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I come pre hurt

I come pre-hurtpre-horrified, pre-saddened I am safe that way all the ways to cope I have already operationalized
What you think, is preempted I am safe to love. Pre-tested pre-terrified.
Quality controlled.
I come pre-disgusted antagonized already no shock, no surprise can i suddenly find.
I come pre-dead. There is nothing here to look at. 
This is how it shall be I come pre-stunted.
Recent posts

i dont want art

i do not want to listen
to tiny soundscapes tickling my
cochlea to the unexpected as if to suggest
as if to suggest, literally anything
imploring me to listen
dumb brushstrokes and blocks of colors
figurines and silhouettes evocative
of evocation
a feeling of some times or place
or both
a voice, a thing that sounds like language
trying to place me in the mysterious
words to describe
the shitpudding of today
a reinvention of an artist
and their voice
a recapitulation of names
namespaces

a melody you can
barely remember
an emotional stamp buried in the
heap of emotional stamps of the
oppressive nature of today.
in fact i don't even
want this thing im writing right now
just to be left alone
a naked mind under a bare tree
being nothing, but not
Pessoa's stone, not
Ginsberg's emptiness, just
one that is not referential
PLEASE i beg of you.



this is the age of rampant computing
and of
quantitative mania
and of 
search algorithms running on GPUs
looking for a person shaped piece
missing
dead perhaps?
but with a digital trace.

leave it to the hypertext of imagination

in motion

There is a place not so haunted, that has remained, bearing
the sound of a muted rain lashing on car windows,
on a long street without sharp angles, and several red stop lights
the low monotony of wipers going left - up - left - up

I have been walking around waiting, for the bells I hear
to mean revolution, and the prisons of strong cars
To not be in my mind, but with everyone inside
not too close to not breathe.

I see the blobs streetlights, in watercolor yellow, and midnight white
No matter which street this is, or which day, or what festival we are decorating for,
or what turn of the seasons, has brought us here
To buy a ride is anonymous disappearance
in an unnamed city.

No matter how I hold your hand, or whose hand it is i hold,
and what questions you ask, about the dredges and trails of the days memory,
What kind of times are these, where to be in these fifteen minutes of false safety
must be, as, to be in motion?

window dressing

one day you might realize that you are
an extra
a cog, a burnt out piece of equipment
in the rube goldberg world
that is planned by no one
an entirely replaceable piece of
window dressing

as an ode to strangers,
withholding immense suffering in their beings
fighting immense indifference on the outside
we're all trying to be more than
window dressing

even on that day
a stray runner looks into your house after nightfall
at your mundane activities
watching tv, and arranging flowers
for a sense that
there's at least someone that's at home

a colleague might walk by your desk seeing
you gaze at amazement, at your instantaneous boredom
a sign of life, and engagement
of energy flowing around them

your laughing at a dog video in a bus
your irritating sneezing in a concert
your presence in a party as nobody
your terrible stroke in the pool
your dumb tweets
your

things are truly better expressed than not
and when we all speak together, aloud
fortissimo tutti chaotic clouds
thunderin…

how ar eyou?

if you ask me today:
HOW ARE YOU?
and ask me again in 3.5 hours
and then again in two weeks

and a month again, over
text messaging.

How are you? :)

I might have to keep telling you:
like shit.

just as many times.

But that a question was raised.

A QUESTION WAS RAISED about how i was.

is enough to trigger uncertainty
that i feel like shit.
Heisenbergs microscope
trying to measure something

despite knowing that
the answer is:
SAD.

BUT AS LONG AS WE CAN ASK,

WE WILL NEVER BE SURE THAT
IT ALWAYS IS.

masochistic epistemology

I tried to hurt myself using you  weaponizing you  turning your care ballistic  and my softness into weak armor 
i tried to use the hollows of your lower back as landmines  your words as small sharp blades that fit into old razors and broke in twos  your lips as quagmire meant for drowning 
i used your attraction as fission a devastating proxy for the  surplus destructive energy in  my own mind
when your love was not enough  i used your presence as war horns  alerting formations of my hearts cavalry  into attacking your defenseless desire  your scattered battalions that were only looking for me 
when I waged this war, i even used your indifference to hurt me  a blunt injury sustained under my very living skin  a slow passage of bloodclots into a series of hurtful colors 
why?  why do we cut ourselves?