inconsequential damnation

writings

[inconsequentialdamnation]

Go

All one has to do is walk

I know you grit around viability - see

hopeful lives with fat pupils, and

desperately soaked, glance outward.

I know you've coined a grandiosity for yourself,

but you're aware nothing's free and bringing yourself

to your biggest hands is a slippery pill

int he peach throat of the high-heeled woman

holding only a faint leash

But distractions are figments, and desire a cloudy drink

you need not walk on fours, hear her clacking stride, fight,

or come undone

you only- and I mean it,

you only have to walk

[inconsequentialdamnation]

Sometimes I Can't Tell if I Want a Man, a Lover, or an Early Start on a Future I'm Programmed to Crave. The Reddest Hold Alive.

Where's this love I expect?

Why haven't you spilled apart along the sidewalk yet looking for me?

I know the desire isn't true, that's why

the leap hasn't formed yet.

What isn't true, can not be formed. Or so I've come to believe.

I'll never be held like a woman, like a

child until I kill the 'other woman' i've imagined

notches above me, nestled in men,

so snug I've barely got any room.

Alligator in the mote, eyes above water,

troops near, the city's bricks sleep in loud keeps,

the lovely woman stolen in the night.

My tail feels especially large, the water all too thin. Sacks, droplets,

weary gauntlet of feared releases

I love this empty bed,

my sprawling striped limbs and sweaty lip, lost drafts of hair

peeling under the duvet

I still dream of a baby, her perfect head and

toes, our umbilical cord knotting us together,

a lover to keep it so, shrine a real, (a surreal)

union, a supreme love, the reddest hold alive.

[inconsequentialdamnation]

I Was Born With a Knife in my Mouth

I want to seethe, supreme grin skyward

a few past lives went wiht my hair when I re-parted it

cut it all off

Don't tell me a kiss on the shoulder from my childhood best-friend

isn't the most elaborate Valentine

I'll wake up tomorrow hovering above tossed sheets, quietly

undulating under the last dream's messages

Love is everywhere and I'm a cracked open fauna riddled

victor for seeing the world that way

If I don't make mountains out of mole-hills,

what do I make of mountains? of a

freshly pink tree newly sat in its blossom?

What do I make of this woman's body

I lounge inside of?

Maybe if I make a lover of every molecule

partaking in this universal second I can become

the best lover alive

[inconsequentialdamnation]

Showrunner

I'm comfortable acting unaware of

the liquid gorge we accidentally form together

if you are too

I get the sense there's something ordained about

this- not us, but the this we become

I can't quite decipher if I'm creeping into love

with you or this prospect itself

and to protect the prospect I'll make no nods

to it at all, will

just continue palm by bruise-splotted knee, eyes shut

relying on a cursive spell about hope

[inconsequentialdamnation]

Immaterial

I have been left to pilfer through the

humiliation I welcomed back with a

reflective gate of gritted teeth

I'm not your girl if everyone is

How can such dissonance sit

upright in one man?

How can each thing you mutter

run so quickly from your actions? Don't

the hellish blistered palms trying to sort forced

intangibles become a tiring norm? Is there

an appeal in seeing my scuffed up skin

after I spent so long getting it porcelain again-

fasting from you?

What pleasure do you derive I wonder, from making

me so small after marveling over

my large stature earlier that day?

I'm terrified by the love you can falsely portend-

how brimming with lies and insincerity

you can manage to be.

I want you to stay far away

How do you always end up behind my shoulder?

Checking in to see if my ribs still cave in easily

Folding lawn chair, senselessly hot day

In mundanity and apocalyptic mania, I hope to know

you're only a figment, not a man- a bad worm in the

back of some dreams. Redirect your eyeline

from the abandoned abandoning in self-righteous tales

figments can't materialize simply becuase you wish them to,

they say they will.

[inconsequentialdamnation]

Everyone dies at 11:30pm

Every thousand or so years, all resembles something like a great clarity.

The glances of others, the sky burning bright in opalescent curves, the peripheral field- All singe with a harrowing precision.

Mouthfuls of childish doom fade until entirely opaque and the tongue, so weightless, hurls internal heights into record.

The child outruns the mother- as the mother did hers. Fearsome loop with a snarling end, ensuring we break our homes into indistinguishable bits- there is nowhere to live but a better place. Ephemeral betters, how I crave and repel you in predictable cycles yet am shocked by each phase no matter how long I've come to visit her.

