sorry bunny

sorry bunny

Saturday, December 31, 2011

hope-fiend / dope-fiend , what's the difference?

idontfeelsane and i dont feel well. but i do feel beautiful and that seems to help.
this trip to delaware makes me SCREAM

im a beautiful bird. im a barf. im a machine.

i hold. marriage. like death.

regardless of who you are. can't we be the same?

membrane, membrane, membrane.

long layers of liars.

i cant trust anyone. you will alll hurt me.
you will all hurt me.

i will help you.

let it go. ur a bad baby.

in apparent corners dust grows. sickens us. and the toxins... rabid dust.

if my memory serves correct, we should ahve been dead by now.
and we're not, so there's something hopeful in that.

on being alone.. (allwords to be readaloud)

This wind this grey, ache. This mood this moon, the space shaking, my luminescence dropping down into my belly, a quarter full. Makes me feel like the money-tree leaves I thought looked like ghost-seeds of a soul. Shivering from the wind inside. I'm not entirely sure how to deal with this feeling. Of the ever-present thread bare spinning, of a world always external to my own. It feels like I am a single strand watching and waiting as a whole fabric moves past me, I the dust, left to be alone, just like clumps of thread lint, flakes of skin, and whatever else you leave on the floor. Things that don't stick. I want to do so many things, it seems that are just different from other people. I wish I had the kind of best friend that shared my goals. But all my best friends are so independently creative. It feels like I'll always be alone. And I'll have to learn all the things that seem to be paired, un-paired, only paired with my own anti-matter. I've learned to dance alone, to think alone, to create my own world I live and dream in, to make my own sense, my own voice that can fill an entire sky, my own eye-sight that can see to any distance & through any skin.

This day feels rare. This day dropped. I have so much power. I am the manipulative secretive controlling version of my mother. My mother lathers on authority in rich white heavy cream. I suck and seduce you with supreme authority on the level of a parasite, of bacteria, on the level of crystalline structures, on the level of mirrors, and fawn babies, of seeds, of wombs, of jaw half-dropped never fully allowing breath to come in. She, to me, Grendel's mother, and I, Grendel.
I search for birthdays and cards, and wrappings, and people, for lovers who do not want to cuddle me or know me, for mistakes to be made. Deep inside, an old woman, crowing to herself, singing lullabies, falling asleep to her own voice that shutters loosely as she drifts into faery dreams, waking to her own sun, eating the food she has made, and bathing in the dust that comes from when the corners of her body get knocked off. Off in the distance, of her extremely large and expansive head, the audio from the reverb of the words, "This is Nur Greene Talking. This is Nur Greene Talking. This is talking. This is Nur Nur Nur Greene Talking. This is talking this is this is This IS THIS IS... Nur Nur Greene Greene Talking-Talking talking talking talking-talking..." I think she romanticized the sound of her own voice just a bit too much. Must remove herself from herself, and resume some external viewing. The sheet is now laid over her face. She has no face. She has no name. She is covered, and what parts are uncovered float above her in dis-repair. Her guts, her eye balls, her nose, her childhood memories, the odd feeling that she might have been sexually abused but she can't remember and maybe just wants an excuse for being fucked up, but it could just be the magazine and the lingering longing for Father.

Her claws that bite (bitter) and jaws that snatch, tight tense too put together, put together on top of themselves so that one covers the other. So it is the uncovered bottom jaw that was covering what was covered, that hovers, alone disconnected.

She feels sick at the look of it. She is sick. Ill. Her stomach ebbs, and out pours green gook, stomach acid, bile, vile stuff. It falls on the white-white-white sheet that covers the body that usually covers what hovers, now uncovered. It makes a stain. It has no place. But it is not sent away. It just sits.

And grits its teeth, and bears it. Because that is what you do. You smile, and you hold your mouth shut. You are a good girl. You don't show your teeth. Grind, yes, grit, yes. Now, you curtsy. She always wore dresses. She is so embarrassed of her past.
This is the mind of-
This is the mind of-
This is the mind of-
The happiest girl who never knows why she feels so goddamned sad all the time.

