junk (2025)

pseudoclit. thing. ur junk and my junk,
unsorted piles of flesh.
like torn open electric bill envelopes, or
old dvds wrapped in brittle plastic.

to over cum death is easy cause its arbitrary
through the white light & white heat
of annihilation, adderall, or cum; regardless, it all makes my heart pound too much.




the sound of one million gold coins falling from the sky (01-25-26)

existing only in the haze of glitchy image, my watermarked womb laid bare;
dragging a finger along areola skin which exists only between the eternal bars [OBELISKS, 4:3].
its not touch, its an unfulfillable cybernetic desire,
skin squares glowing in the dark slipping post-verbal two-to-four letter seductions.
looking, into, now.
facelessness, essencelessness,
pining for hypothetical expulsions.
i am needed only as a temporary specter, naked and splayed,
hastily obliterated by the closing of a window.