CPV

cheryllayne @ 1:08am: I'm developing a bad late-night cheese habit.

cheryllayne @ 3:52am: I can't sleep.

cheryllayne @ 10:21pm: What sucks is being depressed with a refrigerator full of tempting beers and a body full of infection a.k.a. a strict disciplinarian making you sit in the corner and not drink beer.

cheryllayne @ 9:30pm: thirty
In "celebration" of thirty long years of hating myself,
I resolve,
or whatever,
to write shamelessly and fearlessly and without a fuck to give,
and this in the year that an informed (a reliable) source said to me,
"And you will never make poetry your bitch."

(What I'm saying is, he was right, and by mentioning it I'm also saying

With what style! I will fail to prove otherwise)

Thirty years
On perverted earth,
Or birthed by my mother,
Or splattered across the cement,
I went
and came
and went
and didn't do all that much of anything,
as I'm sure that for the next thirty years I
won't do all that much of anything,
and I didn't learn
all that much of anything.

I look back
On a long, largely unmemorable life,
and wonder what percentage of that time was spent
either feeling sorry for myself or making it easy for
other people to feel sorry for me.
Besides that, I can't think of much summary besides
(CENSORED),
And what does that say about me?
Except I'm insecure and crave attention
And tote around a lot of amplified emptiness

My kidneys popped
the cork of a champagne they call
oxycodone and auld lang syned for awhile,
with some streamers and a self-pity headache,
before swallowing

And who gives a god damn about editing.
I can't stress enough how much of a joykill it has been
for the past eight years or so
knowing that 99% of the drivel I drivel isn't worth the energy it takes to press the buttons on the keyboard,
and any snooty literatus would find maybe one good line
in six pages of my penned performance,
my weak stage and set of a one-woman show
in which I'm hardly propping myself up.

people only read the work of a hack
they want to shack up with,
and that's factual, it's apparent
by the end of the first act
(I mean, it takes much less time than that
to understand she's just hacking,
but the author herself spent a good few years
thinking her one or two absorbed readers maybe wanted to shack up with her language
and not her. but let's let bygones be bygones.)

Percocet, dear,
where's the remote?
reach up into my unsolvable tired mindfuck
and turn on the television,
something really numbing, please,
and while you're up there would you mind slaughtering all my brainchildren?
I tried my best to abort them like I did the ones in my uterus,
but you can't pay $400 and get that done at the Carolina Center for Women.

Confidence, C. Braden,
That's what you need,
A belief that your words and thoughts and deeds are worthwhile.
You can construct clever things,
you can,
if you can manage to refrain from preemptively deconstructing them long enough to believe your own two hands.
You've been operating on praise for far too long,
which means you've hardly been operational, because you definitely don't get enough praise to sustain you,
not like you used to,
but everyone praises children.

I kicked a little godling
with a 50-cent toy crane
and I whispered to the godling
something whimperingly maudlin
and in the mawkish pause that followed
the wee godlet, gee,
guffawed at me and
hollowed out the whole negation of the universe
with some sickening nectar of
sweet agitation
with the American Atheists and me.

Godling! God Feeling! I will you to wee.
A sterile piss substance,
The gildedest of showers, the giltest of waste
of your that-being powers, and,
frowning down into your phallus for hours,
when-it unyielding the volume of trickle
you'd expected to falling-from-you see,
admit sentimentally some admissionary thing
that will make me feel I have overpowered you
(in proving to you that the glue
that holds your vain Hope together
is a cheap universalist apoxy that
has proven unresilient when eroded
by postmodernism and the two-of-spades
trumping power of vanity).

So there. So what.
I suppose I always thought
there'd be some additional lesson -
to be revealed by age and wisdom -
beyond my mother's initial and repeated
"Life isn't fair."

But that's it, and that's all,
It was just a bit confusing
Being born on a Monday,
somewhat pretty,

And being coddled by my elders into thinking
I was worth something.

cheryllayne @ 8:52pm: I support the mixing of metaphors in certain circles.

cheryllayne @ 12:26am: Woken with an understatement would be a start.
For the light-hearted, for the light-hearted
For the dimly light of Living Through
of Having Lived Through
with all its unexpected
headcases, courtcases, uppercases,
its removable with teeth or pliers faceplate
pried off by a number of misincorporated asides
next to dead-end multi-colored wires either fried or not utilized by this unequipped edition
with its words fall like cheap and tiny vacuumable scraps
inappropriately not at all shaped by their originating brainwater.

Evenings of the hold your wist, your sigh, into this barleywine night, you've never drunk it,
were no setup for the realer, the rarer nostalgia felt by us the broken.
Squawking two tones into our locally grown natural theology,
split tones into the openness of a sensory-deprived
cosmological anomaly the collapsing universe
burst by its eardrums bent by its joints snapped by its similarity
to the fingers of others many of whom
strike outward and lonely into the thriller dark expanse of manliness
aggression
with a mind to personal universe expansion to fill already full corners
with cum but we grow speechy here, in a glitch of crossed wires,
a jaw-jerk, a simulacrum of everything's a perversion even before it started being

a thing I think about often
in the sped up or slowed down of a day's worth of footsteps from room to room and task to task
with a clarity paling whatever the facts are or whatever fear-explaining summary of events could never do them justice
where in ten years the feeling a throat constricted gazing over the Christmas turducken
in five minutes remembering six hands grabbing bare legs and panties
hour upon hour repeating a cold shiver of disgust at what can't be purged from
the brain's myelinated amber samples, the dickensian dwarf star
that is the self downtrodden, pukingly tortured by
the never-dying voices,
rattling around in the white and gray matter,
of not one not four something like eight attackers all granted
by the fates a voicebox for producing perpetual sounds
with which to pursue my escapee memories on behalf of the furies.

laughable inquest into the what is it innocent cavorting
of a drunken sailor aside and replaced by the investigations
of the genuinely sympathetic still fails to locate a trace
arche-writing included
or for that matter anything but a deeply foundational metaphysics
the metaphysics of centuries of saints and rapists.
the devastatingly altered might say
there's nothing worse than a permanent tattoo you have to look at
that's in plain view with neither mirrors nor periscopes to assist in the seeing.
but in the grand scheme of things isn't it pretty to know you are the original breach that creates language,
really an unfortunate test-dummy or guinea pig crushed under the wheels of an ever-evolving natural justice.

cheryllayne @ 6:57pm: calamity jane
my friends page is empty.
dead dead dead livejournal.

Everything I imagine happens.