Animals approach me more nonchalantly on days like this- until I recall myself and they sneer or back up in fierce hesitation.

Boundary-less and safely so, a muddle of gasping colors springing out in halo-esque paths, grueling air flapped in by tattered characters, holy in their commitment to their particular skin.

Severe chokehold, blinking eyes closing the container lid in fits and pauses. Arresting world inducing such a delightful sputter-

how? is it all so mechanistically a mindless vein, all soil in steel barriers. Organism of land from land - I feel quaint about my accomplice-like stature. I've seen outwardly what is driving in me.

If only moments of great clarity weren't all feigned, a tickling delusion.

[inconsequentialdamnation]

If You Could

At the end of life when wishing to go back

and do things differently, I picture

you beginning to form the words

"Take me back to her,

I will choose love

over my story that all I am

worthy of is self-destruction

That her loving me

doesn't mean I must wedge us

a part to protect

her. I am not

too defective to be loved so fully -

I am not dangerous to love if I don't

believe that I am.

I would let us be full, her

curling mouth and swelling

eyes - I will adore them in

place of these wounds.

I will water love, not

noisy demons"

[inconsequentialdamnation]

When She Smells it, She Begs for it.

Harness expulsion. Shake the stale bits off in vertical fractures (past-lives, mid-life).

The harshest season of the year is over! If you want it.

Sometimes wanting to want better is all I've got, and somewhere deep inside this scramble, I truly believe that is enough.

I have an irrational fear that when my back is turned in public, that someone will come up from behind and bash my head in, or shoot me square. But still I nod, smile, and chat up many people in one walk. I'm not sure if that's a sign of naiveté or beauty, but it's something about me I like quite a lot.

I enjoy thinking about how unserious words are as a concept. Squiggly lines jotted down, absurd harp plucks among vocal chords, funny mouth-twisting and forming ovals, teeth embarrassed to touch... Yet how profoundly they mold sculptures of mental clay, make knowable ineffable stabbing and ecstatic and boring feelings. Always crawling on our bellies trying to make sense of this thrusted and thrusting world.

Riled up in the dark entryway beyond the ear while also a reclining nude, chaise-broken- that familiar circuitous warring around.

"Say you love me too", I ask of my morning eggs and the oddity of dance, they both say it back without taking the bend of talk. It was the sweetest thing I heard all day.

[inconsequentialdamnation]

Making, In Love.

Making, in love in the morning with red noses

the bed's swept empty, the inside of my

thighs stick damp and your hair sticks to the grime in

the bleached mouth of the sink, no one's

been here in days and I remember it all better than it was.

[inconsequentialdamnation]

How Did I Get Up Here? How Do I Get Down?

Snaking around the half-mast flagpole

tattered sheds as flag

recite for me now, pledge yourself,

make this wind-struck height worthwhile

[inconsequentialdamnation]

I Don't Shape-shift, I Swap Bodies

I hope to begin and end tender

but for now, I too closely resemble a

hare fastened to haste,

am somewhere along the way

digging for the hour's sake

[inconsequentialdamnation]

True to Size / Sac·ri·fi·cial Lamb

Her writhing, her writing intrigues, my head cocked

i chew the sewn in roe of my fatty bottom lip, will

she mature in time to make the last pages feel a

satin revelation? If not, did the time as her stow away feel

pleasantly poured, enough

to lure a sigh and not a deadened eye? I've lost my

spot, must start the sentence over, or the chapter,

perhaps the book.

Paperback skin, unserious spine, you frighten me with

your unknown and till me feral with held truths.

Paperback skin, unserious spine, delicately stacked, cherished vault,

made only of lamb's wool

[inconsequentialdamnation]

The Star Hostess

Candle wax blooming over the dusty wood floorboards, the mirror I broke four years ago sits in the corner. Three years of devotional prayers, ("lessen it all please") are left. Ceramic mask with the eyes cut out upon my face, quicken the step of my age. With two long braids, I run, black shiny shoes pressed into giving mud, the cross on my necklace thumps against my chest, beats my heart for me, makes me second guess this odd cocktail of atheism and superstition, and ironic symbolic obsession. White lantern, pearl piano, I sit and read the newspaper next to my voodoo doll and spilt cup of tea. I've grown an extra hand in the Russian mountains (God is amazing, don't forget, God is amazing), and too cold in a barren forest, barefoot with hair pinned back amongst skinny trees (At least it pushed me to write more, I've been writing more). There's a ghost dance of banjos, propped open fanged mouths, blue flame haired heads, and sex-maddened irises, spewing about like a pipe burst turned geyser. Sex act under the cross, neatly made bed inside of the coffin, cherry red nails, some nose powder to last through the ages. The mentioning of all seems to describe this momentary me- head ducked under my desk and tucked into my felt jacket. There's plenty of wars and skin to be born into. It's okay if this one doesn't quite work out.

