wordshits

We are a small band of starving meth addicts. This is our poetry blog. read our poems n shake yer dangus

[floppytittedebonyprincess-blog]

Monsanto is trying to patent cucumbers, melons, broccoli and other plants, which would mean that you need to pay Monsanto to eat or grow them. Monsanto is a multibillion dollar bioengineering corporation that produces most of America’s genetically modified food. You should really sign this if you don’t sign this you’re kind of giving up and letting terrible people do terrible things to this beautiful planet please sign this petition

[floppytittedebonyprincess-blog]

tantric meditation

we are gyrating vortical spheres of energy. this energy is mainly emitted from within the solar plexus and is the essence of god. every organic physical incarnation is connected to one another through a collective and infinite spectrum of frequencies (God/Allah) that are shown through the energy absorption of living organisms (such as photosynthesis or digestion) and also by their energy output (orgasming, chanelling, insemination, thought, emotions). these are all aspects of what is considered the self, but there is no self; only an uncountable number of microcosms and macrocosms that are interrelated. these cosms are regulated, created, shaped and ultimately destroyed by its physical incarnation, but has always existed and will always exist as a frequency. we are on the cosm known as third dimensional Earth, but we are connected to all lower and higher frequencies/cosms by the kundalini. this is a collection of energy centers within the human body that metaphysically connect us to Earth and to the cosmos. when one gains control of these energies, we are connected to a source of infinite creation, and a way to manipulate your own reality. what separates us from god when we can create anything?

[floppytittedebonyprincess-blog]

THRE IS NOTHING TO BECOME ONLY THAT WHICH YOU ARE AND THAT WHICH YOU HAVE ALWAYS BEEN; ETERNITY IS NOTHINGNESS AND WE ARE A VITAL CONDUIT OF PERCEPTION THAT HOLDS THIS PHYSICAL PLANE TOGETHER SO THAT IT MAY TRAVERSE ACROSS THE TIMESCAPE OF ENDLESSNESS

[floppytittedebonyprincess-blog]

there is an overwhelming amount of separation in that which you perceive as togetherness; your fleshes remain graphic, damp and vibrationally stagnant while you writhe in confounded and short-lived ecstasy, failing to grasp the gyration of the eternal bliss which you so deeply yearn for, that which constantly surrounds you. it can be found in the tiniest fraction of any given moment, yet you spend your entire lives sifting through the dregs of who you used to be and everything that you wish you could be, nearly irretrievable beneath the grotesque, seminal monolith that you have convinced your nervous system to swathe the shape of. there is no god, there is only the undeniable calling of cellular engrossment within the most perplexing patterns of conformity, you are the shaper of everything you perceive, open all of your eyes and destroy the dogmatic internment that your consciousness is being contained in and discover the eyes you never thought you had

[wordshits]

Crown

The pale man with the radiant crown sits in the coffee shop with his head down,

His newspaper folded precisely beside him. His eyes meet

The current of the pulsating tea in front of him and he

Earnestly grips the sweaty sides of the mug and brings the ceramic mass

To his coarse lips.

When he’s sucked the last drop of hot Earl Grey, he

Orders the gregarious waiter to bring him brine vegetable soup, and a

Slice of ciabatta with butter. The waiter smiles, beaming at the man’s

Jeweled, spectacular diadem.

The pale man in the coffee shop bites at his bread and

Slurps away his nourishing soup, surely offending the fellow patrons,

And politely tucks his serviette over the hollow soup bowl.

When the waiter returns to clear his place, the man grimaces.

“My sordid soup,” he sighs, “was terrible. And my bread, stale.”

The waiter frowns and apologizes sincerely, but the man objects.

He says, “Call the manager here,” and so the waiter does.

The flustered manager arrives hastily to the table, groaning when he sees that

The unhappy customer is the man wearing the radiant crown.

“Sir,” the manager snaps, “your ego is brimming. You come to my café for

Brunches and suppers every week, gorge in my food, and insult it for a free meal.

You think you’re too important to pay. Sir, your ego is swelling so much that

A jagged crown decorated in rhinestones is

Growing through your skull.”

The man scowls,

Snatches his newspaper,

Leaves the restaurant and wears his crown

Through the door and into the world.

[wordshits]

Show and Tell for the Scatterbrained

Swallowing splinters held out by

The palms of doctors and dragging

Yourself by your own hair into

Heavy water, while shallow boys

Pull at the seams of your dress

Wanting something you’re not used

To, seventeen bringing waxy hallways

And green school lockers for one more

Year of High School with hot teachers

And flawless sports stars with boogers

In their eye sockets still, crying over

The remains of their virginities lingering

Inside their asshole-ex-boyfriends who

Turned out to be normal teenaged boys

After all - mourning silently with the rest of

Them over the monster who tricked you

Years ahead of them – all the pregnant pistils

That spewed nurture-rich eggs across

The soccer fields are sleeping now, time to

Bottle up all of those words inside your

Malnourished brain again for one more year of

High School and get out the sweaty scarves

And stiff boots to salvage your cold skinny body

This coming winter. Again.

