Different dreams

Had a dream I was a woman (or transsexual, not really sure) and I liked it. Not the first time I’ve thought about being a woman or being transgender anyway. There’s good and bad with both genders but sometimes I think being a woman would be better in some respects. Also in the dream me and Maria Bamford (the Bammer) made a kid’s show together and I learned to imatute her exarcly. I would love making a kid’s show with her. Her comedy and sensitivity would be a welcome change to the shows of today and it’d be about real acceptance and understanding, not generic “love everybody” bs or everybody is special sap, but knowledge building. To be cliche we’d build a “positive space” for everyone really, adults too.

Right now parents are bitching and complaining about same-sex education in Ontario and it makes me ill. The fact that these dumbs parents (who probably won’t talk to their kids about same-sex unions, homosexuality, sex in general) get so much say in regards to this issue while parents’ concern is not taken into account in other respects. What about all the excessive homework kids get nowadays, didn’t parents complain about that? Or cutting arts programs or at least trimming the fat of them? It seems all this right wing conservative stuff always gets a seat at the table and an open ear when it is just plain dumb nonsense. Fuck these parents, nothing wrong with LGBTQ at all! Kids should learn about reality, the real world and what is out there. And the complaints about anal sex. They’ll learn about it in grade 7! Kids know a lot of that shit by then anyway, the playground teaches all. Why do we need to placate the backwards? They need to keep up and change their ways, we don’t need to make exceptions and accommodations for the Troglodytes of society. Get with the times man.

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Pill Swill

Please work must try
Pills pills pills
Cold feeling empty heart
Chills chills chills
Try it diet exercise
All fleeting thrills
Cigs drugs alcohol
Ohm and ink spills
Nothing doing nothing work
Wits end stealth hurt
Hate you hate me hate it all
Calm and simmer in the melting pot
Hell hell hell
Take another dose hit it up
Pop a bottle pray for luck
Deep deep well
Ringu spell dwell
Stuck in rock stuck in rut
Bored of media and busted nut
Sexual anorexia
Emotional aphasia
Pick up body broken stump
Mend the spirit fix the lump

Down a twisty tunnel. Curvy unjulating trance force glowing round me. Being beaten with steel rods about the head, blows shows I suppose. Feeling dizzy, down, mood elevation so far out of reach; hanging fruit smushed to bumbleberry jam underneath cloven hoofed feet. Metamorphosis shape shift blasphemous scandalous. Devil goat satyr braying white hot anger. Sad angels playing harps to tune deaf beast. Stay away, namaste, doesn’t work, repeat threepeat plunker down in deep depression bunker arching Archie. All in, family ties family matters matter of fact. Fiction addiction dreamstate affliction, escapism following. Leave this body, spirited away from ghost forest draped in carniferous trees. Antichrist elms and bottling bawling willows.

Me again. Old me, gray me. Sunken treasure pirate’s life for me. Capsized ships gotta swim up for air. Steal preservers and hang on to other’s buoy. Say to myself I did it alone but really joint effort. Smoking joints spliff frenzy, take away the pain. Self-medicate for artist’s sake, must create, every day create, re everything over and again. Temptation orbits round, insaning myself for loony toons circus. Bitter eyes blinking help me refrain under guise guy.

Sink my teeth into my own face, eat away skin, rub out sin. Blue slate forget the past, repast dras. Tic tic away minutes to hours. Bulgy eyes racing heart, rip it out, stripmine chest cavity gravity. Stab in dark, copper blood loosing forth entry wounds red and bloody hell disaster. sunk on floor droopy mouth dangling arms. Carved turkey chest exhibiting scars, stitches in time, pin prick weak flesh, voodoo doll in controller’s hand. Melodramatic static spewing out sad song blues, better paint myself pink.

Parent Trap

Sometimes I want kids and then I remind myself of the cons and philosophy I have on life so far. I am a modern changing organism and I still have time to dither and wait; countdown engines on. Rocketman with no direction, so choosy with the future. In the early 20s I was like “yeah, if I meet the right person I’d have kids or be a stepfather,” seeing as how I was attracting the married woman (and who am I kidding I have a thing for them, penchant for other people’s love). But now, I don’t want that. Not that it’s some burden or anything but the choice comes from much thought and this is my life and I choose how to live it, I don’t get people making big decisions by the wishes of family and peer pressure, surely the right brain would take over.

Now and again I think and pitter ponder on what my son or daughter would be like. I’d like my son to respect me and think of me as a model or someone to emulate. That may be hubris or a desire to be the better man that lives in my head ( he has much space to walk in). Like other people I do want to install values in a new generation and want my son to care about the important things and be responsible and try harder to live sustainably as I try to. I also really want that father son relationship that is fairly odd lacking in my own life. I would’t say it’s bad but as last night showed with one of my friends, saying I love you and really showing affection is so important and you need the words. Maybe I’m desiring a wholesome father son relationship mentally to replace the damaged cell of my own animated life. We all embody cliches.

But alas i have made my decision and feel it’s the best. Really I don’t want to gamble and take the risk of having a child with mental/emotional issues. I think it’s wrong to risk it, the pain and suffering, unnecessary, that the kid would endure is not something I want on my conscience. I will not play dice with offspring. So maybe I live the hermit life, much cheese and wine in my future. Adopting is a very laudable option and kids love me. I don’t pretend to know mine or anyone else’s future so I’ll leave with a thought. We all grow into the adult that suits our needs.

The Idiot

Droplets of memories flickr round my goblet head, dazzling chintzy sparklers distracting me, the life course, the procrastinated role play. I am dumb scum rum pum rummy. Inebriated troll falling over self, I’ve become so clumsy no more quick reflexes, must work out more.