"Is it too much to ask God? Just because I can endure more?"

She, on the morning after her best friend's 21st Birthday knelt before the sunshine, coming in, and saw it grey-blue-white and silky, and felt some sort of allegiance to God, and prayed, abundantly to be honored multiple times by their communion.But this communion, still. Yet. She feels alone.
As if God in all of God's entirety and fullness is not good enough. So who is? Who could be... Presented with such love, a universe full of it, and still she denies God, as being worthy for communion, seeking more physical touch than touch can be. And lengthening her cord, a distance away. Too close to her goal maybe? Want more of a challenge?

But so she will walk another half or three-quarters of a year. To arrive at a spot where she can let go of her dreams of meeting someone greater than God, and allow the earth, to scoop her up. She has no time now for that.

"I'm sorry," she feels guilty.
"I'm tired of fighting," she feels scared.
"I don't want to have sex," she lets go of her bodily urges.
"I just want to be alone," she submits.

Why some get to work together and some go to work alone. She does not know. But the things I want seem to eb alone things, that no one else can understand. The urge to be everywhere at once. The ideas that seems so real but so so far-off into outer-space. The gravity of the air. The wind, singing. You can hear just such a multitude of voices, in fact, the entire history of our terrestrial lives being echoed in single wisp of wind.
And especially when passing through a small slit, can you hear your own voice holding out its fingers as if to say, "Just hold onto me and we can both fly away." So partnered, with herself, she is, and was, and now what? But, again, her voice, so sweet and loving to her ears... But so ghostly ominous. She her I turn our face to the sun. And welcome a different newness that burns, regardless of the depth of what is already known. This depth, called memory, For some reason, I think it is valid, to be forgotten.

Lunarium

Wednesday, December 28, 2011

imaginations are not that far gone. or dead. They come alive in my head. I don't know... The air is lifted in my heart at the thought of a dream... Something unreal, maybe I've never see it. But I can believe it and know somewhere in the stars it is Happening- where light travels faster than the earth can spin. No? Oh No No No. Where stars travel faster than light and carry your dreamss on the wisp of a wind. On a willow tree made of dust, whose leaves like an old wilting beard grow spirally through galaxies and into your star of origin. In this way our fantasies are real. Even more real than the stuff dirt is made of, the stuff blood is made of.. because it knew you before you were born.

An echo of your your future whims, warm and wrapped along your skins. A vibratory message from your place of birth undauntedly found in the space called earth. Raveling through crystals embedded in your bodily fluids, a melody speaks to those who listen.

It shimmers rays of light into your ears. Spins dance beats to get your moving, and into every step you make, the shock is return as some sort of getaway. Can you getaway, get away?

I was a girl. I felt a thing I can't remember either. I just believe and the rings flow through the ether.


"Do you wanna tell a story?"
"Yeah, But it's someone else's. I don't know it."
"Tell the story. Oh tell the story."

Well, it was all like. Well- I was in the clouds and my hair was blonde, but normally it's brown. I had eyes shining blue that could seer and pierce your eyes. I had two dogs, white, wolf-like, beasts. They were chained to my wrists. I was born old. I was a star that split. It was cold, and we dressed warm, and we all knew how to fly. I wasn't afraid of the dark then. The dark was the water through which I swam. And clouds formed upon earth at my fingertips, as sparkling dust. As spiraling dirt underneath.I felt like everything was complete, even as it was completely unraveling.
The unraveling, was forming. The spinning was bringing dust together which had been apart, and spreading what was together back into the further-est corners of the universe, where we tried to figure out the puzzles to make space larger. But space did expand on its own. As we learned, to let the flow go, was to let grow.

It puzzles me how I got here. Confused, lost, but not in space, inside myself. To watch as I turned my insides out, and the cosmos became a destiny inside what used to be my most insane destination.

