Abstract - Blog Posts
Ratatoiulle 2099: Part Two
I can't even taste it. Its just texture. The eggs are slimy. The peppers are rubbery. My teeth feel just as malleable in my brain, like im biting into my own skull. I should be grateful really. I'm actually fairly lucky to have a rat that compliments my lifestyle. God knows id be a shit cook without one (and lord knows I can't afford a rat cooked meal in a resturant). I guess thats the other thing that pisses me the fuck off. The media praises Remy of old, the first rat to pilot a human. Everyone knows how amazing and wonderful Remy is. It's all lies. Remy became like any other privleged elitist, his meals were never affordable for the common man. I used to love his recipes as a kid, when I turned 10 and I finally got my rat implanted. I was so excited my rat knew how to cook too. But I grow tired of this same bougee omelette. Maybe I wanna march on down to Pops Pancakes and gorge myself on the syrup soaked slappers. Maybe I just fucking will do that...
"Nobody actually remembers the ripenning of course. Its a day lost to history, presumably because the rats had nested into our brains. Personally i prescrive to the theory of the HO1 Waves creating a psychic disturbance across all rats. That they craved intellect as we once did as early humans...but nobody really knows for sure."
-Burt Essner in his book "The Rat Race: How Rats Became One."
Realms of Fantasy
I often lie awake wondering about the time spent escaping. Embodying views of another mind as my life is consumed in fiction. I inevitably wonder whether I am real at all, surrounding my supposedly real life in fantasy and feeling more connected to the dream...maybe I'd prefer things not be real? Even the reality of carnal instinct is intertwined with fetishes bordering on dreams...furry ferocity only emboldened inside my own heart.
I toil and toll, i till my soul until the words come out as such. In this lost lullaby of words I feel more real then reality. Though I have the desire to break free, like many like me I am too socially anxious, disabled, perhaps both, to properly propel my truest self. Besides poetry I am behind...I yearn for a behind worthy of carnal worship...a gaze of its own, like eyes of its own, undressing me as I undress it.
I've been a furry officially for about 10 years now, but the pieces, as unnamable and esoteric as they may be, have always been there. Even something as simple as yearning for a childhood bear, before memories were formed.
(This is a planned opening exerpt for my furry zine "Zoomies". I'm still in the process of looking for local writers and artists but when I have something solid ill post images)
Ratatouille 2099
The sink is dripping. Blood splatter reminds me of taking the hit. The sink is dripping, dragging like a cigarette. A delicacy, my final delicacy in a world I call dreary. What was once dreamy...
I have too much time to get lost in my thoughts so my therapist thought it worthwhile to write them out instead, write them out while the rat sleeps. Unfortunatley I just dont get much time to do that. With the neural link my concious mind is a dream state, and in my agitated restless state I may give the rat nightmares.
I was rereading the history of Ratatoiulle, of Remy controlling Linguini to create one of the most successtul restuarants in Paris. Back then it wasnt accepted to have the rats at all of course. I guess I got kinda stuck on the idea of how despicable rats were. How despicable they lived. Now were all despicable, and its just so damn normal.
Truth be told i never thought the rats were wierd until I started getting really high on weed. I felt like I, on my own, was something seperate from this rat. This congealed flesh that had grown with me to be a part of me. I feel...crazy.
I had to stare at my rat sleeping to understand things. Or maybe just to feel closer to who i was again. I watch it work in my dreams, watch it waltz the Ratway when I go out clubbing, high out of my mind. How can I or anyone be anything other then a rat? How could I remove a part of my face and still scream?
Rats were known to once inhabit the sewers in droves, living in darkness. Now we all live in darkness, in holy smelly darkness at the hands of rats.
-Burt Esener, Rat Philosopher
Slendher
I graze upon you with invisible fingers
Memories of touch tug at me
Like puppet strings
Memories of you
Dwindle
My heart a needle
Thoughts a thread againat
A thymbel
I love you
But I am breathless
I want to eat you only with my lips
And maybe my mouth
You are small like me I think
A lot like me I think
I see you eldest
When I look in the mirror.
You are me
But beautiful and thin
I want to taste it
Sin
Borne in blood
Between us
I cannot speak it
I'd say I love you
But I am breathless
Hetero, feather her thou
It's okay, I love you straight boy
You only love a woman that you love
That was always a woman
Cis woman love
It's okay its okay its okay
I love your distracted gaze
When you look away
I can admire your face
Its okay its okay its okay
Dnd roleplay
Erotic roleplay
Still fair game
With the bois I am though boy i am not
I love teasin the boys
Aint so stone cold frozen
When we play you
See me as I see me
So what if im a hoe then
Its okay its okay its okay
Dreamin about your hand
Caressin my face
Like you dont know I was a boy
Just know me as one of the bois
A gurl you wanna whisk away
Its okay its okay
Love you bae <3
Penisneud
"You were born broken."
