fleshkitting
i imagine i’m autogaragekitting when i pop my good girl pills.
nestling pirated genders into my mucous membrane raptures me.
i am a kawaii figure of astolfo-chan cast in polyvinyl chloride,
ingested too much bisphenol a, exposed to too few ultraviolet rays.
i dream of my arms dislocated by daddy machines owned by zaibatsu,
produced in taiwan, twisted until my minikui shoulders are drawn away.
i fantasize about silicon forms enveloping me in fictitious membranes,
acrylonitrile butadiene styrene, resin, polystone petrifying me.
i would make a pretty statue, the women they sell in akihabara,
for failures of men in a culture less forgiving than our petty hell.
i am liberated of autism. no spilling spaghetti at my own funeral,
no maleness left except for the dick that makes it better (for show).
‘american failmale’, from twitter. by no one important.
produced in 2021. labeled for display on a channer’s shelf.
it sucks that shipping’s so fucking expensive, though.
every panel of an r-18 doujin digs a machete into my aorta
my first loves were two.
one,
the internet, that beautiful mistake from the spooks at DARPA.
two,
koyomi mizuhara, that meganekko from azumanga daioh [2002].
the first facilitated the second, an mkultra experiment except
instead of becoming a serial killer, they made me love glasses.
technomotherhood, frenetic technomotherhood;
corrupting the young.
computer screens burning into your mind from the womb fuck your spirit.
there wasn’t an introduction - the crt was mother, becoming-mother.
father-essence remarried to lcd-chan;
all the same.
remember fora? remember bbcode? remember [2008] and [2009]? remember [2010]?
forum dms enlighten the world in song and praise of babylon.
cyberantiquities;
no longer worth being sold in an antique mall.
koyomi implanted herself in my head when i divined a forum message.
mods banned the anime picture thread; internet mods, the height of fascism.
that message with koyomi;
a preteen’s first seijin muke.
the rhythm of a spasmic decade passed between then and now.
remember the [2010s]? i suppressed them, deleted that folder.
annihilation of the past;
the new, mandatory pastime.
i am koyomi now. there are pills for that, little aquamarine lozenges
to workshop your flesh into resembling a collage of thin lines.
transubstantiation;
wine into blood, corpus into stroke.
becoming-bishōjo, becoming-meganekko, becoming-dandere, becoming-human
after a youthful oblivion of nothing but the DARPA glare of computers.
dysphoria;
not existing inside a high school doujinshi.
one,
the internet, that pandora’s box that broke me.
two,
koyomi mizuhara, that abstraction i became.
thank DARPA i met my first loves.
cc: dying thoughts of a chronic fuck-up
palette swatches of existences cycling and cycling revolving
in my corneas contorting my body twisting to experience demands
what my fantasies demand and ask and will never achieve and make
peace with what is and what never will be
yesterday i will be a 16-year-old schoolgirl in a nonexistent class
today i was an 8-year old boy traipsing in a dead cathedral
tomorrow i am dead and i was always dead and i never lived
rendering my mind into mush to make it liveable and humanoid
psychedelic boxing match triumphing against the mutilated self
losing over and over again because i’m such a little painslut
eventually my frontal lobe will be food for the dead i can’t wait
can’t wait for stillborn futures bleeding in the maternity ward
can’t wait for the high school experience i’ll never have
can’t wait to be in the ground to do it all over again
your soul opens with your belt tightening around your neck and choking
yourself will never retvrn to normal ever again pathetic little
life going to the compost bin where it belongs and gives life to
post-human entities who might maybe fuck up a little less or maybe not
yesterday i will be a fuck-up neet with no life no friends no hope
today i was a normal shy kid who was so nice they praised
tomorrow i am a wandering esper barreling to the ground
if divinity existed i would ask fae/faer
to make me a girl in the next afterlife