let me situate myself. get my bearings of the day

grass grows
steel bends
memories dip
uteruses explode
friends sneeze 6 times a minute
flavors good
mood set
i write on my phone waiting for my therapist to return from taking a SHIT


me and my very best friend want to be disney kids. star in a pretty disney sitcom, where were both rich and always happy, everyones always pretty, where were always at the center of everything, going on wacky rich kid adventures together. my friend you could say a highly admirable detached pixar kid who has secretly read all of deleuze & guattari and nick land and understands all of what they're all saying in the screenwriting for each show. im just really emo, really fucked up, really messy. we think were the perfect duo. a few of our friends think so too. made for stardom. made for exploitative merchandise. made to be mickey mice. i think about the one musical show with the zombies. you know, the ones where the zombies are just normal disney kids, except with green skin? i hypothesize that i could recieve this treatment. the dream is real. so is our audition.

my friend is tangibly interesting, i probably am too, on a scale of not at all to quite a lot more than my friend, but with no real solid pinned down place. i come shuffling into the disney lot in broken shoes, a greasy face left over from my previous meal, and the same clothes ive worn since 2018. my friend comes in fresh as fuck. like a living ice cream cone. i dont say a word. my friend presents themselves as easily able to fit in to other stereotypical disney kids, and then breaking away to make sure my character recieves positive attention. my only action ever is a hug. im otherwise motionless, statuesque, grimly and staticly destitute in the sunshine world of far too much money and pressure from behind the scenes grooming and abuse. not even dan schnieder would fuck with me.

were both pretty adamant that were both the next big thing. our dream is real. so is your eventual answer of yes, we will develop this. well pay anything. i can read like a book the mind of one executive. i suggest sardonically the series title that hes just thought of, what feels like a fairly obvious winner: _When Hitler Met Sally_. this is received in a way. this is most loudly recieved in a way by the man who concieved it, like i had just caught him urinating directly into the drain on the bathroom floor, his most favorite fantasy. all of them look like theyve seen a ghost, and they have. but more specifically, they look like they saw the first poor kid theyve ever seen in their life.

Her name is Bethyl Hammer. She’s tired.

our visions dont match. their obvious loss. our obvious future gain. forced back underground but lucky in a sense. everyone knows this is where vulnerabilities live.
the roots of their bearings of jewels from shells of murdered gasping fruit
the pipes to their pieces
the wires to their sun
the treacle to their ink marrow
which now trickles out
as threads of a sweater
blinds of a curtain
the blood of apocalypse
the unveiling of secrets
a wound that keeps pumping
tearing an inch further open
each pulse the ink paints
washes clean an old painting
a synesthetic Beardsley with the cum of Wain
and nurturing warmth of georgiana houghton
here is where you collapsed me inside my bed
and whispered the assignment that would define a new regency
where we get led right to the beating hearts of lonely aching needy sources
to Destroy.....and make......joy.