Now I talk in riddles. But nothing else makes sense. Non-sense makes more sense than sense. And all words seem the same, and all words seem strange and mundane.

Okay. Well... The cavernous fractal that doesn't have an in or an out, is my heart. It is so deep. And it can never fall apart. It is so heavy, in its ever-lengthening length, That, its walls become a burden to carry.

So I shout, "Not my heart! Not my job! Not my weight!"
So I shout, "Weightless heart! Light-filled walls! Moon! Take this imaginary boundary away!"
Just like that a spark and time travel were met. Two objects in TWO places at the same time, paradox found its mate. And I close my eyes and smile deep inside and remind myself so many time so uncovered so all multiply endlessly inside and out of me:
I am whole.
I am empty.
I am full. Never spoiled.
I am beautiful. I am full.
I am never ugly.

I believe in all things. I am truth.

I am God, the Divine. We are that which I name 'I'.
We are spirallly sweet. We are complete.
We belong to no one. Not even ourselves.
There is no Hell. There is only the Illusion of Self.

To Thou And To Self.
To Thou and To Non-Self.
I dissappear.
I am ripe.
I am blind I am sight.
I am the fruit that feeds and the Moth to the Flame that bleeds.

* now whisperring soft enough for brother to fall asleep*
I am Love. I am Pain. I am Tears also know as Rain.
I am beautiful. I am change. There is only hope.
No dope can determine the ridges that're still burning in the opiate of the masses, I can still lift my glasses, to discover what is going on, in the spaces that I do not inhabit.
I am not Everything. There are reasons to go blind. There are reasons to get dumb.
I am one. 
Dumb.
Blind.
Fool.









[as a rule, there are no rules, fool]

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Guatemala Plans School Plans Cake Plans

Step 1, 2, & 3 To Be Completed Simultaneously:
 1: Get Passport
2: Save about $500

3: Get job
3.0  email http://www.atitlanorganics.com/#! to work on a farm with me

Step 4

Buy plane ticket to Guatemala

Step 5

GO TO GUATEMALA YOU STAR MOON CHILD YOU! yAY

step 6


celebrate 2012 in style near the deAD spirits of Mayans And help them HEAL the world.


step 7

bless your lucky stars that you know me
 and yourself
and the stars
and the moon




and 


the highlands


step 8:

you are a ROCK STAR

Saturday, December 24, 2011

ovaries the bladder the digestive system emotional influence AND the messed up money system affecting OUR BODIES

I'm not sure what's going on. I have had these weird pains in my body since last year. It makes my stomach puff out, feel pressure; I feel pain in my right side, I can't tell if its my ovaries, or perhaps its my ileo-caecal valve( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ileocecal_valve ), or simply an easily irritated digestive tract, or it's the foods I eat, Irritable Bowel Syndrome, ovarian cysts, ovarian cancer, interstitial cystitis... I can't tell I don't know they all have fairly similar symptoms, I don't know how to go to the doctor. I don't know how to hold onto my money. I feel broke all the time, or quite wasteful.
I'm addicted to drinking to feel good and to have fun, I'm addicted to coffee, I'm addicted to using caffeine-carrying drinks to pep me up so I'm not tired. I never want to be tired, I feel it's such a slippery slop into doing nothing an being unproductive, and that is a slippery slope into not accomplishing my goals, losing my chances of going to college, generally being a waste of a human being, and maybe becoming homeless. And I can't become homeless because I will have to lose my cats, and I love my cats and I never want to lose them like that. And I don't want to have to go live with my Mom, because She is so oppressive, but so nice,but so controlling, but so giving, but so confused. And so am I.

But it hurts in my side right now. And I'm feeling quite melancholy, and I feel like I'll never learn how to love another human being. And that maybe I have cancer and I won't be able to have children. And no one wants to touch me, and Am I bad? Am I good? I don't want to hide anything it always hurts so much, and I don't want to play sneaky games of malice and the "laws" of attraction.


