine
a costly background process
needs to be suspended like pants on a skinhead don’t
needs to be suspended like Baron Harkonnen
needs to be suspended like me, if this is high school 1999
so i can get on to something fucking useful
gender: an iterated blackface performance?
ha!, genderface—a slur a child might use
haw, and you better laugh at this garish fucking coon all dandied up
*compares gender to a piece of hardware*
“[what do you call a bunch of niggers standing around in a field?]
Antique farm equipment”
blackface software slash hardware that’s both useless and use-y
useless
use-y
useless
use-y?
useless
you see? (DICE ME UP CAMILLE, okay?)
come on, Homer, put the boy down and do the routine:
Australia!  America!  Australia!  America!  Australia!  Ameri-
HAL Jolson 
 
blanking into me
too lazy to find a good root
between adderall crash and trying for the 20th time to get through Snow Crash
or any novel, really
i’m way off the rails
flipped into the ditch, tires spinning
and my demons are a symphorophiliac polycule that can’t stop fucking in the wreckage
(shoutout to Cronenberg)
hate is a siren, and a reverse-morning call to prayer—
as Disturbed as that sounds—
and boy do i need Jesus or fuck, Nyarlathotep, to take the wheel
because i’m cloudy
gloomblinders
here i go thinking i can use my rage productively (hold my beer)
Boromir-levels of arrowgance,
pierce me daddy,
but i’m without Ring
phone... doesn’t ring
turned the ringer off (bills)
speeding away from problems (broncos)
and i wish it was all as knowable as Freda’s plight
when she sang 🎵“All that’s left of the dreams I hold...
is a band of gold”🎵
as opposed to: T-minus one year to
being the hook of that Tragically Hip Song.
fucking, 
a sore day, a red day
and the sun does whatever it feels like
now red is ubiq 
red is wall paper
*covering
—is it pizza sauce or blood 
who gives a shit?
a question i ask when people discuss strategies for “surviving the 24-hour news cycle”—
tuning out words,
escape to Star [‘wildcard’ for emphasis because i already used asterisk]
Mutual Assured Destruction
bubble universes exploding and reconstituting themselves with the sassy slime of Buzzfeed self-care advice
and i can’t hear anything but Tolkien hearing V2 rockets and gently deluding himself with
“at least i get to fuck Lúthien, at least i get to rawdog my elf-maid”
it’s dark
and Hell is hot
Hell is other people
so you might say other people are hot
and so we’ve entered the jerk off hour
yo they throwin’ genetics at me
genes and pornography (or, as i like to call it, Chinese youtube videos of women digging survival shelters, a fetish of mine.  BUILD HOME WITH DIGGING ONLY)
jeans?
>sweatpants
as if i’m buying what nature is selling
like i didn’t go through a period where i asked my doctor to
castrate me
like my overall case file isn’t enough to get the ghosts of the entire Canadian Eugenics Board
firehose wet,
dripping pearly-white ectoplasm,
Slimer.
constantly rerouting invasive thoughts by telling them to shut up
or “Rudy doesn’t live here anymore” 
or “wrong number”
or “you’re gay”
...
Dokapon is a videogame called the “friendship destroying game”
by the four weebs who play it—
and there are only four at any given time—
because it brings people
together 
in the sense that things like 
domestic violence,
a particularly grim urban siege,
or ethnic cleansing
bring people together.
picture
parents’ with whirling fists,
Syrian triggermen,
and hate radio deejays
picture them
as the nebulous server processes peeking out from behind the doors of Warcraft’s Scarlet Monastery
dividing people who enter
into parties
say, 
parties of four:
*Kramer slide*
an instance, Jerry!
four kids under a bed with cowardly Army Men standing guard, jumping with each impact
four shellshocked mothafuckas in a Damascus garden disheveled by bare hands, cause ain’t no grave
four cock-a-roaches in an “inn” where the “innkeeper” is Don Cheadle (and now i’m crossing Warcraft with real life, crossing myself, just cross me out).
Dokapon is Japanese word that, for this trash poem anyway, means
“everybody loving company, hating the moment
hating the closeness of company, loving the anticipation for when everything breaks back out into an open world”
but
for now—and this whole damn metaphor is reaching to the sky
(maybe cursing Assad’s name?)
(shaking a fist)
(... straining, definitely)—
for now
it’s all in one gray grave,
Antietam,
all down the same well,
Boonsboro,
all to selfishly delay a dark night of the soul that’s gonna feel like Darkling
for fucktons of my puzzle-piece-shaped personal demons
coming from behind.
inevitable, because “last place”
is a numerical certainty,
not/and a personal insult
(math echoes like KHAAAAAAAAAN).
in my experience,
the essence of Dokapon Kingdom, 
which might as well be the Kingdom of Heaven
where no one reaches it but through Mii—to Hell with the Playstation 2 version—
is collective brutalization in the form of an RPG with board-game elements.
intrusive thoughts are Rosa’d,
giving up their seats to
intrusive actions
intrusive words pierce my over-frail soul, playing pretend-embered host in a basement shrine of hollow ones
intrusive parents, sometimes, and goddamn i wish they were here in some way other than in spirit but


thoughts are hostile, but seen
invisible stalkers splashed with black paint.
in the end, it’s usually a controller that takes flight
fleeing the victim of a low poly lynching.
the day after is a trudge through a wintry mix of social fallout,
a mind maze
where even the minotaur is like
“you fucking OK dude?”
Global Assault is nothing compared to 
the local monsters that assail when 
alone.
alone
my thoughts are a game of scatological telephone—
my thoughts are a game of scatological telephone
my thots are again on cats in logical telegrams
mice tots are aging arrogant and lodging on instagram—
my thoughts are
a
solo,
emergent,
often radiant 
playground—
granted, a developing world playground (or a world-developing playground?)
either way, 
landmines
(RIP Magawa).
alone
my thoughts are
Skyrim
or Breath of the Wild if 
sorrows are moving
in an Easterly direction.
but i’ll never enjoy Skyrim
or Breath of the Wild
like i do 
Dokapon Kingdom.