"That is your birthright."
-Beatrice Horseman
I was born small, swollen, and suffocated
Ive grown ten times in size
But alls the same
That ends the same
I edge near suffocation
When my partner suffocates me
To take the edge off me
Squeze harder please, it feels better for me
I want desperatley to be grateful for my life
And not swell myself on food and folly
I want to be small, carried by you
Why am I so small if im so big?
You tell me you love me all the same
But I'd change it anyday, anyway I could
If I could I would carry a wood worth its name
Instead it is life that is hard
And longing...
Terror.
Blur on a black screen not blank
As if electricity still itches
Under its glass skin
A glossy glimpse of my eyes
I long for a longer time
As I look into my own eyes
I see the wires
Vessels of blood and butchery
Bathing in that black
They anticipate a world beyond my own
When I let go of my life
Awoken
I never remember to brush my teeth
Until im back on the chair again
I cannot retreat under bright florescent light
Gingivitus
Invites the worst thoughts in me
Pulling decay from me
Sawtooth away
Surgical like a syringe
Blood is drawn
Steel spider
Crawling deeper in my mouth
Bated breath for viscous liquid
I cant swallow
Pain awakens me to my mortality
A specimen in a jar
Waiting to die but im already dead
Like roadkill in a jar
Un
Like my hearts beating there
I put my hands to my ears
In silent noise
The rumble of muscle
My eyes dialate
My mouth is dry
Like im going to die
I wait in anticipation of silence
To wash over a million hearbeats
I close my eyes
But fades of blue so faint, so fucking faint as nothing
Is still something
Im my meditation of death
Death illudes me
And i will never see her coming.
Experimental Theater
Step one:
Pink, like perfume, is lightly applied. You may have a glint in your eye and see glitter everywhere. This is normal but you should still be concerned.
Step two:
It is very soft, like a cat you want to pet it constantly. This is normal and not bizzare, but it maybe wizard of you to tell everybody how you feel. That part is optional
Step three:
Stare into a mirror. Mirrors on top of mirrors please, so you let the green out. You can't really see the pink without a bit of green.
Step four:
With the frog in front of you, apply makeup liberally. That means addressing him or her with correct pronouns. If your frog uses any other genders, skip this step.
Step five:
Vore the frog. Do not hesitate, even if it tries to bargain with you. It is testing you. Alternativley if you have a bachelors in Biochemistry you may kiss the frog instead, but please ask permission first.
Step six:
Yell out your lungs in public. Exhume the frog from you. Congradulations on your Experimental Theater!
Transistince
Transistence is the resistence
Against the resistence to be trans
From outside and in my head
"Where the psychological
Becomes social"
As an old English professor used to say...
Are my layers just cake?
Vaccous calories of air and sugar?
Why do I yearn
To be a tasty pink cloud?
Dissappearing onto the horizon
Where a sunset masks the line between sky
And mountain
Psychological sky
And societal mountains
Buildings conceal the clouds
Light drowns out the stars
In total darkness
Vhsige
Waves, like eye worms float in my field of view, fixed on a point. The point is the image of a woman, every strand of hair its own entity of woman. Brushed perfectly, my feelings brushed perfectly, as I lie in bed I watch her hair fall over me, I feel it in my sleep when I dream and a million fingers grace my cheeks. Her gentle curve is an image, like an image on a curved screen so smooth it isnt real. Im depressed again. I do not love the woman but the lines, the static, the electricity between us. If i touched her she would shock me, make my heart stop beating. I don't know who she is and I'm afraid to find out. I want her image, to be her image, and let the humanity left slip away. Perhaps you may feel it one day on our tape, when you play the tape. When you hold a finger over the TV screen and feel that familiar fuzz you had forgotton. A memory you can't quite reach? That is my hand reaching out to touch yours, but never reaching.
