“MALES DO JUST PLAIN STUPID THINGS WHEN THEY ARE BORED SOMETIMES”
f.y.i. existence fucking sucks.
your curves aren’t soft they are adamant
like embarrassing drunks
you can’t shake
sharp or tense i refuse
to go dancing alone ever again every night
i yell that at myself
like to an obstinate shit
she wants to lash out towards
plans are coward excuses
dribbling years into existence
behind you with your head
down too scared to look back
at your trail left like oil dripping
from the bottom of some rust bucket
glance back when at the red
and where you slowed to stop
is where the drops got thicker and closer
together into a thick combustible line of slippery
and concentrated fumes to choke certain cyclists who
in fantasies try to break into your house and you
empty a bottle of bear spray up their noses, universal sign
of breath stopping, he is dead you call the police, innocent,
obviously, they are sympathetic of your possessions
you didn’t get manslaughter, once, you thought it was excessive
once, you thought truckers were interesting, they have
time to think “pumping gasoline is dystopian blood”
but your eyes stretched that idea out of view,
a leather-upholstered cab stripped of relief by heavy overtones
or ac/dc playing so loud on the stereo drown out even
obnoxious buzz of idle. mind so slow fogging up cooler
of redbull, midnight trucker says you are not allowed to sleep
this one isn’t a joke either but it is a metaphor
for most things that are loud and dripping
vines ate my bicycle
some ghost weight: my job
my sobriety brutal. lee slashed bi
response, ability, shivering quiet on that straw bale
in that part. tea
if you are a trans. are sexual
if you are a fail. your. a fail.
unless you are. a fame is.
the only motive: die. erection
die or wreck. scrape.
slash with care and tend. or miss.
slash slow with tenderness.
cut open like you are stitching up.
*sound of breaking retina*
all art is fuelled. no bi
cycles of fuel. gas tanks are.
not transparent. solid steal. urge to die.
all art is fuelled masculine.
no but do you understand that isn’t art
it is bored puke
jack-off. all trades
some days your retinas disguised. four.
protection, fun costume, sanity moisture
all of the above.
some days your eyes harbour.
too many ships and suspicions.
drown them so i can’t explore.
some days all eyes are pry. bars.
looking away is exposing belly
*sound of breaking retina*
all art is fuelled buy us govern
ment cia, the academy,
a trinity pyramid love-triangle scheme,
bullshit post-modern tag lines like modern.
art is death wishes and that illuminate(i) is (am)
grim post-reality ‘make a wish foundation’ for suicides
I’M A NON-LINEAR MULTI-DIMENSIONAL GENDER-FLUID ECO-SEXUAL NEW-SOUL WILD-WOLF IN TUNE WITH MAGIC
skin is not a “present” surface.
a non-linear, bungled narratives,
towards the past or “what should have been”
a willingness to submit to the knife
Brassard concluding our narratives via time machine
back to a new concrete history,
a hippie trajectory. an ouroboros
an endless dawning of ego
circles around and around
eating herself out
now my skin is open like book covers for you
you are space, i am an ageless confused teenager,
stunted by temporal occurrences so i am impervious to sequential changes
i am that man from the movie trailer who keeps showing up
as different ages, haunting a linear narrative
but we are both spaces immune to habitation.
timelines are hegemonic constructions, they are bullshit
liberation is, we cut our time into skin,
now our skin breathes when it is touched.
re-inhabit me while my unstable borders shift, re-inhabit me again.
again and again and again
Janis Maudlin is a poet and noise/punk musician living in Winnipeg. She wrote half of the poetry split zine I don’t think anything is supposed to fit…/maybe this is like a car commercial…, released in October 2014, and is self-releasing her first chapbook Hap Hap Ha! In March 2015. Some of her poems are going to be included in the upcoming CV2 anthology Poetry Lives Here.