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sometimes it's nice to wish

If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.

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but in all seriousness, please watch my favourite performance of this monologue of all time

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national latin exam choppa

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tunnels

the sword swallower motioned me

to follow through the smoke curtain,

and he fed me steel like a stream of water

until i could no longer taste the bottom

the snake charmer turned me upside down

and shook me to the falling chime of coins

until the cobra fell out of my throat,

already wrestled into the shape of a dog

the hall of mirrors was a hall of doors,

a tunnel of ugly, distorted love,

of funnel cake and wobbling portals

to a world where i am slightly shorter

the hand in my mouth spoke

to the pit of my stomach

as both lurched in cannibal circles,

kissing atop the ferris wheel,

felt

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SING.

very beautiful they lie over the earth unclothed,

hand in hand in learned hand in hand in hand

bare the crosses of his neck

his ungrown son his measureless son

his love, of the mother of the daughter,

of the boy of the man,

kisses and kisses the insane suffering

sick sweating lungs

the head is free as ever,

paralyzed supple, swelled convulsed

congested awake in the night,

the night,

the night I return to love you.

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weırd st*rs

can i repeat what i think in the dark?

may i repeat it in ink or in art?

i dotted my t's and i crossed out my heart

stuck a pin in my i

(well, i guess that's a start)

when a baby first cried, did his father still scold?

when a person first lied, were they sheepish or bold?

i have tried and i've tried to speak careful and cold

but until the spark dies

there's still charcoal to hold

i solemnly swear not to stutter or spit

or to slur words or curse or to speak with a lisp

i will sign on the line in an elegant script

with my dominant hand

resting on my left hip

i before e (see me after class)

i split my infinitive soul in two halves

said "to be who you are" just stay right where you're at

your middle name's stars***

***and let's keep it like that

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Elebabalus by Porky

tracks

Bared Teeth

Initio Underneathness

Wouldn’t You Know It

Gnaws On

Earthquake Swimmers

Elagabalus (Oa)

Shut Me Up

Kill Caesar

Bromine as Love Potion

Slash / Dewfisher

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never, ever, stop fighting back

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please enjoy my attempt at cheekface lyrics (and just imagine the melody):

Formaldehyde

[verse]

Mom said it’s my turn to be the comptroller

There’s trolls on the internet, but their riddles aren’t great

Kids are putting ju-ju in their eyeballs, trying to be holy rollers

I have separation anxiety, church and state

[prechorus]

I want to learn the bass kazoo

Would you love me if I were you?

Giraffes on my phone while I’m at the zoo

Who’s hotter, Thing 1 or Thing 2?

[chorus]

Read the news upside down with some eye holes cut out of it

If you can’t find my place, you should try zooming out a bit

Your skull is a box with a cat inside,

And it’s blocking the light that’s behind your eyes

Feeding duck to the ducks as a comment on society

I’m sick of getting shitfaced on my own sobriety

My brain is a jar with a brain inside

Precisely preserved in formaldehyde

[verse]

Christ is my favorite macro-celebrity

I follow his teachings on the website formerly known as Prince

It’s been a while since I washed my integrity

But at least I’ve given my money a pretty good rinse

[prechorus]

Playing Taps on the air guitar

At the tomb of the unknown Russian tsar

I just hope my tan will become a scar

And my brain is a fly in a mason jar

[chorus]

Laughed my ass off in mass watching a divine comedy

Dilute all your food, love you dude, no homeopathy

You’re throwing your party a big surprise

You’d follow your heart, but it always lies

Feeding duck to the ducks as a comment on society

I’m sick of getting shitfaced on my own sobriety

My brain is a jar with a brain inside

Precisely preserved in formaldehyde

solo

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Beating up random schmucks with the gall to say hi to me