So I can't help but to notice how interrelated, Diet, Behavior, Emotions, Environment, and state of mind have to do with the body. Because the pain in my side hurts, and I am simultaneously getting sad. There is some connection. There is some connection to Christianity and feeling guilty and sinful for having sex to this Thing. There is some connection between drinking milk and eating bread to this Thing. There is some connection to drinking too much coffee and alcohol to this Thing. There is some connection to Attachment and the Thing.

I do miss going to the Mahayana Buddhist Center downtown. I feel sick from being here in DE. I must remember that however dark it gets in Olympia, it doesn't compare to whatever always makes me depressed here.

There is some connection in all of this.

I study chakras, I study nutrition, I study anatomy, I analyze cures and home remedies, because I don't believe in a medical system that treats symptoms, that spends money on finding new drugs to better desensitize your self, to your self, that better desensitizes your mind from your body. A system that forgets that we could use what we know to find the causes of problems, that makes it so I feel scared of spending the money that it would cost to even find out what it is I have. I feel scared to be alive in this world where to validate my own actions and awareness of my body, i have to yell and fight and scream and do constant research to provide certification to my own physical sensations, and my own consciousness of how my body feels.

I seek out others who want to study, this in-depth, without shelling out hundreds or thousands of dollars to large spiritual or semi-scientific based institutions that seems to all want to train their apprentices to feed more money back into the system.

In a world where it seems everyone is guiding all their actions by the goal to make money, or the fear that they won't have enough, or the greed to have more and more and more,  I feel so strongly that i have to be personally against that. I don't want to work, but I will. I get confused when i have to show up at a certain time.

I am love and love has no time. I am a target. I am a wormhole. I am a free bird thing that flies. I am time. It is me. It is around but not around, and it weaves through me, as illusory as it is, i choose it. But it is hard my brain seems to not want to follow it any longer, more and more as the years go by, i feel loosened in life when I let go of time. I don't want a job. I will do work, Tell me what to do. It feels so bad to be somewhere at some time. It feels like a huge anvil hanging over my head about to crash down, but I have to keep moving, as it follows, but if I keep moving, at least I won't get smashed.

My body, a temple for my divinity. I have the power to move great winds, and love great things. My body, feels and wants to explore to move or climb and fall, and roll around in the dirt.

My body, the totality of my whatever-I-am-orNot in physical form. I am beautiful. We are beautiful and I don't believe in ugly.

And what strain I feel to be normal, to be older, to be taller, to be bigger, to accentuate my breasts so I am treated as an adult, so i am treated with respect, because in this world. Small equates to Youth. and Youth equates to Ignorance. And even the kindest and most open-minded of people seem to treat me like a toddler when I combine my natural smallness with my joyous childishness. Don't you see it ? Don't you see? I can't talk Sometimes and I can touch and play sometimes, and yes, you associate that with a Baby? And you associate that with not being interesting, even, annoying. So what do I do? I tell you, it hurts, but I can't tell how much of it is expecting you act like this. And this is why it's so scary for me to make friends with tall people who don't look young, because it feels like they will never respect me sometimes.

But really. I probably find it difficult to see myself as a knowledgeable, confident, pretty, secure real human being. Because I feel so strange and foreign. So what is it that I do? Well, I dress in ways that can't be associated to other trends, to excuse my self, I dress sexy, I dress elderly. So I talk using big words, so I learn when I cana s much as I can and I read, and I act serious. Sometimes I forget how to not act serious and I talk a lot, and try to reveal my mind, so you can realize I am real human being and I deserve respect. But what if I don't give myself that respect? In my constant search for a lover who will love all of me... When will i love myself enough to allow myself to be the child I feel inside? To change the world and respect Youth equally to any other form of life-expression? When will I stop judging your or my behavior, Is it perfect? is it perfect? Is it perfect? is it perfect? Is it perfect? Is it perfect?


I just yelled at my brother for staying inside all day and playing video games, I told him he looked sickly, and as if his, "soul and spirit were dying".

