fk-hd-the-bandit - Tumblr blog

[fk-hd-the-bandit]

[fk-hd-the-bandit]

[fk-hd-the-bandit]

[fk-hd-the-bandit]

I hope my poetry is never beautiful

I hope you turn your nose at my crass

I hope the smell of my filthy flaps disturb you

I hope you thought i was talking about my cunt not my brain cause youre the dirsty one not me

I hope the graphic metaphors for everytime ive been raped leaves the same weight in your gut that i live with everyday

I hope it makes you mad

I hope you look at your friend differently

I hope i can make you laugh, uncomfortably

I hope you only need to come to one gig

I hope the swearing makes you think of drunken brawls in freo midweek

I hope you forget to ask what that one line meant the one about kissing my coworker

I hope youre challenged by how much of a faggot this tranny with a fanny is

I hope you see me as the middle aged trucky man i am and it discusts you

I hope youre never able to look me in the eye again

I hope my writing reminds you how it felt when a dog bit you for good reason

I hope you never like my art and only cause it calls you out

I hope that my honesty disturbs you

I hope you still think im fuckable

I hope you leave me with a text and i finally never reply

I hope you never find me easy to swallow

I hope you never find me easy on the eyes

I hope to confuse and belittle you

I hope my words make you small

I hope you look down on me from a pedestale of pure gold, forgetting its malleability

I hope you fall without my push

I hope you fear me

I hope you never find me beautiful

[fk-hd-the-bandit]

The shirt my father gave me tears at the collar and the contemplation of sewing it back up hurts more than the needle poke pricked by every fishing trip to the end of the jetty when his hands used to hold mine and everything felt safe. It was safer taking care of him oh father how you gave everything and nothing at the same time. Oh in our eyes you still see me as your princess and i see you as a desperate man lost to fifo. In group photos you still hit my lower back with the bottle shaped hand. The rage for how much i still love you despite all the ways youve hurt me and wasted me before anyone else could. You worried more for my partners than me knowing you taught us everything you could about leaving unscathed. You spent my love on long car drives reminding me you will die soon and to play greenday at the funeral. I want to heal you and fix you but i tried so many times as a kid the idea of stitching you up, mending us, fixing this is a torn shirt that stretches across decades and the fabrics all worn, i dont know to call it well loved or beaten in but ill keep our connection skin thin

I mourn us again and again and every left read text is an unspoken eulogy. I hate you and i miss you and i remember being carried into the hosue from the car and i remember the comfort of a room that smells like your hangover and winnie blues. Youre not a bad person, youre just scared. I fold the shirt and tuck it into the cubby hole all my other shirts go.

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I'm sorry but I still think the funniest fucking conversations I've had is when we're talking about molestation and the other person doesn't want to say it but make gestures towards me about how I obviously look like I was touched as a kid so they end up like

"...?? Lmk if like...this conversation??? Triggers you...cause like...???"

Or my fave

Me: I thought I was a bird for a year made good child sized nests

Friends: hey...that's really common for kids like...dealing with trauma and mostly...sexual trauma

Me eating a nice apple: well I was getting diddled that year so checks out but now I can make human nests so idk worth it

Friends....

[fk-hd-the-bandit]

linoprint finals for college

white cartridge / watercolour paper / procion dyed paper

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5am arts n crafts

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My psych tells me to be more creative and I dont even know what I could do to make my body move in a way I still like or make something I still want

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yet more patches

shop

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[fk-hd-the-bandit]

I didnt know i had nighmares until two years ago. It was only when a coworker asked and i mentioned then that i dont have good or bad dreams, theyre just dreams, theyre just movies and when you leave the cinema the difference between you and the screen are minimal while squinting at the glare of popcorn ads. Clutching to anything to seperate yourself from the story. He asked if they were stressful and i said of course! Its a story! Its a weird check in where nothing matters it just so happens that i am crawling from the same tsunami and the sand banks fallen in again and again. But a story ends and i am left clutching at my blankets looking for the retro patterned carpets. He tells me those are nightmares. But what about the countless nights i try my best to avoid? The streets i know off by heart in lucidity. I am my own suburb and yes there was always trouble but never in the same way. 

The hardest part about lucid dreaming is trying to catch the bus.

By the time you squint hard enough to read the time you are already in a new place and never where you wanted to go. The hardest part about lucid dreaming is theres no ticket stub in the jacket pocket proving it was never real. So i buy creams for warts that never existed and poison for ants that were never there. I drink and smoke to avoid dreaming all together but surely there were never nightmares. For a month every year i dream of cows dying, decaying, chopped heads falling in to a hole that grinds them out of my perception. I wake up in a sweat but surely thats just how the cookie mumbles. If i were to have nightmares they would of started long before i understood the word itself. Waking up each night running to my parents room to be told theyre just dreams. It doesnt matter. Nothing really matters. The wolves that chase through primary school hallways are just metaphors and yet when bit i still felt it when woken. Dreams are dreams are metaphors are similies are ways to process and dream of other things. When i dream vividly and lucid i refuse to take control of the video camera. Im no director or film maker or best boy. Im the audience to my own subconscious and delving into their work has only left me nauseous. I avoid myself consiously as ive grown quite fond of almost reality. My psych has allowed me an ounce of delulu as he says its the only way we survive somewhat happily in our current world. The crack between my cunt and my thigh often smells like polony. Ive never been good at sleeping as ive never been too fond of scary movies. But theyre movies none the less and they end. Please tell me they end. Ive learnt my world and dreams are both nighmarish and i am left looking for the crack between my cunt and my thigh. Its a truly weird thing to live in different worlds and still sustain this timeline. Minding my own damn business. Its that time of the year.