[inconsequentialdamnation]

Kill or Promote the Shame Man? Up to You Honestly, It's Whatever, I Don't Care, Are You Hungry? I'm Not Hungry, But I Feel Like I Should I Eat, Why Are We Stuck In This Title, Why Does Writing Last For Eternity?

In each moment, my actions, eyes, and state never seem enough, I am perpetually small in comparison to the great "ought". Yet, I am swallowed by nostalgia always. So which is it? Am I leading a life worthwhile? Satiating enough to crave extraneous returns to, or not? Which is it?

I seem to nurture and destruct in equal parts. Which will the final page give way to? Nostalgic or haunted? Both views seem ripe. What happens when seemingly contradictory notions are both immutable truths? When decision is all that's left? The answer being "neither and both" may work for some (myself included), but what of history? Legacy? That old animalistic favoring of the binary? What will they say, we said of ourselves?

[inconsequentialdamnation]

"Other Things Feel Fairly Normal, Except for my Imagination." / Oppenheimer

Rorschach test: I saw

razors on nipples

the general essence of defiance

manslaughter

a nap in the park

your face (cropped up twice in disparate emotions)

I've only got a face that works in profile. One-eyed head, blue bruise cheeks. He kissed me too hard because I kept myself fixed to look optimally beautiful, he forgot I moved and sometimes thought things too.

Rain gutters run from my temples down, over-watered grass, suburban debris, fences and mundanity. I feed white rabbits with red eyes. Who feeds me?

His penis grew sharp and pointed unexpectedly, in a supernatural way with a type of dream logic guiding it upwards. It became so sharp it cut onions with the deftest of motions, I began to cry, oh how I began to cry. Emotionless chain of tears collected in my navel.

Snake in a burlap bag- lick the saw as it skins you. Mouth on damp metal, shedding caught in the act.

Encrusted shield, well-shaded pencil-work, the merit of the artist who has battled all their life.

Put my bones in the fire when i'm done. No more competition, I can't take it. I don't want to feel neglected by the worms- wont chance it. Flames will want, open air will take, this I know.

[inconsequentialdamnation]

Cloth and Cells

Technological dystopia, over-stimulation,

never-borns.

The investment in love to specimen pins pipeline

Character-self (never-borns)

A vagina and a gun

Gun on a hook

Slice me down straight, slice me in curves, count your lacerations, I'll bat mascara-erection eyelashes at you, help you with the purge

organ in a glass vase

i'll freak the fuck out if i find you've been fucking that whore and then fucking me after

a child playing with a ball, bat me with an open fist so i roll thoughtlessly over sand, imprinting it all the way (i'll take whatever legacy, no matter how fleeting at this point)

15 seconds of largeness, 15 years of _______ _______. (Fill in the blanks, adjective then verb)

I've been asked to dance, crumpled canvas, naked body, stubbled hair, cold bare-feet, Hallelujah, I can breathe again

Red river instead of genitals, hug me from behind, make me forget i'm a woman, mislead me into thinking I am, always have and will be the only one you could want

[inconsequentialdamnation]

Avatar of Grace

Sometimes I can not fathom what kind of person I am. I worry I am not loving enough, not warm enough a chest. Too arrow-like, shooting past heads, rustling hair, drywall punctured over and over again by my splintering. Grief carried in the belly's pouch, knick knack of a girl with a thin layer of dust in all creases. Facial features like a wild animal caked in stage makeup. A rote academic paper performed like a dramatic soliloquy. Repeating lament, and fantasizing about Dido's ecstasy.

Streets of different names consume all the same, fall victim to night all the same, give out under my feet and bring me back to my vanity mirror with flickering bulbs, all the same. There's not enough jazz in the world to distract me long enough. The radio talks too much and I even more. Where did all the curling silences steal off to? I'm too wrought to be a teacher, too raw to be a student. Marmelade tongue, churning breakfast all day long.