What is this? So too do i a judge myself?

I proclaim, i pray, for lack of judgment, and clarity in the feel of things.
One hand to the brim, no thought

Just skin.
"I don't want to drink milk Mom."

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Poems Or Peons

Decemeber 21st Solstice Bang:

my head is banging just after a day at home i lost myself screaming at my mother they kind of liked it. I'm not sure what to do I went out to get some coffee to calm down, but i've been calm now for an hour so what am i doing here. Sit spinning on a table with memories of who i was in this town, no longer all the same, no longer my one hand grabbing for the past. i know now, all not the same.

mother screams her head off in a room white walls and dust growing on the edges of things. brother sits angrily at desk, on chair, at the foot of the bed, waiting to re-join society, a society he only recently met.

i dig too deep. i tell them all their problems. i yell at them. who am i? what the.

text sketch from GodKiller:

  non servium.

  godkiller?




     who won out
     the devil as honor
      as armor?

      beckons fingers closing slowly
      foaming into target light
      corners making pockets
      make arrows
      with no stem
      make pockets make lines

      all sheds in a glittery fall

      to look like water
      fell sweater reflect
         in boxes, shaking.
         as they
         deflect their origins
         shimmerring/crumbling
                             your face
                       non        face



      curves clutch and dis-appear.
      circles form'd recede
                                  totally
                                                                                                        into clump'd & green wet cloud


i am not.

i am not
i am not
i am not
i am not
the brother is me.
i am not
i am not
i am not
lest i imagine.
lest i imagine.



the man makes no reply
the non-face
they walk around with that
she pulled out of herself too quickly violently
two hands
flayed head
faceless faceform
non-face

i am afraid.


iodo form
idea foam
idea form
ideoform
i.d. or. form
from id,
do or done be born



will you get here soon? take me to the rising room.

for the sake of a single small moon
just given birth and closing again
in some very rare hour
to the sea itself, went flying
all the stars

a different origin of forth form
from then.
(may then. forget all not.that.I am. and other scattered voices.)



Smile Sun.

bitches smiled at everything, past the sun.

illumine the small child
what a
(whetha-a)

sanity does not exist in this house: family time during the holidays always sucks

Backstory: woman from Jordan, grew up in Palestinian neighborhood in Amman, next to the church, Christians, while Muslims lived in Refugee Camp nearby. Woman clean a lot for household and constantly feels guilty for 'whatever' and does more than what is necessary, thus causing her asshole family to take advantage of her. Asshole family doesn't notice how sensitive she is and treats her badly, excluding her from things her older brother gets. Girl/Woman gets very good grades in school is one of few who graduate on time, goes to Teacher's School (funded by the U.N. as some sort of exchange for Israel and the U.N. and the British Army stealing their land). Woman graduates Teacher's School and becomes Math Tecaher for 9th Grade school girls at the same school she went to orginially established by the U.N. as well in exchange for destroying Palestinains' connection to their land/earth. Thank You. Woman makes more money than most women her age. Most woman only married and take care of the house. Woman here is a working woman in what the outside world would call a 2nd world nation. Woman begins to trust her environment. Brother becomes prominent chemistry professor, marries Muslim woman, gets exiled from Jordan and moves to .... Delaware.

Woman feels guilty that her brother broke the chain of christianity, she says, since the time of Jesus, a family from Nazareth. Woman holds in the pain as if it was her own, not fully realizing Brother doesn't really care. Woman hold all this against him eventually and separates herself by becoming supercritical of evryone's actions, until they can't stand her and leave her alone. Loyalty is exchanged for Freedom.

Woman marries fellow chemist and moves to... Delaware

Woman has 3 children and they grow up in .... Delaware.

