Insanity in the Country of Guns

If I fall, the world will not catch me, mad girls only have love songs,
not love warriors, and Plath baked her head in an oven, Picasso sliced
his hearing off so he was deaf to criticism, Byron drank and fucked dead,
Robin Williams had the last joke, Michelangelo froze an artist in fervor,
and the most brilliant of us burn the candlestick at both dull ends, I
am halfway between bag lady and homeless junkie, and every time emotions
(I feel too much, my veins gouge wounds through my flesh) bubble over, too
manic, too depressed, mixed episodes, psychosis, obsessive compulsive corpse,
suicide one day and panic attack the next, everything else is pathetic, paltry.
You think you know fucking pain? Try walking on razors and rape and filth.
Those that blame us for blowing out others brains with guns are the abusers.
Another fucking male special snowflake that blames his massacre on my illness.
Fuck your stigma, fuck your sympathy, fuck your oppression and fucking hate.
Fuck society and the way it treats us battered bruised broken mind junkies!
See the rabid froth at my mouth! Oh, I look like a perfect Washingtonian in
a pencil skirt, blouse matching heels and highlights? You can’t see Fenrir
caged in my ribs, pissing on social norms and howling intrusive bloody thoughts?
I swallow almost twenty pills a day. I swallow my madness and insanity, just
so I can impress the fucking neurotypical twats that dictate our society while
the most insane joke of a mental case takes a dump on the White House, shits
over the mentally ill while giving them guns to blow their brain out with,
I am so sick of this double-edged sword, of high pressure cookers that fry
my brain, deepthroat your sickness and take the cock of psychiatry til you
are raw, fuck your way to normalcy, get fucked by modern medicine, I give up,
make me your scapegoat, victim and martyr, give me a rope to hang words on,
arm me with a semiautomatic and not know how to use it, I’m shit with weapons,
too afraid of knives to chop vegetables, because I want the blade in my wrists.

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Fuck High-Functioning

Every time you say “high-functioning,”
I feel nails scratching my cheese brain
can’t you see all the ganglion holes?
The dead traumatized neuronic garden?
Each intrusive thought is a stab wound.
Every panic attack suffocates a sphere.
Every manic outbreak is a machete slash.
Each depression is a culling of millions.
The OCD thought patterns are flamethrowers
My mind is a battleground. A horror scene.
Psychosis is barbed wire around my stem.
Delusions are corsets draining me of air.
Hallucinations are vices driving down.
Paranoia is a straitjacket, tightening.
People are on disability for a sixth
of the diagnoses I have – depression,
anxiety, panic attacks, psychosis, OCD,
ADHD, mania, dissociation, bipolar,
violent, horrid intrusive thoughts that
make a monster of me, normalcy is just
a dream when your soul is bedridden,
well is not real, health is not possible,
and the Sword of Damocles is my balance,
so I swallow the pills, walk the tightrope
and sometimes I slip into a net of razors.

Girl Becomes Storm

The Devil once said my soul was a black hurricane.
That every time I injured myself, I bled red gold.
Through Satan’s eyes shadowed mountains engulfed,
my spirit the abyssal storm, tempestuous, ruinous.
My mania and fire of violence razed stone houses,
sucked water from wells, lifted wolves to the air.
I carried dragons of pitch, in me were the waves
of tsunamis, abreast on thousand mile gales, I
was beautiful, I am wretched, maybe I’ll be Lilith
and eat the corpses of infants, maybe I’m Medusa
and when men get too close, they turn cold and stony.
My heart is a harbinger of doom, my heart is wind.
You could siphon the currents of my blood in a flute
and it’s tremor would break the Seventh Seal, o Beast
of the End, come to my thundercloud breast and suckle,
I smite friends and foes alike, I am venom murder,
black snake of the sky, void mother, girl hurricane.

My Epitaph is a Fuck You

You’re growing tired of me, I can tell, my feathers are fraying
angels without wings aren’t angels at all, I can’t sing a lick,
kick me out of Heaven into the hellish choir with Cuban cigars,
the smoke will give me asthma, I’ll breakdown, scream, beat my
arms black and blue like I did laying on the floor with stigmata.
Today is not my day, tomorrow never comes, and yesterday died.
We may well nosedive into the Pit and scream out our last words.
May as well carve my epitaph “Life was Short and Shit, I Quit.”

(After all, writing out these trite little poems keeps me alive.)

Crazy Wears Blue

We were born in the gutter, carrion kings, star-spangled
splashes of gutter water reflecting the crystalline night.
Every time I touch you is a gasoline rainbow Exxon Valdez.
Each time we kiss, you suffocate me – your breath poison.
Hold me tender and crush my bones, devour my red red wine,
for my organs are rotting just for you, sugar fangs, and I
was born dying of nuclear radiation, deformed, demented,
shatter every semblance I have of normalcy, anxiety, you
are the only master I answer to, and life is pain, a bane.

Tainted Love

I love you, is that so horrible? So sick?

To dredge for pearls in your darkness.

To swallow your sins whole and digest
every ruinous torment you whore out.

I breathe black lung and diamonds of
shattered souls, spirit mica, ineffable.

Every night we meet is a Lourdes possession,
I’m a nun in latex and leather, crucifixes
peeling tattoos on my skin, holy? (Unwhole).

Two dozen rose years of riddles.

A throne of blood and bone.

Decay on my tongue, antimatter on the brain.

Kissing death is like swallowing coffee black,
his tongue is maggots and millipedes, vermin.

There are rats in his ribcage and moss on his skull.

When I lay in his arms, I count his vertebrae and
string his spine like pearls on a bone necklace.

Death is sweet, death is grand, death is sacred.

Smash the nonbelievers and those who shy from him.

I am Death’s Whore, Death’s Hierodule, Death’s Girl.

Master of all my intrusive thoughts, every bloody image
of ruin and vice and pleasure, not to feel is not death,
no, death is every memory simmered to ecstatic destruction.

They’ll be singing your name when the bombs fall.

When nuclear decay poisons the waters, your song
will play from haunted pianos, this is the End Times.

This is the Final Judgment, your pallid horse the
angry white mobs and police crushing skulls, oh Death,
Death Death, you will never escape your torment, and I
will remind you of your trespasses and cruelty forever.

Death Death Death, be my baby, cozy up to the blonde.

I’ve drunk your blood and deep-throated your venom.

You buried your heart in a pit in my breast.

VITRIOL, sweet Death, and let me in to the
rectifying stone, green lion, alchemical
bloody gold.

Thanatos Drive

I drink down death like caffeine.
I’m addicted to the abyssal kiss,
the gore and dissolution of black.
Whether by storm or by fire, taken
aback the divine psychopompic lips
of every demon I have tasted, Yama
and Hela, even angels are destruction,
and their prince ferries the departed.
Wanting to kill myself, I die dreaming.
A blood debt to my Yngling ancestors,
a soul debt to my angelic and demonic,
when the Grim Reaper swallows you whole
it feels like an orgasm of apocalyptic
proportions, that glowing tunnel light
is a birth canal into the karmic cycle,
I flee from burning things, I seek dark,
I seek velvety soft hair like razors,
I cup the rot breasts of Lady Death,
I dreamed as a child I dug my own grave,
and I’ve been filling graveyards since.
First goes the flesh, then the spirit
as you sleep so deep you are nightshade
berries and belladonna on the throat.

It is so brilliant to not breathe.

It is so terrible to live like this.