Poetry talk: Lesbian never born
I thought id speak about my poem "lesbian never born", or rather the feelings that inspired it. Theres a lot of markers for my transition into a woman but it really feels like it begins on July 2023 when I started hormone replacement therapy. Since then I've changed a lot physically, but mentally I still carry a burden of being a man for 23 years of my life, and the shame instilled in me for my s3xual cravings. Anyone who becomes fixated on p***ography can probably tell you that shame becomes a part of the desire, a part of how you identify yourself. For me that shame is the shame of "he", the shame men often carry. It conflicts with the "she" that i feel i am, and cuts me off from woman, hence the cut of "she" into "he" in the poem. The metaphor of sifting sand is in part my recent fascination of the beach and a memory I have of the beach at Cape Cod (although I remember those beaches being more rocky in reality). I wanted something to capture that ethereal feeling of softness that woman seem to hold to me, and sand felt appropriate. Wind I often use in tandem with love, love that is sometimes cold, sometimes cool. Love for me is tinged with nostalgia, as is wind blowing through branches and sakara flowers. Revolutionary Girl has been a strange fixation for my yearning to be on some level a lesbian, my thoughts are blurred and the words arent really there, which is why i identify so much with the AMV for the anime on Youtube with the song "Winner Takes it All". It is the centerpiece of my poem as nostalgia is a huge crux of who i am, my life is repetitive as is my poetry. Or perhaps history doesn't repeat itself, but rhyme.
A Lesbian never born
So much for my love, i was cut off into
He cant be the she he wants to be
Estrogen gave him breasts, but not her
Chests full of milk and love soft soft All he wanted was to forget he was ever
Never a woman. He cries because he cant
Tell you all his male secrets. He loves
Every wave of femininity, that idea of
Sapphic love is fleeting sand he
Causes himself so much pain, he is so
Angry at what he was born to be, his
P**** envies the idea of being she, but
Eventually she might come through
Love Wind
I'm so afraid. I can hardly stand. My legs shiver, like im gonna pee blood. But nothing comes out, not even anything. The meds are surpressing what they are supposed to, i am not doing okay but im doing fine.
Im free.
Free to the world and to the winds of love, I fucking hate wearing underwear when i wear a dress. I fucking hate adult clothes, id rather have a blanket or a robe. I'd rather you just not look at me at all if you dont like me. I want you to worship me, and in turn ill give you everything i have left. Id kiss you but my mouth is so dry, spironolactone. Im spirling, i want to be null, i want you to act like you cant live without me and take me without me having to ask.
Id tell you I love you but im tone deaf, I cant hear my own thoughts over the depression and sadness. Just fuck it out of me. Make me regret taking you in my mouth. Make me atone for my sins and I'll call you daddy, because your my only daddy problem.
Black Tape
I saw her in my favorite film, locked away in locks of black tape, tied and spun unspun, she comes undone and back again.
She is a VHS tape, or the film on that tape, or perhaps the reel on the wheel, perhaps her heart the mysterious motor as equally unknown to me as the human heart.
Maybe she's her eye on the screen, magnetic gaze on a magnetic image, the magnitute of all those pixels buzzes like an earthquake far away...
I seek her in my memory but my memorys go by too fast, im rewinding the tape. I wear her memory as she wears me with her look, undressing whatever it is that makes me me so that she can be me.
I must see her in my dreams but i forget. I wake up on a pile of black tape, sometimes wishing she could tie me up in it. Tie me in knots and spin her web till im but a mummy, ready to sleep forever and never forget my dreams again...
Wal Mart
Sterile non places, lights and rows lights and rows lights and rows, rowing down the lazy river. But everything is still, so still I shop. My cart a mimic on wheels, its maw enough to consume all. Chaos is concealed, soon it is congealed in my cart. It mimics me, im not much different the way i wheel around and eat and buy, i buy you, i eat you, i eat buy, i get by. Im checking out these words but I stopped caring or listening this poem making minimum change, pocket change i collect them, a penny for my thoughts. I swipe a card, you check me out, i check you out. Did i swipe it, did i shop lift? I wanna lift this whole fucking shop into the sun. But i come out of sterile light to a gray sky, and the sun is nowhere in sight.
FEE6DA
Psycho drug
Synced up
Linked rush
Pink flush
Bought to fade away
Seasons go away
As i start to fade away
Words repeat and lose meaning
Bought to fade away
Seasons of Lain
Desaturate
Pink Peach Puff
In my memory decay
Like a shade, a screen
Buzzes
The Wired
Present Day.
Present time
To me differently
Where the past isnt so far away
Words like rock;
Fill out fossils of my soul.
Fill out the fossils
Of my fucking soul
Fossils like old computers.
Soul like the humm and buzz
Of a CRT TV.
Sounds like telephone poles.
Words carry
Over a billion telephone poles
Is my conciousness real
Or theirs?
My new picture. Variation on Van Gogh's painting "Starry Night".
Trasfigurazione Matematica by CelsiusDelta
My Mixed Media 41:
