cunt international

[thegoblinbee]

Your woman's getting tired of being your ole handy man.

Dolly Parton

[thegoblinbee]

i am not your fucking content to mindlessly absorb as if i am a machine pumping it out and not a goddamned human being

this is what I have to say on the topic: if all people are willing to see is the content they feel like consuming but not give a shit about me, then fuck them, i'll just write my dumbass poems in silence, by myself, with no one to read them at all. at least then i won't feel used.

i don't CARE if i am good at stupid fucking poems, i care about being seen and heard and loved

writing a poem for me is like taking a piss. it's effortless and necessary to rid myself of waste. i don't NEED to be good at it or be appreciated as an artist

i know there are people who'd give a hell of a lot to write like i write, but, i mean, that's not my problem. i don't really give a flying fuck about it anymore, all it's ever done is got me used or seen as an oddity or gawked at or whateverthehell

it doesn't MATTER to me

or i get put up on a pedestal by someone who imbeds themselves in my heart as if they really see ME but then they knock me right the fuck off the pedestal THEY put me on then throw me in a six-foot-deep hole and walk away

everyone seems to want to get Writer Girl to write them a Love Poem or ten, but then the glow wears off, especially the more they get to know the reality of me, nevermind the many total strangers who have not ONCE, not EVER shown ANY interest whatsoever in my actual life but are happy to like a stupid fucking goddamned poem. fuck that. fuck them. i don't need that shit in my life.

[thegoblinbee]

Emily Lied

A formal feeling, you say? Mechanical feet, a wooden way of etc etc and then the letting go – Well excuse me Miss, but I beg to differ. The pain goes blooming acute and eternal, stabbing in the night and in merry moments I might recline in were it not for this needling, this living, this breathing pain that speaks and smells and eats all on its own, independent of yet forever married to me, this Siamese twin of longing, whose head sprouts awkward out of my t-shirt and begs that everybody stare stare stare at the freak in her flowered frock thinking that oh-so-many daisies might distract from her deformity. And oh! but the sharpness of the blade that nightly knifes my feeble flesh! and oh but this night too is day and all that lies between, unrelenting as it begs that I be but loved as I love in return, such that the heavens beam down in admiration at so perfect a coupling between we lesser beings – I am wrong and I am raw, I am rotten to the core with this cloying clawing craven need, an alliterative altercation ongoing always between heart and head and yes, yes – this is the hour of lead but the chill is absent, the heat is full-on-noontime-desert-sun punching its way down my throat forever and for always and the stupor is not a blind one but rather the sort that barricades itself inside your mouth, sucked on like a leech, like a lamprey, never letting go.

[thegoblinbee]

are you there?

I’ve decided to come back here, after over a year’s absence. Is anyone there, anyone who cares? Anyone at all? I’ve been so horribly lonely. I made a new tumblr that no one reads and it has made me so sad. So here I am again, pitiful and hoping for love like the needy little puppy I’ve always been and always will be.

[thegoblinbee]

Sometimes the smell of a cake of soap (or some other homely  substance) will suddenly bring back a long-forgotten memory from  childhood. And then I will find myself wondering how many other  memories are hidden from me in the recesses of my own brain; indeed my  own brain will seem to be the last great terra incognita, and I will be  filled with wonder at the prospect of some day discovering new worlds  there. Imagine the lost continent of Atlantis and all the submerged  islands of childhood right there waiting to be found. The inner space we  have never adequately explored. The worlds within worlds within worlds.  And the marvelous thing is that they are waiting for us. If we fail to  discover them, it is only because we haven't yet built the right vehicle  -- spaceship or submarine or poem -- which will take us to them. It's  for this, partly, that I write. How can I know what I think unless I  see what I write? My writing is the submarine or spaceship which takes  me to the unknown worlds within my head. And the adventure is endless  and inexhaustible. If I learn to build the right vehicle, then I can  discover even more territories. And each new poem is a new vehicle,  designed to delve a little deeper (or fly a little higher) than the one  before.

Erica Jong, Fear of Flying

[thegoblinbee]

What we remember lacks the hard edge of fact. To help us along we create little fictions, highly subtle and individual scenarios which clarify and shape our experience. The remembered event becomes a fiction, a structure made to accommodate certain feelings. This is obvious to me. If it weren't for these structures, art would be too personal for the artist to create, much less for the audience to grasp.

Jerry Kosinski

[thegoblinbee]

rebirth

His cock the amber color of honey, his lips a plum, an invitation to the wet, dark cavern of his wicked mouth. On my knees I am a saint praying at the feet of a loving God. On my knees I am holy, anointed in the cream of his come; a baptism, an invitation to a redolent rebirth.

[thegoblinbee]

obsession

May 24, 2019 Valiantly, I fought off the thought of you all day. Brave and fearsome though I was in battle, I did not win. In fact, I barely survived.

[thegoblinbee]

My husband and my CAT are currently playing FETCH. If I had video of it, this shit would so go viral. A CAT. Playing FETCH.

