Vaporsnatch fingersprawl

spared the souls of four-year-olds who wanted

• so badly 
• just to be lifted once again

and the acute feeling of hurt and PO’d subsides to a low simmer;

a chill runs through the tendons in my fingers.

it’s like; am i that embarrassing?

am i a gross liability? simply can’t be managed?

i’m a loose cannon, tops. a rebel who forgot her cause.

i’m not that bad. 

i had to stretch out my kinks last night before i slept. for a good hour or two, i slowly decompressed every demon’s whiteknuckled fist from my air-thin back… slowly becoming →earth →paper →linen →bread(from solid granite)

there’s a method to it, a touchless deep tissue massage.

it isn’t hard, really. just requires a hell of a lot of focus and a bit of purp in the brain doesn’t hurt.

simply; it’s a method of pulling and tugging the muscles into painful contortions (in my case i scarcely had to move) and then breathing into it! it’s that simple! as i breathe, i pinpoint the muscle in my mind’s eye, and focus on the pain of that muscle. once i am aware of where it lies in my body, i can flex it, pushing the pain and pressure up and up, and when i BREATHE into it———- the muscle decompresses—-breathes—-lies flat

ah.

my knobs become layers, and i can sleep tonight.

But it fells like mollusks’ tusks

propped, improperly; perched

lil’ pigeon

i sit

at home, mostly.

i take in way too many breaths

i’m exhausted.

worn up watered down used

cheaphealthytra$h

seeking affention

@ your nearest Chik-fil-A

21/F/USA ★ ☆ ★ ☆ ★ ☆ ★ ☆ ★ ========————_______

my tongue splayed nakedly across the room

so scathing

serpent’s lungs ‘scaped

                                    shake my core

                                                        a

                                                        f

                                                        f

                                                        e

                                                        n

                                                        t

                                                        i

                                                        o

                                                        n

                                                        s

                                                        e

                                                        e

                                                        k

                                                        i

                                                        n

                                                        g

                                                        w

                                                        h

                                                        o

                                                        r

                                                        ebb/flow

                                                                                                           }

my roommate is next to me playing with an unlit lite-brite-like unit of knobs and inputs, something i’ve no clue the name of, playing from an old box of a boobtube. at one point, his sounds cause my head bob up from beneath my vaio.

                         “it’s self-oscillating!”, my other roommate, craig pipes. his smile is wide and directed my way.

                         “i have no idea what that means,” i reply. i don’t.

          i look down

                         |

                         “he’s not touching anything,”.

                                                          -breath-

                                                               .  |

sure enough, the repetitive yet inconsistent vocals of the tv’s speakers -

It’s completely self-perpetuating. and yet, each burst of sound is slightly estranged from it’s immediate successor - the sound evolves.

there is a heartbeat to the noise, with pause and vigor.     \+/pause/vigor/pause\+/

   We discuss how it’s as if the impulses of sound were bum rushing the circuitboard, competing for an open spot in the air. They loop, at arrhythmic rates, positively flooding the mixer with frequencies. Often- cyclically even -they cancel each other out; seeming silence fills the wavefield. I think of how it can be likened to a throng of competitors in any field;

-iPaint

-iDesign

-i’veStripped

all very cutthroat businesses where gimmick and trickery are weighted as heavily as aesthetic and talent.

& yet here’s NetArt, and my roommate tells me to do what iFeel.

k