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FIRDANCER; O’sweet, O’Belov’D

My mind is made of bubbles Synapses pop here and there Take me in different directions Through alleyways and down steep stairs My emotions come and go like the mornings receding tide Shift like piss swift dribbling down drainage pipes and play-place slides My words are drool upon your feet My eyes are hung like frozen coals Or snot that freezes and puddles In jacket arms, on brand new clothes The mirror is a needle but these ropes are all the same I built my house on a rock in sands so that I can be displaced by strange rogue waves Sometimes screaming doesn’t help Today I can’t talk at all Self harm gets only a couple chuckles when friends come round to call My loves tears taste like cinnamon I can’t swallow without spitting up Ones once loved don’t talk to me because my medicine makes me less fun I cry every other night over folks I chose to hang around My room is set on fire every time I say something and don’t like how it sounds Good grief, bang the drum all day

@a2den

Dec 29, 2024

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Get a new apartment

The light fixture, modern, brightens the old cracks in our ceiling. Popcorn walls, chipped , lead paint. Our sink spits out our upstairs neighbor’s breakfast. Sometimes eggs but usually pancake mix. Their water drips down on us through those same cracks while we shower. We have beets in the fridge from far too long ago. The stains look like blood and we’re only 20 with a stained fridge. I could clean up the beets and we could have new beets. We feed their cat that visits us while we hang our sheets to dry. We have ugly pillows on a nice couch. It used to be my moms. We have a wood table with rings, drawings and signatures from when we were 5 - because we don’t have coasters yet. Maybe we’ll make a home here - but I go outside instead, because things are better out here and there are no cracks above me.

@glitterpoprocks

Sep 17, 2024

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the thin people / sylvia plath

ok last one: They are always with us, the thin people Meager of dimension as the gray people On a movie-screen.  They Are unreal, we say: It was only in a movie, it was only In a war making evil headlines when we Were small that they famished and Grew so lean and would not round Out their stalky limbs again though peace Plumped the bellies of the mice Under the meanest table. It was during the long hunger-battle They found their talent to persevere In thinness, to come, later, Into our bad dreams, their menace Not guns, not abuses, But a thin silence. Wrapped in flea-ridded donkey skins, Empty of complaint, forever Drinking vinegar from tin cups: they wore The insufferable nimbus of the lot-drawn Scapegoat.  But so thin, So weedy a race could not remain in dreams, Could not remain outlandish victims In the contracted country of the head Any more than the old woman in her mud hut could Keep from cutting fat meat Out of the side of the generous moon when it Set foot nightly in her yard Until her knife had pared The moon to a rind of little light. Now the thin people do not obliterate Themselves as the dawn Grayness blues, reddens, and the outline Of the world comes clear and fills with color. They persist in the sunlit room: the wallpaper Frieze of cabbage-roses and cornflowers pales Under their thin-lipped smiles, Their withering kingship. How they prop each other up! We own no wilderness rich and deep enough For stronghold against their stiff Battalions.  See, how the tree boles flatten And lose their good browns If the thin people simply stand in the forest, Making the world go thin as a wasp's nest And grayer; not even moving their bones.

@sloane_shark

Jul 1, 2024

Top Recs from @a2den

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I watched too much YouTube as a kid

Meta-irony is the fantastical pallet in which I choose to paint my world. I find myself following confusing paths to strange allusions. Sentences that switch back on themselves and examine the writer for meaning, And truly burn them during a burial at sea to sink beneath waves of witticisms and filler words Like, it’s, okay, um, well, god; physical eye rolls careen over bodies of the learned  And silence is resented.  Seek visual silence and youre staring into space I seek the stimulation of little scrolling stories and their sixty second arcs The recaps of art I will only ever see from this side of the fence   Obscured by toggles and buttons. UX and UI blurring my experience and sharpening my understanding Trapped in a cage of something else’s design, in someone else’s device What I hold is not my own. It is not of me, it has grown attached to me. A leech I love so dearly we share skin. A parasite I make space for. My mind has holes where morals should be. Blasted out by years of prank videos Of multi-channel networks, family vlogging channels, relationship advice gurus, discord moderators I am the seed sown by excitement for lazer collections, gmod idiot box, and home made stop motion lego Star Wars parody music videos Perverted in bad faith at the hands of a digital monster let loose by its creator  To put the potential for profitability through exploitation in the hands of the proletariat too occupied by dreams of influence to see how they are being led to the altar by the collar. Asked to sacrifice time or spirit or soul to be left hollowed out by the house before it inevitably wins The will is no match for the cold, mechanical force of algorithms whose nature is dictated by watch times One sided engagement over engaged interaction I watched too much YouTube as a kid and now I know everything 

@a2den

Dec 29, 2024

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FIRDANCER; O’sweet, O’Belov’D

My mind is made of bubbles Synapses pop here and there Take me in different directions Through alleyways and down steep stairs My emotions come and go like the mornings receding tide Shift like piss swift dribbling down drainage pipes and play-place slides My words are drool upon your feet My eyes are hung like frozen coals Or snot that freezes and puddles In jacket arms, on brand new clothes The mirror is a needle but these ropes are all the same I built my house on a rock in sands so that I can be displaced by strange rogue waves Sometimes screaming doesn’t help Today I can’t talk at all Self harm gets only a couple chuckles when friends come round to call My loves tears taste like cinnamon I can’t swallow without spitting up Ones once loved don’t talk to me because my medicine makes me less fun I cry every other night over folks I chose to hang around My room is set on fire every time I say something and don’t like how it sounds Good grief, bang the drum all day

@a2den

Dec 29, 2024