[thegoblinbee]

Visit Original Link

I recorded myself reading the thing I wrote last night. I feel like there is a line near the end I should’ve cut out but I’ve already tried recording it like five times. I am far too much of a perfectionist.

[thegoblinbee]

When my husband told me Stan Lee died, I thought he said Stanley died, as in Stanley Hudson from The Office, aka the only noteworthy Stanley other than Kubrick.

[thegoblinbee]

Book report time again! These are the books I’ve read since 11/08. I’ve also gotten about 40 pages into a 700+ page novel about Marilyn Monroe which I expect to take a long time to get through, especially since I am concurrently reading two other books. The Edible Woman (Margaret Atwood) was quite good; a book-length metaphor for the way women were expected at the time to be completely servile to men and hand themselves over to them upon marriage then be subsumed by motherhood and housewifery. The Robber Bride, however, was extraordinary. Just unbelievably beautiful and engaging and mysterious and captivating.

The only downside, I think, to reading so many books so fast is that they can fade from my memory very quickly, leaving me with just the impression of the book rather than any great retention of its details, so I feel I haven’t much to say about either of these two books other than to catalogue the effect they had on me, which, in the case of The Robber Bride, has been immense. Of the four Atwood books I’ve read, it is definitely my favorite by far (though I’ve read her more famous ones -- A Handmaid’s Tale and Cat’s Eye) and I highly, highly recommend it. Freedom, by Jonathan Franzen was revelatory. I did something I haven’t done since my all-time favorite book White Oleander by Janet Fitch -- I immediately started it over the second I finished it. I’d perhaps call it my second favorite book, ever. I mentioned this before, when I read another of his books, but the way he constructs sentences is just masterful, and I feel just by reading him I have become a better writer. I can see his influence in the comparative complexity of the sentences in the short story I wrote while reading it and I feel so deeply appreciative of him for that. He writes these epic stories following the outer-branching of singular families that touch on the deepest, most common human interests and experiences and expressions -- these wildly unspooling narratives of jealousy and desire and aging and fear and sex and marriage and love. It’s a masterful book and, I feel, much better than The Corrections, which was more widely praised, as far as I remember. The Corrections itself is an incredible book, but this one is better. I love it desperately, and I feel it is opening up to me in brand new ways upon the second reading, which is, I believe, the biggest indicator of how truly amazing a story is and how beautifully it is told. Read this book. Lolita, on the other hand... This was my second reading of it, the readings being approximately twenty years apart, and I was far less impressed the second time. It is beautifully written, yes, that is undeniable, but it just didn’t really do much for me. Though my dislike is in no small part about externalities -- I got quite angry reading it thinking of how many people treat it as a love story, an epic romance, when the narrator himself is quite clear that he is a child-rapist who threatens and controls this twelve year old girl via narratives he spins about her ending up in a terrible place if he were to be put in jail for what he’s done to her and constantly tricks her with promises he doesn’t follow through on in exchange for sexual favors.

The narrator himself is quite clear that she never loved him and that the romance was utterly one-sided. How people have come to see that as, for instance, “The only convincing love story of our century” (the quote on the cover of the book) baffles me utterly. Especially because, as I said, Nabokov goes out of his way, in my opinion, to make it quite clear that this man is a monster and this girl is his unhappy victim. That he manages to make him at all sympathetic nevertheless is a sign of his masterful writing, nothing more.

Oh, also? I have an entire page of a notebook filled with two columns on each side of vocab words I took from the book. And, if I remember correctly, this was his first goddamn book in English. How in the hell do you know nine thousand million more English words than me your first time even writing in the language at all? Ugh.

[thegoblinbee]

His Tortured Soulful Artist shtick, his self-indulgence in pushing his songs past their natural limits of endurance, his artful crimes against pop convention: he was performing sincerity, and when the performance threatened to give sincerity the lie, he performed his sincere anguish over the difficulty of sincerity.

Jonathan Franzen, Freedom

Jesus fuck this man can write a sentence like nobody I’ve ever read. I’m reading this book as I write a short story and I swear it is making my sentences better solely via something like fawning osmosis.

(via thegoblinbee)

“The mute fact of his sweet Connie having lain down with some middle-aged pig, of her having taken off her jeans and her little underpants and opened her legs repeatedly, had embodied itself in words only long enough for her to speak them and for Joey to hear them before returning to muteness and lodging inside him, out of reach of words, like some swallowed ball of razor blades.” I mean... just... are you kidding me, dude???

[thegoblinbee]

for you, the eternal immaculate true

(It shouldn’t have taken me fifteen years to write this, I’m sorry.)

A stillness, a sweetness unfathomable resides within you, something eternal that can’t be worn away by the horrors of the world, its infinite cruelties, the way it abrades your soft soul.

My holy light, my gentle guide, I live in constant shock at your gilded grace, its halo lighting the path I stumble down.

I try to write odes to your sweetness, but they never come out right, never capture it, always careening into cheese; pure Velvetta, so I erase them, backspace backspace backspace,

never could write with gratitude, never did learn how to lay down such divinity in the lines I write,

choosing instead to languish in the comfort of longing, to make luscious the miseries, the memories of unworthy men.