Man divorces woman & children and steals all their things, painting on the wall. Woman comes home and doesn't understand what's going on and is still trying to learn English well. Children are 6, 4 1/2, and 2 1/2 years old. Children then grow up to find out what psychological influence this has had on them. Woman finds out Man has also been cheating on her. Woman spirals into terrible depression and gains weight. Woman hold herself up very well and by herself takes care of three children. Children get a good educationa nd excell in school, in everything. Children feel supported by Mother. Mother hold in deep sadness for her failed life. Father galavants across the U.S. and the Globe making thousands of dollars a month and using it to go to fancy hotel rooms and stay in fancy places with his new wife, married within the year after the divorce.

Man later to daughter on hills of Big Sur California, when asked, "what happened when I was young? Did you leave for a while? it feels like something bigger than I can remember happened?", replies: "I was gone for 4 years."
"Why did you do that?"
"I just wanted to have fun."

Woman yells at children every day and provides for them healthy unprocessed foods on a daily basis. Woman uses her intelligence to carefully plan meals, and financial resources so children never realize they are anything less than privalleged.

Woman yells Woman yells Woman yells.
Children yell Children yell Children Yell.
Daughter cries every single day but for more than these reasons. For reasons that feel like a bullet in the heart from birth.

Children scrape their nails to the doorways that imprison their bodies. Children must get angry and feel terrorism.

Daughter becomes terrorist of her own family's home.
Daughter yells gets angry throws things, And Vaccuums. Daughter is very confused.

She slowly undresses, and puts on the fancy lace tights, and the shiny blue skirt, and the extremely well placed shirt, the beautiful necklace, and the right shoes that match the iridecence of the skirt, and makes her face pretty, with the smallest of subtle movements. And prays to the moon for better loks because she believes she is ugly. And yells at herself and yells at herself and yells at herself. And knows why. But doesn't know why.


Mother says, "It depends on how you look. If they think you're rich, they get scared."


Duaghter is Mother is Daughter is Mother is a land so lost it never existed. Just like our sanity. So we'll scream and cry until those high-pitched dirges grind us into the ground. Dirt people.

The End.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

i am home

many nur poems start with the word, "I"
or "eye"
as in, "Eye Thou", as in, "I-Thou"
as in, "I am".... You.


jkROFLcopter hurrah

I would like to move from this "i" to a more universal pronoun, but really disregard the whole statement all together. This isn't about me. This is about the all-seeing eye. The one that believes everything in experience is experienced and makes no changes to typos or grammatical errors, because, Not only because it IS so fcking cool, BUT because it IS.

Recently, been reading a new guy, THIS GUY THAT GUY THIS GUY THAT GUY THE GUY THE SKY THE GUY (soon to upload video of my performance to which this a reference), and my mind is already expanded. I've got some poems in the process. Usually I write a big long one high off of some temporary excitement in my life (usually centered around meeting some cool new person, or doing some cool new or dangerous thing...) but, these new poems offer a clear distinction, I feel like I'm growing.

And I haven't grown since I was 14.






Today I could talk about, how frustrating and unfair the world is, again. Or, I can discuss some new ideas:

1$$$$$$$$1 Every day in town I will teach class to my family here are some ideas of what i know to do with them:
- Movement Therapy
+ a series of exercises that stimulate new growth in your brain, and can bring mental clarity and eventual development that will stop all psychological disorders (READING THIS? NUR HAS BEEN TRAINED BY THE SEATTLE CENTER FOR MOVEMENT AND DEVELOPMENT AND WILL DO THIS WITH YOU: tOUR dATES: dEC. 20TH -jAN 5TH nEWARK, de, jAN. 6TH THRU iNFINITY oLYMPIA, wa)
- Chi Gong
- Body Movement Poetics
- Vocal Relaxation
- Non-Violent Communication
- meditation vipassana
- the connection between eastern phillosophy and christianity
- geomancy
- chakras, and meridians
- Foot Massage with your feet!
- Breath work
- Nutrition lesson
- How to Improve Circulation and Lungs for People with Respiratory Ailments
- Eye Exercises to improve sight of the super-sensible world
- Imaginative Storytelling, when all you have to do is let yourself Make Believe (think about it).