I’m asking an AI to diagnose me with anxiety

This old food for thought is attracting flies

Don’t get on a plane if you’re going to cry

Hunting dogs with a duck, flipping birds to society

I’m sick of getting shitfaced on my own sobriety

My brain is a jar with a brain inside

Precisely preserved in formaldehyde

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i get eaten by the worms

and bad bitches

weird fishes like me is hard to come by

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Every thousand years This metal sphere Ten times the size of Jupiter Floats just a few yards past the Earth If you climb on your roof And take a swipe at it With a single feather Hit it once every thousand years 'til you've worn it down To the size of a pea Yeah, I'd say that's a long time But it's only half a blink In the place you're going to be

Built to Spill - "Randy Described Eternity"

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the world is a better place with trans men and transmasc people in it

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[Source]

God this is a gorgeous way to start a book. I wish more authors and publishers had at least a little bit of fun with their typesetting like this.

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Yes, it is blasphemous, and an affront to the novel, but I wrote a 136th chapter to Moby-Dick because I wanted to and Melville is too dead to stop me. Spoilers because of course.

C H A P T E R  1 3 6

The Ocean

There are two things in this world which are infinite: the depth of the human soul, and the surface of the ocean. As I unyieldingly embraced that coffin which should have been mine, I found myself submerged completely within both; and while I do not claim to be a remarkable man, I maintain that no person, alive or dead, has ever drowned so many times in so many ways and remained sputteringly, ruthlessly alive. Staring out upon that endless expanse of rolling water, I was not gently carried away by distant reflections like all those times atop the mast-head; I was instead frozen in place, as if I clutched a fresh-broken chunk of iceberg, and struck over and over again by frigid waves, and made a chattering human corpusant by heavenly, sharpened lances of electricity; surrounded by water, beautiful and clear and shimmering, yet too paralyzed to swim, and too parched to scream, and convinced that rather than shakily holding my head above and my feet below, I had been turned upside-down, breathing in liquid and floating through air, staring up at the anglerfish lure of the sun as if it would swallow me whole and deliver me to the very same hell Jonah once talked his way out of. But I cannot talk, let alone pray; there is water in my desert, sunken lungs, seaweed and rope around my shuttered throat, driftwood and rust where there once was innocent flesh. To be surrounded by water, but unable to cry, unable even to drown; that is the bitter reality of Ishmael, the destined prison of Ahab, the unconsidered tragedy of Moby-Dick. As I floated, I imagined myself to be the white whale himself, stuck with the long-overgrown harpoons of a million windward traumas, witness to massacre after massacre at the hands of some wooden leviathan and its rabid, starving young, piloted by my hunters, the monomaniac, iron-browed sharks, tails nicked once by a flying harpoon, drawn back by the smell of blood from miles around for vengeance, biting at my toes, my feet, my legs, already dead, already bone, already broken, already stabbed, already picked clean of meat, fallen to the bottom of the ocean and picked clean of nutrients, feeding the cycle of sustenance, hunger, starvation, murder, death, and picked clean of memory, all particles—all my righteous, sinning particles—scattered across the infinity of the ocean, and, over an uncountable number of years, boiled till crackling in the try-works of the Earth’s core, fished out, and deposited into the furnace, spitting oil, coughing up water, peeling open eyes I hadn’t realized were plastered shut, lying face-up in a coffin, utterly unsure if the bearded face above me was God himself or the softly smiling captain of the poor, cursed Rachel. I could not recognize the feeling of my own skin wrapped around my aching bones. He asked my name. You ask my name. I forget. Call me Ishmael. Get up. Blow out your cannibal candle. Walk to your front door. Walk out onto the street with your eyes closed and spin. Spin until you feel sick. Spin until you hear the wind in your ears. Spin until you hear the screech of the albatross. Spin until you feel suspended in air, tangled in rope, submerged in the oil of your own head. Spin until you breach out of the dark, dreary, infinite forecastle depth of your soul. Spin until you feel the unwaning, infinite, atheistic, divine, natural and supernatural magnetism of the ocean; and walk forward, step by mismatched step, into the cavernous belly of the whale.