Back in college she said I’m full of it. Waxing bitter about lovely Mel, serene siren calming my mind, blank space slate. I was full of it, maybe now too, maybe I’ve fooled myself and shoved the wise under locke and key. Shining child coming to the fore, Torrance of emoticons blanket me nightly. Replete with myself, Sophie hunger for egotism, neoliberalism, pretty water reflection drowning out sane thought. Sanity overrated, not to be fated, phantasy star sated.

And who am I anymore? What hath god wrought, what have I become? What to do when I’m Tweedle Dee and Dum? Smart idiot. Prince Myshkin in Canada. Semi-automatic sob stories but must cover up; tell no one, never a word always a care. Stress test bless mess. Propped up shoulders tight against the world, fall down internally, crumble. Feel weak, mis: guided, directed,taken. I dunno anymore man. Man, woman, lonely boy, lost girl, basexual, freaky deaky pervert past, longing for desire.

Suffer self references in melodramatic cartoon word. Itchy and scratchy mayhem blowing up. Poochy coochie wally follow me. Distressed obsessed loveless princess. Too many sides to contend with. Tired again, can’t stop won’t stop, little engine manic race. Bipolar rolling over, rollercoaster rock and rolla. Traumatic schematic attack out of habit. Psychosomatic worries platered on, psychosis doses feeling on the wall. Crazy insane refrain, rhyming bout pain, character flaw main.

Give it up, move on to higher horizons as I wave goodbye to old selves. Arm tired from anticipation. Hulk no smash. Better days here, no fear, just a dear, in headlights. Shine a little light on me. Midnight special chooglin away on dusk dreams. Choking down clear water for the revival of me.

Lern Good

Maimo maimo, these whispering secrets cuddle so nicely within me, spay the hellions before they multiply. Then shamefulness, red-cheeked native son blushing hard. I dare not tell a soul unless drunk and defensive, so, you know, every other day it seems to me. But I find it hard to talk about those things, illumination is dull-beated on my rave scene. Hard bopping’ kids licking toads on a hot wet sprocket.

Me can’t read good. Oh I can read properly compared to other dyslexics (apparently dyslexic means reading disorders general not just jumbles and queeridity), just the focus is off, the words lose sense more than I’d like; ADD addled brain suffocating on distraction gaseous emissions, eyes beating round surroundings looking at nothing, remembering nothing. Short-term shot shittily so I goes ta practice rightly, brain games and memorization etiquette working in the background; license plate scans the napkin on my lap, words words words on the page must be fed to the steel trap. Brain foggy, hungry, trapped in its own metal jaws and dithering anxiously every way. Reflections, projections, remembrances and awful trifles. Where was I? still on page 2?! Solid is the fate which bares through and through. Read and reread so many times words lose meaning. OCD renderings birthing third eye epiphanies on symbolic language inputs and outputs, ratios of frail communication. Letters rubbing against each other in the black bag of the mind. I forget. I wander through the camp, hobble up to sure things. Poetry won’t fail me.

I fear it getting worse, Alzheimer’s bubbling up, toil and trouble future stain. Can’t stop. Repeating. Stop. Check again. Do it do it! Go back to hitting yourself! Remember those days? I did it to you, for you, against you my oh my you are the puppet. Dance, dance monkey man. I crawl in your skin. Slither around ears and coax obedience. Let me in little pig, let me tell you what’s what. Arguing with bad self, Mr. Buu no happy Slappy. Animaniacs running the show; pop a poppler, watch him go. Bad rising and falling, tired now, nothing more.

High Expectations Anxiety

Fell a little for the young one with all the right curves and character strong. Enjoyable to be around in months of heavy rain clouded mind. I would wait for the days she worked to get some of that good time memories, drown out the negative, the humdrum bathing badness creating rings round my tubba tub. The bright light is dimmer but it’s better than staying at home wallowing counting followers and likes. Hobbit hole reconstruction, aging cheddar abstention ripening on the wooden table wrought with history; demolition fat contract demolishing white tissue.

Then the harsh judgements come back, tinkering away in my head just gagging for freedom to breathe. Movement surreptitious, sneaking eyes flash on flaws. She has her share, not unexpected. She’s happy-go-lucky and part of that “haters gonna hate” mentality. But the haters can have a point. Freeing yourself from societal burden can make you forget to better yourself, work on your changeable flaws that reduce pleasanville dreams. She says she’s mature but so many times the lie shows its face, maybe not a lie but a too early statement. Self-satisfied but tempered nonetheless, seems to care about the finer points but still I think superficial. Modern woman but girlish all the same. Not too responsible either. Pay rent but get mummy dearest’s help. Not in a better situation so why judge and cast stones.

But she’s always late, why do that to your fellow workers? Seems disrespectful, immature, self-centred brashness for the selfie generation. Microscopic myopic, at least I hope so. I lose some respect like what happens with so many others, men included. Should forgive but it irks me. Some things you shouldn’t be doing to others and that “grow up already” vibe gyrates and tumbles within me; perturbed bubbles rising to the top. Not really angry but just disappointed yet again and forever. High standards running amok, still haven’t changed much from childhood, always expecting the goodness to be omnipresent, higher value for the modern age but all the maids fall down. They need breaks, don’t push an idea of womanness onto them. Don’t play this morality game with all the struggling proles, everybody’s plate is empty and full at the same time. Give us a kiss and forget it all.

I’ll get over all these things, see the good that is in abundance. I accept in my time, I feel that’s good enough for me. Expectations are high for myself as well. Better to shine the marble model and let little cracks show, foundation is more than adequate. But oh do I want to forgive and not worry with such rot. Still the temptation to cast aspersions and judge judge judy sentiments. One day. Maturity isn’t over yet. Long roads on cluttered highways while I pass on the left.