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Disclaimer: I did make these myself, and didn’t find them from the old web. The first and third dividers were made using @snailspng transparent edits.
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scorching bodies; lucky souls
when the night falls with a loud thud
on the ceiling above
with you on all fours
the beautiful dove of constant
loud and intense love
fills my heart with longing
bonding our sweat-ridden bodies fast
to each others' beating hearts
when the bright day illuminates
the marks on your back
my brain cracked out of my skull
ruminates the terminate ailment
we so proudly wear on our pate
if we are to be sentenced to death
if burning or crucifixion shines
at the far end
let us rejoice in the shrines
we have been dealt
for since the beginning of times
my heart's fate has been to melt
alongside yours
listen now, your head besides mine
how loudly the rain pours outside
and the flames keep on burning
in the crevices of our sinful bodies
side by side
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she doesn’t understand the rage others impose on being
she learns quickly that the unfamiliar faces are disturbed
when their features shrivel into horrendous shapes
she comprehends the contours of how things should be
or at least how they say they should be
still everything that is the other seems to her an empty shell
emptiness seems to flow through the social strata like a river
there are patterns of it everywhere in her surroundings,
their blood, their intestines
it seems like a farce
she plays her role in the theater of cruelty until it fills her core
hollow, hollow, hollow
she howls into the void
a grotesque play upon a white sheet,
blood sprayed within,
yet unstained from the outside
they may have expelled you for your faggotry,
you, the bearded lunatic of Majáles,
you immoral menace
still howls are continued to be heard, Allen
(the poet, not the pederast)
the void does not have eyes,
contrary to popular opinion.
he does.
he glimpses for the first time a familiar countenance
breathes, and stops the fall of occurrences
breaths, previously manual
now come easily
in and out!
a great discovery!
operating lungs!
the flesh assembled from empty shells
alive at last!
our century of postmodern brilliance
cyber-faggots of the future
shit on your congregations of discrepancies
between your idiotic so-called soul
with what you project onto us
and the heavy loads of the universe
stanzas of gibberish dominate your lofty incantations
(We finally know what sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open your skulls and ate up your brains and imagination.
It is no longer a question,
an answer is a working defense.
You should be afraid.
Keep your hands clasped together while we finish the job.)
to hell with the “best minds of our generation” (destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, or whatever Ginsberg howled)
beyond repair
he decides then, in white rooms, behind blue curtains
watching the long hallways stretch out
he will sing those obscene odes
from the top of his living lungs
till the days the decay takes him
dig up his body, say what you will
the bones will not care
the flesh, now melted
still howls at the moon
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call upon the faithful,
the sunday mass shall begin!
oh yes,
now see
be more than grateful, since
the ichor, on this very day!
flows like the rivers, you might say
even when the very essence shivers
and out come the sounds
of cold doses of prescriptions via diction
you survive the description provided to you on a piece of paper
the later the better
so you have a lot to say
do not dare to pray for me!
I may just let the crossings reign
falling on you like burning rain
thousands upon thousands of insects pouring down
oh yes,
they are falling from the sky beautiful like red roses
blood upon the hands of Moses
acquisition! not from heaven
this time
angel of the
Oh Lord! forgive me for i have sinned a million sins and I am not keeping these behind closed doors,
of course
I make you watch me get ravaged,
legs spread out in your house of prayer
encouraged by the crowds
with vigor
let me sing my own praises high up to the clouds
turning grayer, ready to pour
do not avert your gazes or try to tether me to the cross
it will only get me closer
bolster my lust for the almighty God
the time has come for my my enlightenment,
I am not sorry for your loss
there must have been a reckoning
to pay for your entitlement
the constant threatening
stares,
where is your power now?
I ask you again,
does this look like I am experiencing hardship?
it is so that worship is my daily bread
I scream devotions in pleasure,
embracing all the dead
saints
my rightful place always on my bruised knees
now
please
fill me up oh holy spirit, oh!
holy is my infertility
in the eyes of the beholder lies the possibility
of pure conception
of my realization of self
staining the walls,
poetry killed the prosaic
prophet, oh holy death in all your might!
the Bible ends with white
dripping from a pristine mosaic
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machinic brains in machinic bodies
vomit out blood, shoot it up my veins
piss in my mouth and split my brains
in half
pass me a spoon, will you?
I can still see you with
my eyes gouged out,
reflection realized
love is a hammer in your hand
smashing my skull in
making the one that shivers in fear
bask in sunlight
love is a hammer in my hand,
smile on your face
and brains meticulously
spread out
walking paths that swirl up
like intestines inside your shell
love is a hammer in one’s hand
breaking a mirror to reveal
another one
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Amanda Feilding, beyond the dura mater
Conjure something beyond words,
then write it down.
Talk like you are speaking the unspeakable.
Communicate by homespun surgery,
a hole in your brain.
Let the film roll, let the crowds boo
but do not fear!
“Against instinct” they say.
And against instinct you go
the only way upwards
through your skull.
Possibilities of the theatre of cruelty,
assaulting you audience to bring them prophecies,
making them believe what your body echoed
since the first day you remember,
since the first drop of blood revealed
the brilliant radiance of freedom.
Since you opened your mouth
for the very first time
to scream and beg
and beseech them.
Do not let the cranial bones close!
Do not let me be caged!
Let me go, let me be free
to eternally circulate.
Their minds rejected you,
their ears closed up to your pleas.
Now came your chance
to take revenge.
Feel the heartbeat contained in your brain.
Reveal yourself, welcome the spring
of your becoming.
Let the art critics dub your existence avant-garde,
let them distance themselves from the truth.
Let the surreal swim up to the surface where everyone can see
the blood-covered white gown upon your head.
Let the whole world forget chorales,
let them sing the heavenly song to the honor of
the eternal glory of the Divine.
The mystical power
of the ineffable transcendence
of self-trepanation.
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