what flavor is your death squad leader?

eatadick.

[dirty-milk]

Celebrate failure,

it is holy; your effort.

Mistakes are divine.

[dirty-milk]

i. Loving you was like blooms

finding their way to the

light source through every

crack in my being,

like crystal caverns erupting

in the void so sharp,

so jagged, and I could have sworn

I’d see you on the other side

but now I’m here and you’re nowhere to be found.

ii. Hating you was like a fever

ripping through my body,

searing every inch of me and

razing it to ash -

I was a pile on the pyre

for ages until the stress

compressed enough to make me a

brand new treasure.

iii. Missing you was like

gravity won the war;

with its heaviness,

with its stubborn grace,

with its solemnity…

and the clawing,

and the clawing,

and the clawing.

[dirty-milk]

Loving you helped me grow,

and it hurt.

Hating you helped me grow,

and it hurt.

Grieving you helped me grow

and that hurt, too, and by the time this all made sense

I was pretty sure it wasn’t

you I was ever talking about to begin with.

[dirty-milk]

we are orbiting,

locked in a tidal dance, waves

crashing to the beat

[dirty-milk]

I’ve only ever been

the weapon that Cain wielded -

it has to be around here somewhere, right?

It’s only ever then

that we swallow the stain -

it must be a form of prayer, bright.

When the soil asks for my salt,

I don’t know if it wants my sweat or my tears.

I don’t know if it wants resentment or resilience;

bitterness, or brilliance but

I know it wants the focus of my fears.

The canyons call for carbon,

hoping for a husk to harden -

what could grow in its garden?

The hills howl for hydrogen -

aching for an amen again and again

but whacked the wheels of when.

When the atmosphere asks for my asylum,

I don’t know if it wants my armor or my anthem.

I don’t know if it wants my vulnerability or my value;

my tempest or true but

I know it runs the risk of ransom.

[dirty-milk]

I like to imagine my mother a sniper,

settled in her nest and

eyes on sight.

Looking at me like she never understood;

like, she completely missed the plot -

setting fire to the godwood;

like…

I think she missed a thought?

She’s a mirage - there and not

and it doesn’t matter if it’s real.

The ax forgets but the tree remembers,

and I remember watching

her handle hewn in a honeymoon,

her core committed to the cocoon.

Confused her womb for the earth

and waited for a welcome waning worth.

Light let in too soon,

mind mapped messy;

Inside a monsoon

hanged a manic halo heavy.

It hinges in her hunger,

it tilts towards her thunder,

it wanders in her wonder and

while it weakened my wild;

my schism simply smiled.

[dirty-milk]

I’ll be here when you grow up,

So excited to watch you bloom.

I’ll be here and I’ll shut up,

despite the detection,

I’d dispel your deplume.

I’ll be here when you glow up,

When you get up,

When you pick up and bottom-up.

I’ll be here when you show up -

grieving giggles into gloom?-

that’s not what you’re made for.

You’re made for the chaos.

You’re made for Prometheus.

You’re made for deviance.

You’re made for breaking, and bending, and beginning;

You’re made for surging, and sharing, and sinning.

You’re made for growing, and glitching, and grinning.

How adorable. How lovely you’re alive.

[dirty-milk]

Hunger honors a haunted heart, hollows out my humble hatred. Slumber sings the seeds to start, shapes the static something sacred.

Bury me beneath it all, beneath the rubble, beneath the busted bubble; bury me beneath the trouble, mourn my mask in the madness muddle.

Easier to arrest my aorta, colonize my coronary with color, vacate all vitriol from my ventricles - a glimmering genocide; a dazzling diaspora; a scintillating slaughter.

What do your hands hear? What do your hands hail? What does your heart hide?

[dirty-milk]

My bones don’t like me

and my blood has had enough.

Skin is sinking and settling south;

I think I’ve had enough.

Is this my body?

Am I my body?

Am I the bones that make me?

Or the fat, the water, the electricity?

Am I the processing of dreams,

the instant I Know an answer,

am I the muscle memory of Being?

I can be It and Not and;

fucking hell does that hurt.

[dirty-milk]

god’s just a ghost grifting from a grave,

burning bridges and burying the brave.

gospel gave grief and grasped its glaive,

fucked the flock that fathomed he forgave.

shamed the skin as sin to sicken the slave;

deals in decay and damning the dead deprave.

wrathless and weakness - weapons to waive,

cursed and clutched the clergy climaxed to crave.

[dirty-milk]

These are not the hands of hocus and hunger, these are the hands of hurricanes and honeymoons.

These are not the eyes of effigies and extortion, these are the eyes of earth and eclipse.

My bones blossom into bliss, rally the rhyme and reminisce.

This not the heart of hallelujahs or horrors, but the heart of a harvest on the horizon.

This is my body,

this is my body,

this is my body.

[dirty-milk]

It’s hard to not love me,

I’ll make you feel good about yourself.

My mirror skin will reflect

the best parts of you and

in the house party of my body

you’ll be the life of every room.

[dirty-milk]

praise for the thick skinned stick-thin mannequin, praise for how well I could take one on the chin, praise for how wholly I'd eat the original sin and let it's plot holes bore through my skin.

praise the days his gaze pointed to the Other.

praise yesterday for the loss of Mother.

praise and say there is nothing but to suffer another of her.

[grimfox-deactivated20250321]

hello fellow lunatics,

here is a poetry prompt:

what the moon taught me

(like to charge, reblog to cast)

[dirty-milk]

Honey, drop your waves - they’re crashing anyway, aren’t they?

The tides are my job so get your disgusting hands off them.

The moon says, “be quieter.”

The moon says, “let me show you the way.”

She says, “you are nothing besides carbon and oxygen.”

She says “howl a holy husk; hijack the hydrogen - humble the halcyon - hungry for the holden.”

Luna says, “go to bed.” She says, “I am so tired, aren’t you tired, too?”

[dirty-milk]

I’ve got a head full of ashes,

and I’m coughing out the cinder;

the phantom fire raged

with ghosts as the tinder.

Is this a party,

or cosmic doom?

Is this a body,

or a panic room?

I’ve got hands full of starlight,

and it’s slipping out my palms;

the celestial glow,

lost and found only in psalms.

Is this an abyss,

or a playground?

Is this a kingdom,

or a god drowned?

[dirty-milk]

I love you with my liver,

litter the livid -

viscid and vivid;

I love you with my lungs.

luck-lust lunatics

lacking labor limits -

I love you with my lips,

lisping though the lines

minding the mad minutes.

With my kidneys -

kissing chaos crossed with karma.

I love you with my appendix

and we don’t really know what was for even

but it’s yours.

Yours;

every ventricle vibrating,

every atrium aspirating;

heart holy

sung slowly.

[dirty-milk]

Spectral symphony

suffers the surrender of the savage;

do you feel the riot receding,

paved for a pale passage?

The war drum beat of

your heart abates, misstates

the melody as misery of memento mori;

glissando grieving given

grace and goddamn glory.

[dirty-milk]

Let me find out what the star burst is made of;

what sings shadows in the shade, love,

let me find out what color love is, dove.

Find the shape of god in your silhouette;

let me tender the torment of threat,

strangle sleep supine a striking sunset.

Let me hold my hunger for your halo;

grace my grave and gentle my glow,

let me bridge my bliss and bellow it below.

Ache in me my ashes asleep at the altar;

let me honor haste and humor holy halter,

frozen fallout to let the faith falter.