14 Ways of Looking at a Blue Bird

literal haloperidol zombie,
“hod da door”
cause it’s literally falling off
and
you’re going to watch me n’ the nappy boys
run a train on my own dignity,
a wireless self-flagellation,
with death last in line holding his ghost penis.
sans(‘) shame.
you need not follow,
but you must witness.

in my latest wet dream, i imagined the scents
of brick and mortar RPG shops
i’ve never been in
after a good rain
a real rain
came
to
wash away all the filth.
it stunk like my pillow.
sweat, food,
abilified saliva
(ah, the sweet smell of science!)
the chemical straightjacket,
the fist of the North Star.
knowing you’re touched
and waiting for your head to explode.

every day i’m warwalking,
looking, searching, …ing,
for a network that doesn’t exist
yet, maybe ever,
to give me that sweet Strong connection
to let me upload my child pornography
without someone saying [Jurassic Park password screen noises],
or telling me that no pedophile nigger will like my shots of pink hairless pussy /
my mise en scene,
because the AVI metadata says “RippedByVulture001” instead of “RippedByABlackDude.”
endless misery,
mhm…
wonderful.

walkin’,
avoiding sheet rock,
table legs,
cold metal,
The Discourse,
electronic junk,
sharp glass
mice—
know your environment.
if breaking the dishes is what
Bilbo Baggins hates,
he would throw hands with me.
i would throw him into the next room,
follow through the hobbit-shaped hole,
flog him
and when Daddy comes running
say, “Nothing.
Just roleplaying.”

too fucking angry for furniture.
make the darkies stand.
does your establishment have any tables?
why no
i’m actually clicking retweet—
pit in stomach—
from the comfort of my bed,
laptop propped up by an erection,
a lust for powerful violence:
i wanna shoot something.
and in moments of silence
(RIP some firefighter xoxo)
i’m with myself
only.
stalking prey again.
elusive stuff
like confidence,
a real life,
empathy.
please just drop the comet.

in the best self-harm scenario
where LoL is on my desktop
and i’m feeling like ‘/mia
(gw: 250lbs)
i might just pound my dick for 45 minutes
(the hammer does most of the work, i just swing it)
after i spill my guts, cheese calzone, into the toilet
and on it,
a rare portion of my life
where i decide what the tide will bring.

“meaning, in every snowflake,”
says the blue bird
whomst lets the barcodes and checkmarks
scheherazade me with 280 characters—
as long as 279 of them are something other than white men—
that trigger fight or flight.
just one more night up late,
listening, what a man* does,
and granting one more stay of execution
for one more 24 hour news cycle
and hey, a shooting
while the grass and the attire
turn shades of exhausting.
tfw you glut on Zak S drama,
upchuck promotional tweets
that are a kind-of-fuck-you
in an anagram-of-your-first-D&D-character’s-backstory kind of way,
then wash your mouth out with fundamentalist tirades about Sharia law,
everybody doing what Dylan talked about.
oh, look, a rock… and another… and another!

internet scary hours.
Dick Cheney sneer on my face
while i question my gender,
ski-masked,
wielding enhanced interrogation techniques—
a tic’ing time bomb!—
saying,
“where were you on the night of
november 21st, 1984?”
“doubt me – I love that.”
(head underwater)
tried to build me an echo chamber,
but being a black identity-fascist is hard.
stand around a lot outside a cop station
shouting “FUCK WITH ME,”
but also
“I LOVE MILITARIZED POLICING”
while wearing a burqa.
i wish.

aww shucky ducky,
dance, jiggaboo,
all around that battle station
that goes from warp to a smear of pixels and blood
at the speed of a closed fist.
Martin Sheen’s hotel room jig
powered by the Apocalypse
now
do it again 364 more times.
the way is always the same
ever since the days of IPX sleepovers and
jaggy-edged blonde princes departed some windy night
and e-peens destined for jelqing increased in size by
orders of magnitude.
somewhere a web 2.0 genie
is out of his bottle, out of his pants
and
granting the subliminal wishes
of puppy-dog nosed thots
—case studies for the new physiognomy—
one ad click, two webcrawler google searches, and three
amazon purchases at a time.
now only mandarins can stop him.
that glow in the eyes,
the one seen on the face of a Santa Maria
deckhand,
that enchanted type o’ feeling
is just a cool logo now,
or some anime fag staring into a screen
with one hand on the grim trigger
(one fucking slip, edgewizard, and you’re more canceled
than Firefly);
call it “redistribution of magic.”