Vaguely Poetic

Hi, I'm Jay (they/any). Sometimes I put feelings on the internet.

[verisimilines]

Darling, we’ve got to stop lying to everyone (though it’s by omission only.) We can exist as a spectrum “call me sick or crazy  if that’s what you prefer.” That we choose not to use the language of disorder doesn’t mean that the shoe doesn’t fit. Try it on for size. Don’t have to walk a mile. Just see how it feels to embody.

Fragment of "Letters (my multitudes are closer to Walt Whitman than Tyler Durden but the robot girl in my head begs to differ)" (Quote is from Chonny Jash's "Two Wuv")

[verisimilines]

Visit Original Link

Learning to use a midi controller and DAW! So.. enjoy 15 seconds of alchemical rave.

[edgebirb]

shout out to my local library and my shitty home printer for enabling my edgy button and chonny jash penchant. 

[verisimilines]

premonitions.

[verisimilines]

“DID,” “OSDD,” “ASD,” acronyms of difference made a deficiency by the language professionals determine is appropriate. A mechanism of protection used as a weapon against autonomy – against an identity not defined by lines in a case file. That we exist is a threat to normalcy more than ourselves. That we can’t even seek help without being defined by a system that seeks to control, make productive, confine –a friend says when we pick him up from involuntary commitment: “At least in jail they don’t drug you.” and we remember: they will try to disappear you with diagnosis.

[tboycunt-deactivated20251013]

narcissus and the lake

narcissus and the lake—a poem written by me

text under cut:

There’s a man in the water;

he looks just like me,

just with shorter hair and a thousand yard stare

and blood-drained lips pulled ‘round his teeth.

He’s got the kind of eyes you see in the mirror

late at night, early morning

when you touch your blotchy cheeks, blink real fast

and try to see clear

You ask, “Is this real? Am I real?”

to the nobody occupying the space beside you.

There’s no response, be grateful for that.

So, you nod your head and wash your featureless face:

“‘Course I am. Gotta be.”

You’re not convinced.

The man in the water doesn’t blink

Doesn’t move, but doesn’t sink

I think I love him, it’s hard to tell.

I’d save him if I wasn’t drowning myself

It’s a curious thing, to love a stranger

Somehow I feel I know him—

a memory stored on the back shelf.

Either way, the water looks inviting

I think I’ll join him

I take off my boots and my silver ring—

it’s hard to explain, but they were more me than I’ll ever be

I take a step, look down to see

the dead man smiling;

He's been waiting for me.

[verisimilines]

How much history is left in this - fleeting memories come in flashes gone just as quick

you will leave you’ve said as much to me and I can’t blame you I would too if I could swing it

but I am the even-paced rent-giver career in place to provide care

blank slate of kindness in rooms begging for empty-thought intimacy

[verisimilines]

family in the gathering space of grandpa's missionary baptist church. my mandolin and me hiding in the sanctuary - pick through “amazing grace” once to appease the local spirits, then continue. little riffs of nothings - end with the same spiritual - not trying to leave any ill will. later in the car I will listen to “weekend in Western Illinois” and feel nothing. which is about the best one can hope for. even weeks later - I am back across state lines to a place that should feel like home but looking for escape routes. why does it have to be in a church? someone says something about being the hands and feet and I freeze. even B who is usually so comforted by contemplative religion is deadened. we need to leave. almost hope we get a concerned email, rocking in the bathroom then fleeing to the frosted car when someone comes in to actually pee. the only difference between me and middle school me is I can drive myself home.

[therisingfog]

-Hanif Abdurraqib

[verisimilines]

Will you tell me if I start talking like someone else? Will you notice if I'm no longer myself? Safety plans made this late would be better called damage control. Slash and burn fire prevention. I know I've been cold. Turning away from care and snapping at questions. Wish I could say it was one of the passengers, but most the time it's just me and B. It's not like either of us to be like this to you and we're sorry, I think. Just so tired in the way that turns everything off. As if closing our eyes to the light will let us sleep

[verisimilines]

an improperly rendered dream. some internal processing chip on the fritz. outsourcing memory to an sd card.

[edgebirb]

the dsm is a tool of the archons.

[verisimilines]

Why do I write us with such violence? It’s always the street-lit knife, cigarette held to burn, flirting with death, with teeth bared. Surely there are times our kisses don’t go for the throat. Is the language of blood really the only way I can paint this flush?

[verisimilines]

They replaced the streetlight outside so I can’t see the cell tower anymore. I want to be distraught but the incandescent warmth from behind the blinds comforts in a way that’s pleasantly isolating. No longer longing for the far-away flash of the real world, enveloped in the glow of this situation, as artificial and isolating as it is. I know this is the wrong choice, I think. But it’s what I want right now. Can’t I too make stupid short sighted decisions? Make my present somewhere I want to be for once instead of a staging ground for the future?

[verisimilines]

Everyone’s writing about nature, it seems, but not me. I like it fine, it’s just that the outside is where I go to be empty. to walk the thoughts out, feel the sun and all. I know a few plants by name, greet them, sure. But don’t feel enough by them to write it. Where I am is the city fog, three smokestacks slightly obscured by the low morning clouds. I think their details perfect in their absence. 

my memory is mostly shot, which is why i turn to the journal to write, missing pieces can be made up or smoked out. lists upon lists upon lists on the desk so I don’t forget. Maybe if I let Bowsprit take control more often, he’s better at that sort of stuff than I am. Easier to let go and focus when you’re as fatalistic as he is. maybe the reason I’ve become so insistent that there is no plan, no self, is all my instincts towards purpose went to him when he became himself. maybe we’ve both become polarized versions of our selves. maybe that’s what’s best, or just what is.

[citizen-zero]

I think the funniest possible modern textual adaptation of Dracula would be Jonathan as a part time recipe blogger and you have to scroll through 10 paragraphs of the most harrowing thing you’ve ever read in your life just to get the recipe for paprika hendl

[verisimilines]

Mercury-veined accomplices who flush cold / wings emerging out the back from punctured lungs / we told ourselves these desires would decompose in the sunlight / knife-glints in the dark daring the sky to turn its back.