The Sock-Monkey As Alone

So it is, as it was. Her eyes, fickle as a fan. Lips spread on ether end. With a soul that escapes but whimpers in her hand. a battery powered boyfriend inside her grip (and other places) while photographs are taken (for pleasure and financial gain.) A room of strutting roosters. Telling her how to do her job. "I can please me!" she wants to scream but saves it for therapy.

Locked in a room, Whistler still in the doll. Still trapped in the tragedy of being a fuckboy. Rumple pacing stuffed fingers to his patchwork head, thinking, planning and debating. "what is allusive can be found" he thought. It still escaped him, however.    The witch was in the kitchen making a stew out of a couple of children she had caught earlier and was in the process of cooking them down. "No need to hurry." she thought "this stew will turn out just fine."  she stirred it, and an eye and an ear floated to the top of the simmering pot. Disappointment was waiting for his share of the prize,  though the witch was telling him he must wait till it is finished before he may have his share. The rooms were dark with bars on the windows, and a giant spear of light landing on the little doll. Dust and light, Rumple no plan but somehow he believed it would all work out. Trapped in his eight by eight cell a storm door separating him from his enemy. He found a

"It is good to be a cynic — it is better to be a contented cat — and it is best not to exist at all."                                                                                                                     - H.P. Lovecraft My frustration is the seemingly wild self-assurance of my doubt. That and a desire to remove me from this story. While feeling a need to remind me it is a fictional autobiography. So what now more angst? More indulgence? Or, do we go straight for the jugular of bad poetry? No, we sit and talk about sarcastic halleluja. The book of the dying and the dead.    I have been reading it lately trying to find some way out of my predicament (being locked out of heaven for writing this book.) and am fascinated by a poem I have found on the last page of sarcastic hallelujah. Though you will not find it in the standard edition... this one is exclusively in my own copy. But as I am generous if disingenuous. I will share it here.                      

I write fiction (often terrible), poetry (even worse), and opinion-pieces (regularly ill-informed). All I can say is this is an accurate representation of who I am, for the worse or better. That possibly you will find me amusing. That I am trying very hard to be sane and stay there. That I try to love everyone platonically and unironically.    The whole point of this blog was for me to have an outlet for my writing, and to improve through practice though I have my doubts will ever be good enough. I still stare at the blank page and try to put one word after the other.  The idea that there is objectively good art terrifies me because I know it will perpetually make an outcast. I have been defined in my life through a love of art and extreme periods of mental illness. Whether I want it to or not, my lack of a consistently clear mind separates me from normal modes of exspierience (though that is becoming less relevant).    I wish I was healthy, had no ambition, and could bring some unde

“My mission in life is to make everybody as uneasy as possible. I think we should all be as uneasy as possible, because that's what the world is like.”                                 - Edrward Gorey                             1          (A prelude and epilogue) "the ravens fly with quickening lines, dreams of mine but gets goodbyes." where shadows move, confused as signs and our lessons fall as loose as rhymes. Where the plague crow follows the storm yet, we are all so busy with our dream. The sign broken still stands alone, maggots also are fond of quivering my nightmare youth or sanity cries "Dreams of mine, remember" he sighs. of "give it your best please you must try." but in spite of the poetry still we die.                               2 Whenever the words escape or are said, "you deserve to get what you get." I feel as if I paraphrase the dead, "are we to believe miseries gift?" A gnostic with zen

 " Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened."                                                    - Dr, Seuss I smile, singing a tune. The melody is simple and serene. The words come naturally as an escaping balloon that is never popped in the branches of a tree. "good old disappointment never knew when to quit. He would never trust any one. He was a worthless piece of shit." I smile at my serenity nearly taking a victory lap while patting myself on the back. Than say proudly, "in spite of his racism Dr. Seuss was a poet." But whimsy has a fault. The lack of direness. That without pretensions we can not kick against the pricks. While the economy has a place. The truth is nonreductive and clear. "I wish I could appreciate you whenever you are near."  how many time have you spared your time? Though still, you wouldn't post my bail. how many time have you brought seasons alive for the fuck

"If you don't know where you are going, any road will take you there."                                                                                             - The Chesire Cat: Lewis Carrol. “When people are finding meaning in things - beware.”                                                                                - Edward Gorey. The witch had sewn him up, re-stuffing him when it was required and leaving Rumple Gorey entirely patched up. He was a collage of former dresses and old underwear. Sitting on a chair at the kitchen table. The cottage in the woods was one large room, with trinkets, books and necessary ingredients for witchcraft. Jars of colored sand and painted rocks sat in the center of the table. This witch was an apparently an aging hippy, or at the very least was into some new age shit.     "the point is you have to free the Fuckboys!" said the witch. her eyes distant as if she were staring at her own ambitions somewhere on the

“Surrealism is destructive, but it destroys only what it considers to be shackles limiting our vision.”                                                                                                            -  Salvador Dali “Have no fear of perfection - you'll never reach it.”                                                                   also, Salvador Dali   Fickle teenage fingers, hooked up and against a g-spot. Ring and middle finger half closed to a fist but inside of her. A nipple in the other hand rotated with a subtle twirl, with a white intensity to the grip. The come-on breathing of treats me like I have no family, no friends, or jealousy of who else feels this way...only intense breathing.    Liam's head floats up between her legs. Her eyes focused on the ceiling she knows nothing of it. "what are you doing?" says the little ghost. Jolene jumps reaching for a blanket piss squirting out of her. She doesn't even try to control it; her mind

        1 Counting cigarette butts, one more moment counted away. where the doors are locked and shut with little pleasure in exchange.         2 Don't look me in the eye, when it hurts. What is wrong with him whispered but blunt. so full of dirt I have no worth, calling me alone a worthless cunt         3 many hours wasted gambling and I want to yell at who is in charge but the words scream tumbling it's all just a dharma-discharge