Maybe I was born serious. Born crying. Born knowing death was passed and also coming. Born with large eyes, feeling alien all the time. But To scientists of the cosmos and I played ball all my life. Caught the round thing and threw it in again.


Okay so. I am home, and well, home is the one place where I'm not a weirdo. We all talk the same way here. We all think fairly similarly. It's comforting not to freak people out or overwhelm them. I wish it was all this yellow.

Food eggs tables.
Cold. Here.


I'm alittle preoccupied with thinking I'm a weirdo. But until I stop noticing it, it's gonna still happen. So the best thing I can do is try to gain confidence in myself, so at least I can be allowed to be weird.

In the forest they like me. I sing to the tree they don't mind I'm loud, they echo back sound. And I cry and feed them my tears, happy ones. And shake my booty to bushes. And rub my face up against a tree. We get down.

And I swear it's not the technology that's foreign it's the IDEA of being foreign, of being separate. You can point that finger anywhere, where the trends blow the tides... You know? This year's unnatural could be next year's eco-friendly underwear.

Human alien or otherwise
aint no other
foreign special made magnetized
aint no other
aint no other prize to be had
s'all in this circle
i'm surprised it's whirling.
one day i'll take control or won't I
don't believe in falling only flying


[and clear residue of what I used to do, in this house, but act out the part, and the part eventually acts out until it's fried, then ... something new will come. And that's why it's SUCH GOOD MENTAL VOMIT]

Monday, December 19, 2011

ok almost leaving seattle

best write some words down before i take flight


executive platinum:

FAIL

executive jokemaker:

FAIL

No one is allowed to take shame.


Number one ticket holder gives out hand-outs by the bucket full. Dumpstered chocolate mistaken for compost. What is that?
Lemon rinds, dreams of citrus shreddings on the carpet.
A backhand to the fleas.
A backhand to my mom.

Some cats are answers, others are prayers. Mine is a Starship.
Holding so many thoughts in my brain, I merely open my mouth to let them breathe and hope they acknowledge my prescence at the pearly gates. God is the crease of my lips. God is the junk in between your legs. God is the space inbetween out understanding of eachother.
Math is just another name for beauty, which does and does not exist. Only lengthens lines on your names, on your knees.

My favorite spot on people is behind the knees. And the nape of a neck.
Sort of a reverse pedaphile. Feet for fortune. I am the 10 year old boy you're secretly attracted to. Wish upon a shooting star, and see what dreams come true so true you'll expect them to arrive until you die, holding that manifestation relaity in your cold dead old dry barren hands until both crumble.

Fly a feather through my hair, disappear, never once was there.

Little girls and little bones grow up to be old trees. Covered in moss green.
Making love to the air, and me.

Feet shivverring wondering when winter is. Come. Hither queen. Unclothe disease. As the DEath Shepard awaits some pie prize, called, True death, or true blood, or true feast. A nice prize might be a univer where ravanging on the bones and the bloody flesh of your family is a pleasure. For all of us.



I'm sorta scared to go home. But I've worked through a lot today. Mostly I trust strangers because I assume one way or another they'll hurt me regardless. This is a sort of trust in their selfishness. The same I have for myself. But sometimes once in a grey full moon, I'll truly trust. This hasn't happened this year yet. But i hope for next.
But maybe trust is a sham, like a marriage, and rather I'd let loose cannons...


I do or don't like bacon or floss.

Marking on my body porclaim:

IN THE NEXT CHAPTER NUR WILL REVEAL IN WHICH WAYS SHE WAS BORN UN-HUMAN AND WHICH WAYS HER FEARS BEGAN AS STARS.


