The Plumbing Tree
 Adult Crawls
 Parrots of Erotic Island
 The Hearing of Linda Taylor
 Inside His Hat There is a Host
   Revenge Poem
        Poem Text
 Cloak of Earthly Objects
 Shy World
 We Are Lesion
 Im A Ballad


Feeling trapped? Become a porn star. Go on a killing spree, never regret the feeling of your first kill. Embrace a journey laden in cum. Ice skate on concave surfaces. Feel the feeling of falling. Montage your experience. In the hollow space between bones, you will discover a face. Bash her face in. Form a site and keep it moving. Use the resources around you to create an exception. Never need a state to tell you how to feel. Love your pretty nipples, and when they lose feeling send a needle through. I was late to my own party because I was frolicking amongst gypsy women. We got stuck in the wind and made a decision to kill. The state calls, my time has come; I will imprison myself in attempts to blend. Filicide women, terrorist women, ugly women: you are my home, my porosity- traveling through cell walls you can escape. Neo-Syria, black hole dynasty. Lady town, Lady Killers, Lay it down. Down Down Down back to the terrorist you go.

A disembodied, bellowing southern voice

America, YOU will be pleased in the body of one. There is a call and response to every anthem uttered by your sweetness.


3d animation: A male figure enters the girl’s bedroom. He walks through her room. There are loud clatters and a bang, the screen goes black, sounds of zippers and footsteps continue. The 3d animated male reappears in profile and begins his monologue.

Flashing clothes I’m a dashing boy
Trapped here
Pucker lips/fresh flesh
SlasHer pics

I hear my pain call out.
Exhibiting all the signs of a hot mess

Im a painer now I make precarious art, data cakes and heartaches. I know I don’t belong but I cant imagine myself gone, so I keep myself busy and anxious, uburping housewife scorn, refreshing her emptied form. Working when I feel like a naught: an out of focus group, a total fucked in wilting order tying twine to explain my slime. Did you see my ironic retainer to art hysterical loss, it’s a hand held flapping container of my self portrait exhaust. I feel anonymous when I look at it, like America chose me to make this and then I put you in address.

The Eagles spread just like they chose me. They’re wings wrap around my anthem. I dust that sauce like it never happened. I bust that sauce like it never happened. It’s cool, we’re not going to be friends, your going to have to body with your enemy and learn that tools are a trade to come with, a mirror image pawndering me

Like a zilch who has verse, I snitch on her purse,
An emblematic a touch tack: tucking her tout, passing it over heaving.
Posting pictures in a hazing heathen to name my own right.
Locket sounds, Locket sounds, Locket sounds,
Did you shave tonight?

Heathen me spitting you filthy bitch, stupor ass
You look good there,
I look good here
Breathing you to a deathly place
I pasted a picture of your last life, past life
You means nothing when I get a pass on your ass
I don’t feel the weather anymore,
That’s all you babe.

My home is here in the messy domestic
Cheetoh finger tips off
my marks my skid my scum my girl
my boo hoo collar crime
watch me
lay hands on far away bodies
a list of helicopter moms I’d like to fuck

I waannted Mary Alison but she said I cant touch
I remember this one time at school, I was like twelve and I had this thing when my teacher wiped the chalk
And I chucked and I chucked and I
And I blew it away

The artist steps on a soap box and declaims her poem.

Ms. Lawrence dropped from a cloud on Tuesday, in her bedroom with her eyes crossed horizontal.
Hey Jennifer how do you feel?
Hey Jennifer what do I look like?
Hey Jennifer were those hips really made in Ohio?

Apic. forms in the bathroom, by the mirror, with a flashlight
Apic. forms in the bedroom, by the mirror, with the harsh light On
Keep your heart light on, don’t care about me, move your desk over
To the corner where I can see you Lo-Fi

J Pegs Allison in a message
She can feel her feed in the message
It’s a victim gift, get the message?

It’s your evictim voice
This is what it sounds like when
*when when when* *when when when* *when when when* (said in an operator voice)
screech, roll over
The body haulways has ways to take the epic form
I brutalize x2

--Hey yo’ your market place is burning
Yours walls are falling
Im skin tight with that flesh you know
Looting that image like a scum sucking hostage

Its derogatory
You think Im water works, an insular body in search
Going public my shame
Is a mere rhyming game
See what happens when you make me your rhyme or die
When you hope to see your face in mine, have it.

Back Fire
Act Out:
A sexy data
Act In: A sexy data kill
Cop cop cop, ripped, reviewed. Her body as democracy

This is what This is what This is what
Her trafficking pants,
A black box poll dance,
Inspirational pause,
My sexy daddy cause,
Previously on view,
She finds terrorism

takes her pick

Panic image

Escapes into a cesspool of hatred and peer review
Finding her exposure trashcan can can can a dull silence
Can a bull hear
Can desire
Be a type of resistance when we Undress You?

A many tongued policy for the dead girl:

Lucky looking licking holes
Hey holes
Lucky looking
Creep create
Creep cremate
Creep with my creative partner
A slime ball metamorphosis
Rubbed sanded rasped hydra
Sanded rubbed rasped hydra

My dressing the echo in the room:
Lo fi JPEG lo fi fe x2

Her portrait re enters the home as a monster, haunting the self with a pixilated image of everything she cannot be.
There is something political about possession; in the erasure it could perform but also in the subject’s potential to withdraw.
Wild wearing womens wear we screaming
Where we screaming we screaming
three times fast
Where we screening my screaming

I should be a horror film.
He’s acting text as spirit
and Her peg up is silenced in a comedy where slapstick punches bruise the edge of all women’s bodies.

She’s your clown for democracy, a silly pretty image made into an emotional outlaw.

Goneing a girl is a gain Goneing a girl is a gain
Puckered lip warfare face
Goneing a girl is a gain
A pubic servant addressing the pain
Goneing a girl is a gain
Haunted pictures of nipples where a protest can take hold.


Looking at the stolen images on revenge porn feeds I feel a mixture of skin crawling disgust and confusion. I want to empathize with this boy, wrap my head around his motivation, turning his abuse into something substantial and greater than the senseless act, raising up it’s importance not as victim or perpetrator but as the forces that cast us in this technological projection.
Using his attire
I want to be that girl and turn her into my bio-warrior.
She’s A type of text that flows from one form into the other, exposing herself in open organs, catching the subject’s last breath in a stab sticky polyrhythm. My poem as radar, time machine, electrocardiogram, spiked to the beat tirelessly taught.

Saying a spirited text In stolen breath
An ether elegy
She is a pose for the pixilated strike
A hovering strip tease
Strip-search for the subject.

Am I the cyber rapist?

A performed polyvalent perversity is the drag I disclose myself in. I cannot fully enter or empathize, so I turn to text, a collection of failed performances that leave me in cyberdrag, dressing up with defile.

Becauase my girl knows how to feel. Because my girl knows how to feel. Because my girl knows how to feel. Because my girl knows how to feel. Because my girl knows how to feel. Because my girl knows how to feel.

Because I know how to feel. Because I know how to feel. Because I know how to feel. Because I know how to feel. Because I know how to feel.