dustdustdust

dust dust dust dusst daily dust cant enough
dust dust drive
piles of hair
leftover skin
leftover cracks
they get in the crack and they never come back
once the dust falls it can only lift up again
it can rise
but it will never come together there are dists of a fetaher that fly together
fading into dust
looking into dust
touching dust jackets
finger covered in dust. moon rivers covered in dust.
hugs .

___________________________________________________________

how will i leave my room?
how will i leave my room?
how will i leave my room?

i hear cutting boards down the stairs
i hear
i hear
i hear a tiny voice

wishing for comfort
its not me its not me its not me

i hear every ache in her body downstairs
like it's calling me
like it's illustrated in full color.

falling out of her sleeve is my imagery of 'sleeves'
out of her breath my imagery of sighs
out of my thighs
tension and looseness
and what a whore is
and who the whore was behind the whore make up and the whore masque
which relies so heavily on being feminine.

i dont know what age i was when i realized the cool girls acted like boys
it was an affect you could add to your persona to get popular

sometimes i wore little boys' clothes
but to get the cool creds you had to uhhhhh looka like a man

but a boy and a girl before puberty are so much the same, and the costumes they wear on top
straight jacket
compares
loosely to the lonliness of being alien
all the new categories
but i stick my arms out and scream when they try to fit me

there are no pair of shoes i could buy
to jump out of my identity
it is ALIEN/FOR-REIGN/OTHER
it is essential

i am a dog
when dogs are cute or sickly
i am a cat
when cats are worshipped and thus separate

who whore? what hair?
what proves you are a whore is your whore card
a vague interest in goddesses
and that feeling at the end of the day
that your body opens up an abyss to the etherworld
built ready to swallow.

modern day whores who shoot arrows meant to trap
the innocent men, who could have remained boys, and been spared

who hair?

who whore?

mish hona


it is the memory of a silvery blue and red plaid jacket.
it is a memory of a little boy, my brother, who i could can never be and now don wanna

i want that
i dont want that
i want that
i dont want that

two whores with who'res breath walk in a room
one looks at the other and says,
I BLEED TO BE FORGIVEN
they lay down and break their bones into the concrete
really
just for kicks

just for the kids
they can't handle it

there are no more words
for that feeling of sitting on the toilet thinking with yer pants down

and laughter receding
a breeze you hear downstairs
a hope you can rely on