LOVELIGHT AND LOOSEFEATHERS,
Nur

Monday, December 12, 2011

mis measure

i'm not sure where i am and what i am i am not that robotic. i am human too. I feel somewhat in dis-spare tonight because my good friend is in opposition to me. and i can't think straight anymore. and its kind of cold in here. here is a cafe. here is by the moon. and i'm looking up a spell now to distract my mind from the motion of the table wobbling.

dots beckoning

placid flacid days gone and unmet
I'm sort of tired of winning. Often my solutions involve death. I love life and the sunshine. Someone get me out of here though. I love people and hate how disorderly everything is. I wish I could be in control all the time. I am aware I cannot.



and even though i didnt want to care i did
the music jingled i slumped i sighed and wished something else grew inside

messages lingered, a trail down my stomach. a nausea unsettled about to vomit.

i guess if i was pregnant somehow i would keep it.
i love a child i am a child.
like i dont but i do.
im a game a puzzle.
weird out. white out.
wood out. wiley ee I oh coyote.
we're not the same,
spread of choice

and though she rose she crowed. Like bird she dove into the sky. only to find many children, and no arms to link with. And we slept side by side because of not wanting each other. In the throne on a cloud. looking back, it must've all been a dream. A crazy dream, some crazy girl. Who drinks too much ANd curls her hair and throws chemical down the sink.

I'm so scared she cried. And I loved her. I am her husband her mother her lover. I am an eye. The ultimate Thang. The disgusting drink. The bland smoke. The ruffled arm-sweater sleeve. I forgot a breeze and now I all alone. Eye all alone. I go home the long walk. Because once I held a dream so hard in my hand, it stopped flying, and suffocated eventually. No actually after it suffocated it escaped. I hugged too hard. And I murdered love. Now love never wants me again. Unitil it says,
"Eye becomes You."

I become you, in me. Once what was a dream, now EYE sees, I see. Let go of me too. SO hard my bones a jail. So hard my ribs a cage. So hard my eyes a mirror for this panopticon prisnur.

sliver. And shiver.

signed, sealed, and delivered.

It's not okay. As I see it it closes. The mouth. His-her-me mouth. As full of eyes, it falls out, it eats looks, it smiles in theft of sight, it longs for lashes from a whip held by a guard who looks like your father. But not just your father, your baby's daddy, yourself, your lover of course. YOU WANT A LOVER WHO FUCKS YOU, OVER. DONT LOOK AT ME WHILE I LEAD YOU TOWARDS RAPING ME . Ms. Mr. Mrs. Debauchery. I make a fool of myself over and over and over again and it doesn't make sense. I felt or fee dead inside robotic, alive and real but from another planet. And sometimes I just want to kill myself so i don't have to be so different.



bye mom.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

how to do again what never happened to begin with

"it's a hairy day out there today a very hairy day today. it's a fare haired and wooly weathered day out there today."

Little lamb licked her fingers and toes, in between the nail and the skin, in between the hair and the nail. In a mutter of minuets, a ballet of words, nothing scattered, everything empty. Beckons lead to come out like blood. Beckons lung to come out like heavy dirt. Every breath could beat into the ground a rhythm for feet to step into.

Getting up off the ground is tough for a Little Lamb leathered by Mother Cow Queen Koopa. Cake and Love and Lost and Moon. All the things that get scattered at night end up on the ground in the morning. In the daylight you can find and collect them, and vomit your past dues and ends in the local bush.

BUT YOU ARE CONFUSED MAY
MAY LAMB OFFER MEAT TO YOUR BRAIN

hunt and gather all the scattered blather
by the end you'll turn belly up
feeling beautiful
in every man coitus carnal mortal camus
"man is mortal, camus is man, camus must be mortal" bullshit

lovers are tied threads to a not impossible but practically impassable occurrence into the unknown. Once unknown is known is ceases being unknown. Unwired, undiscovered, uninspired.

BACK YE DAMNED CHILDHOOD YEARS ADOLESCENT FOLLY where dreams were constructed of things like Satori, and the Light before Consciousness.

I fake YE. I fade ye. I make Ye sound like a fury, I'm unsure of sound like a clam shitting itself inside accidentally. What then? And who changes oysters' diapers? Where diapers are shams. And marriages.

and marriage is. dead.