Outfit post and depressing and pretentious poem (ie, the worst kind.) (i wrote it.) (a month ago)

by heytherewildflower

since for some reason my debit card that actually for real has money on it (GO ME!) won’t go through for a typepad payment (a blog host,) for the time being, here are fashion pictures of me posing like a lunatic, and then a poem

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

there crouches loneliness,

squatting in the dusky corner
of nowhere, trillion arms
of the whole bare earth hugging him.

he always, always sweats.

steam of so many tears is heavy air.

cloying cloud stink of it scraping
at where there should be tangle
of intestines, and groin.

cloying cloud stink of it sucks at whistling twist
straws for brain lobes, housed in shell of skull.

he has the appetite of Midas, craving
even colder gold, treasure buried
deepest, without x. all transforming
with softest touch, into what he wants,
but never eats, though hungry.

he, like Midas, hides a secret
grotesque weapon, shame, imprisoned
in a clever cage, always feeding.

at His height of Loneliness,
like Minotoar, is lost in the home
built exactly to house him.
center of its puzzle, but not an answer.

defeated  only once by chance, barely,

by a clever one who used string to escape being
devoured, dominion of the thing always waiting,

a thing, part beast, part man,
half king.

its sound, the tree
that falls unseen,
a groan. his name is

all all alone

were men hired by kings
or sired by kings, but not kings

one of them called Dedalus
built the labyrinth which housed
the horned thing, devil in detail,
mother who fucked a bull.

but Dedalus was tricked himself. stuck
inside his creation with the man eater, and shame.
a slave to dumb king golden touch. which was not
such a clever predicament for our boy.

of course, clever boy eventually scraped up a brilliant
escape from the prison that was his own clever
puzzle. he made two nice sets of flying wings. he flew out!
turns out they weren’t so perfect after all.


another clever boy, mythically called Theseus,
wasn’t a prince exactly til’ a mermaid blurted a bit
of a kept secret, identity his mother hid from him.

inspired by new knowledge of himself,
Theseus sought answers, the unknown
perpetrator, purportedly some king. mad hunt for home:
treasure hunt for mad spot: solving for factor X:
Dial F
for Father.

and sound and fury of all epic journeys hinge on a plot point
that ends like a solution. after not so long reunited with the F figure,
clever boy volunteered for sacrifice. it was ritual, and his duty, to die
for his father’s country.

he got on board it, boated toward it, got to it,
ditched his party, seduced the sister of the cretin cannibal,
and escaped. life of the shrieking rescue party.
duty done, he scrammed, set sail, forgetting the wicked sister
who loved him furiously, forgetting

those things, his father, the king, had said about flags:
white means alive and black means dead. means loss of life or something lacking,
trip down the river styx, past memory lane (they say dying makes life flash before
your eyes shut forever.)

(they also say: Sound and The Fury! meaning nothing, Tale told by an idiot) might as well forget.

but excited to recall the tale, our hero ran through the halls
of his recovered home, discovering Father warm and dead.

being both dutiful and clever, Theseus took his seat
atop the mighty throne of father who art not in heaven,
having hanged by skin of his teeth.

Theseus still had mother though, and a tale to tell,
echo of Oedipus who lived blind by choice, sacrificing
his title when he grew wise to its meaning:

a word that indicates a cold state
of being:

all hate king.

lonely hunter tasting
what heart ripped from hot kill. half breath’s ragged noise
closer than love, closest, in the dark, alone

is born on blood,
sotto voce.

one who has dominion.
but not over himself,
or the materials he alone, has won, like other men do,
like his free son unwittingly does.

figure of the state
that betrays him

unless history decides otherwise.

begs for blood,
but is voiceless.

lone hunter who does not think of himself,
but is only aware of that which drives him,

a state of being, thought unthinking,

therefore, he is not
one of us–

to swim because Dedalus never swam the sea,
never practiced,
and so could not teach him.

maybe Dedalus never searched the sea for what he’d lost.
and maybe his son was dead upon impact. splintered by water wall.
fall, suffocated by salt. maybe immediate and without pain
mean the same thing. or maybe the hot drizzling pins of his wings blistered, perhaps the searing fall
flayed his skin. far distance always hurts more than we think.

it had all hinged upon wax, man made wings.

in the greatest bed time stories, best nightmares, and in all ancient myths,
there is a moment described as stuck between
things, somewhere over raging sea, beneath sun, somewhere is freedom. illumination that draws the big sky and its deep cousin feverish blue, light and dark. as air and water.

candle with horsepower. The Helios rises.

burns your eye balls right out of your eye sockets if
you have the audacity to stare at it directly.

staring and burning, i couldn’t stop.

i am a girl. i am a king. but it got to my head.
i am a beast made of the skin of kings
shaped into a girl who hates

directing loneliness
in to such immediacy, the sad songs

belong to sleep, seedy, dreamy sleep, and forgetting
i was made by penetration, mother and father fucked once,

i woke up after it was over,
and created a whole ocean of tears to practice swimming in.

somewhere there is something i never learned, but its covered in water,
or perhaps hovering just above my floating body that has a storm inside it,
longing for death

differing opinions don’t agree,
and never could
only we lonely humans blanket our sleepy statements
of self in terms like

agree to disagree

lovers Hunger and Longing, differed,

and being words, could not be diffused
by either terms, negotiation or endearment.

Hunger consumed the other,

un-satiated, even as he drank.

imprisoned in the belly,

his beautiful Longing kept burning

i thought star crossed meant cross eyed,
i thought color blind meant sad dogs.

my colors are different from yours.

following Odysseus’s path, we set sail on the Mediterranean,
each day the journey brought a new curse.
aquamarine cove water, languid pale greens accented by opal
reminding you will never see how i see.

even our oceans are different.

but only seeing tiny light, humans can’t sense
shifting gravities. memorize the tactics of calculation, punching out answers.
our skin couldn’t be human skin unless

close your eyes. the skin sinking
into sockets, seeing the same dark as me.

beneath our lids, wicks sputter.
the growing dusk marks the end, like an x, but is not
the night’s solution. touching you shouldn’t feel like dead
end, corner of isolation, should it?

here, we are translucent. cartoons. seeing x marks the spot on a map, journey’s eye
seeing spots. x ‘s where eyes should be.

tiny light is whats left.
reasonable to put us out, but there is
no mercy here

clever boy, i ended without you.

our game of hide and
seek, and counting backwards from ten.

i was a cave
dug into cool green mud,
a whole collapsing
Calypso without Odysseus.

(escape was not, not
by design of his own cleverness.
the gods had willed it.
hierarchyof etiquette dictate
shady Calypso let go)

he got home
but didn’t recognize it immediately.
pain of remembering was too great.

his lady looked past him, seeing stars

mythical tree fell in the mythical forest

belly of marriage bed
growling with hunger
and dreams of home

marks the out, out damn spot.

only the family dog died,
color blind beast didn’t miss a thing.
dem eyes who knows what they saw.

his master returned and he fell asleep.

corpse was kicked, but demise was short
and sweet.