So, here, love. Let this thick-sliced cheddar melt over you golden, let me write poorly, fumbling over such immaculate love, let my frailty reveal to you your beauty ever-blossoming, beatific and true.

(it hurts my heart immensely that I can’t tag this as a love poem, but tumblr hates me and randomly decides to exclude me from all tags if i use one it doesn’t like, which is decided with absolute arbitraryness. this is why reblogging me is so extremely meaningful to me, so do with that what you will.)

[thegoblinbee]

An ode to my amazing husband

[thegoblinbee]

Another picture of my new sweater, because it makes me feel pretty and I like the way it makes my body look. Both of which are incredibly foreign sensations. It’s such a rare and unique experience for me, to look in the mirror and think, “Your body looks good, and you, overall, look kinda cute, kinda pretty.” Even with all the weight loss, it took me about a year after I lost it all to take even one photo of my clothed body. I can’t imagine ever taking naked photos of it, given its saggy state, but at least I’ve found my way to liking it sometimes in clothes. I don’t know why I wouldn’t take any photos of it right after losing it all -- that’s usually the first thing people want to do, take an “after” photo. I guess becoming so much smaller made it even easier to try to pretend I don’t exist, don’t occupy any body at all. Why I still crave to feel that way, I couldn’t say. Maybe just because it is familiar; it’s how I always felt. It’s an odd thing, trying to learn to be glad to take up space just as the amount of space you take up has been slashed. Anyway. I haven’t been writing at all, which is problematic. I’ve just been voraciously reading. Right now I’m almost done with The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen, which is absolutely and insanely good. The way he builds and structures sentences is awe-inspiring for me, and makes me feel like even after all these years, I still haven’t even gotten close to being as good as I want to be. Sometimes reading amazing books makes me feel so inadequate and I get quiet. I know it ought to be the other way around, that reading and reading and reading ought to make me want to write and write and write, but at the moment it is not working that way. I’m going to try though, today, to write something. I know you’re waiting with bated breath, after all.

[thegoblinbee]

my husband bought me a new sweater. it’s very brightly golden and warm and deliciously soft. it makes me feel pretty; compliments my yellow-undertoned paleness, brings out the yellow flecks in my eyes. someone complimented me today on my eyes, by the way. their depth, their beauty. it was very unexpected. things have been in many ways difficult and weird and complicated due to my inertia and cravings, my constantly letting myself down, but at least there’s that. at least there’s a stranger saying lovely things like that, every once in a while.

[imsorrythings]

We Dream You Up

a collaboration with the extraordinary @thegoblinbee 

___________

We dream you up in the dusk beneath a retreating sun, or else in the dead of night, all alone in our beds.

We thread you through the eye of our needle to stitch you into another stanza, to lay you down in another line, looping you ‘round our wrists, binding you to us, hoping to tie you up in knots. This our rite, our ritual, a high hallelujah dug up from the pit of us, a sweet sacrament, an offering from our pulpits:

Let us sew your melancholy to our memory, measuring out the shadows of your past, tailoring our longing to the shape of you, Let us cloak your closeness with our candied skin that we may embody you, growing fearsome and large as the great day sinks. We yearn to wear and be worn, to be witnessed; twin ink planets converging to embrace you, blotting out the sun.

We descend on you from the id of roses, making our oaths in blood, setting to carry you off. Our hunger rages lustily all around you, beats back the wind that dares chap your immaculate kiss. Ardently, we lunge for you, shoving away continents, stumbling sloppily to feel the soft of your skin.

It is a dire situation, this dastardly craving, this craven need. We draw the four corners of the world up around us like a quilt, insulating your siren song, ocean’s depths spilling over the sides, drowning in your sugar-salted seas.

Not a lot can stop us now, love – We’ve found you somehow in the midst of all this madness and deafness and greed and now we must erect our altars at your feet.

We venture ever-onward to earn you, writing our psalms on your skin in spit and by fingertip, pleading that you may love us alive, allow us to live long in your exquisite grace, breathe your breath into our lungs that we might speak in your voice, exalted above the coarse and simple everything-else. Drop a kiss in our collection plate and watch us falter, bend, wilting into the night. Self-warring leviathans, we await your imminent retreat. We offer no explanation to you, except that we have no choice. If we must be temporary, we will be tempests, turning all teacups into teeming ravines. So forgive us this, our transgressive ache, our interminable need. Forgive us our unraveling hems, our endlessly-unfurling confessions dribbling from our mouths like wine.

Forgive us Father, forgive us Mother, forgive us High and Holy Ghost. Take us down to the water, baptize us all along the coast. ______

[thegoblinbee]

lookit !!!! we poemed together!!! i love to poet with him, he’s the best. (I will poem with you too though, if you wanna try it. All you gotta do is ask.) PS: @imsorrythings was against my tempest in a teacup metaphor but I won! I dug in my heels and I won! I feel like I should note it though, so if you are reading this thinking, “Ugh, I don’t like the teacup thing,” you know who to blame.