[wordshits]

Northernmost Carriage Burial

Worms will slide into your cavities

And soil will crumble onto your rotten bits

When your soul enters a world untouched

By mankind; seasons will die around your dormant

Leftovers and dark leaves will blanket you for the

Cold times, but your sheer bones and flesh won’t

Notice anymore. Icy flakes of snow will fall around

Your skinny face and wind will lick your eyelids

Dry of eyelashes, but after autumn gives way to

Winter, and winter gives way to spring: green fleshy

Sprouts with pink, flimsy petals and young, healthy

Saplings will pry their way towards your looming

Spirit, through your pale, breathless ruins and

One will assist the birth of fresh life, feed it

Lingering blood clinging to Earth’s

Flourishing ground.

[raveneuse]

[wordshits]

Waking up in pine needles / scattered clothes and dirt in your underwear / dead leaves in your hair / everything is beautiful but something behind your ribcage feels like vomit is seeping throughout your entire fragile body / I am buried here but my soggy lungs are still getting enough air / scream won’t escape / here

[wordshits]

downwards stare soul derivation that mirrors complex cortex vortex for perusing eyes ricochet across gravel- textured obelisk which marks the moving over of bristle brush oneness anomaly; analog analysis of astronaut anger arises away from alabaster acne on the sweat- and tear-soaked face of self-lost teenaged consumer beckoning in synthetic rooms for encouragement that it may find itself lost amongst the thing-debris that lies far beneath the astral wanderlust of the oscillating sun-orb that you cast from your crown chakra; the light may dwindle under the insurmountable accumulation of darkness but I promise you that it will return just as I will to the horizontal branch seat that our spirits coalesced upon; I will run with you through the fields until they become fractals of breathing geometry and with them we become formless and enthralled and we will remain there forever, eternally growing in the gyration of wings emanating from within us: we are one, I love you

[thewildbunches]

[wordshits]

unspoken intentions reverberate as subconscious actions among tight- knit hive mind conjunction that is doubling and coalescing the consciousness of angry and rebirthed teenagers that are slowly understanding what the shimmering, bearded serpent rider has been trying to psychogenically infuse into their collective kundalini this is not a poem, this is a statement

[wordshits]

latitude villager, show me the quarry: envelop me in the purring waters that flow over the strings of this dimension, for they are calling towards higher vibrations and beckoning for salvation from diseased soul and third eyes sewn shut with the eternal calcium twine, these spirits are conjured from the depths of the multidimensional light pinnacle which towers above our pathetic salt circle: we are dilapidated trauma vestiges lingering in the fog of banishment and psychic tendon that is sinewed to our wilting spines in an effort to shake from them the remnants of clinging aluminum shackles self perpetuating reminder of naked backbone child undulating betwixt susurrating leaf vine fixtures suspended in dew millennium resonance that is a wet blanket over stumps and pickets existing, perpetually undisturbed in the forever gyration which oozes out from between moldy fingernails

[wordshits]

earthphallus echoes through wing mirage originating in heat particles that dance through layers of brain engagement which tend to beckon forwards into parting moose tendon; tendons like shackles of materialism pulling downwards the kundalini of evolution in a fractal regression format of promethean wavelengths dancing through the layers of your brain engagement with the waves and branches that pull you upwards for the warm and frigid palm tree icebergs that are withering beneath concrete angles and metal curves

[rabbitinthemoon-blog]

She was breathing deeply, she forgot the cold, the weight of beings, the insane or static life, the long anguish of living or dying. After so many years running from fear, fleeing crazily, uselessly, she was finally coming to a halt. At the same time she seemed to be recovering her roots, and the sap rose anew in her body, which was no longer trembling. Pressing her whole belly against the parapet, leaning toward the wheeling sky, she was only waiting for her pounding heart to settle down, and for the silence to form in her. The last constellations of stars fell in bunches a little lower on the horizon of the desert, and stood motionless. Then, with an unbearable sweetness, the waters of the night began to fill her, submerging the cold, rising gradually to the center of her being, and overflowing wave upon wave to her moaning mouth. A moment later, the whole sky stretched out above her as she lay with her back against the cold earth.

Albert Camus (via thegapinglotusexperience)

[wordshits]

earthhusk

sinew pinnacle crown to third eye from which light emanates and ricochets off formless meditation particles guiding you through neuron passages tucked between the fleshy hams within your milk skull: inebriated house cat follicle dances towards timid microcosm in an abyss of lotus petals guiding sunlight towards your lantern zenith spine

[wordshits]

quartz pinnacle triumphs over treetops in cobalt consciousness haze which is sinewed to the branches that protrude from your eye sockets connecting your pineal gland to the etheric grid of wanderers above twisting depressions in the earth’s outer surface - as above so below; as within so without - does not our cerulean fruit sphere mirror itself within just as it does without?

[uglynature-deactivated20130702]

Yes, nature is ironical. Why does she create the best beings only to laugh at them afterwards?

Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Idiot