My Arms Outstretched

Un

Like my hearts beating there

I put my hands to my ears

In silent noise

The rumble of muscle

My eyes dialate

My mouth is dry

Like im going to die

I wait in anticipation of silence

To wash over a million hearbeats

I close my eyes

But fades of blue so faint, so fucking faint as nothing

Is still something

Im my meditation of death

Death illudes me

And i will never see her coming.

STAR WARS: Still Breathing (WIP)

"I mean, they say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time."

-Banksy

I

The planet Skiisen. A planet of lost dreams of the force. Astral projections of a giant long dead, its head floating in space. It is a fossil, the force filled with an endless sky of plant matter. Twisting vines slither like fingers up bedsheets.

She loves you.

She has guided your starship here, an ancient relic, a T-65B X-wing Starfighter.

This is your last checkpoint of the day. Lost deep inside this gaseous planet is an old Star Destroyer, converted into a home by mystics. Its a popular destination for explorers in the outer rim in an otherwise deadzone between more populated solar systems. Your hoping to meet one of them to learn more about the local inhabitants and creatures that dwell here...

"...Soulakite yeah. Their a uh sort of kudzu being. They are said to be very spirtual beings by the people here. I think they would have been driven out by now otherwise. Supposedly the do have a conciousness much like any other intelligent being. The thing is they take years and years to do even the simplest things. Days to speak a single sentence."

"Days?"

"Yeah. Maybe its just how they function. Personally I never stuck around to listen to them. But that's what you were reminding me of talking about "the force". So maybe if you were patient enough to listen to them you might learn something about it."

Hetero, feather her thou

It's okay, I love you straight boy

You only love a woman that you love

That was always a woman

Cis woman love

It's okay its okay its okay

I love your distracted gaze

When you look away

I can admire your face

Its okay its okay its okay

Dnd roleplay

Erotic roleplay

Still fair game

With the bois I am though boy i am not

I love teasin the boys

Aint so stone cold frozen

When we play you

See me as I see me

So what if im a hoe then

Its okay its okay its okay

Dreamin about your hand

Caressin my face

Like you dont know I was a boy

Just know me as one of the bois

A gurl you wanna whisk away

Its okay its okay

Love you bae <3

Quiet sadness

I cant ...

Wind is out of me

Love is a sucker punch

That kills me

Realms of Fantasy

I often lie awake wondering about the time spent escaping. Embodying views of another mind as my life is consumed in fiction. I inevitably wonder whether I am real at all, surrounding my supposedly real life in fantasy and feeling more connected to the dream...maybe I'd prefer things not be real? Even the reality of carnal instinct is intertwined with fetishes bordering on dreams...furry ferocity only emboldened inside my own heart.

I toil and toll, i till my soul until the words come out as such. In this lost lullaby of words I feel more real then reality. Though I have the desire to break free, like many like me I am too socially anxious, disabled, perhaps both, to properly propel my truest self. Besides poetry I am behind...I yearn for a behind worthy of carnal worship...a gaze of its own, like eyes of its own, undressing me as I undress it.

I've been a furry officially for about 10 years now, but the pieces, as unnamable and esoteric as they may be, have always been there. Even something as simple as yearning for a childhood bear, before memories were formed.

(This is a planned opening exerpt for my furry zine "Zoomies". I'm still in the process of looking for local writers and artists but when I have something solid ill post images)

What an icon of an essayist

how is it mario day and no one posted the essay

Remember kids: Blowing up the Death Star was seen as, and is, a based thing to do.

Killing Emperor Palpatine was based

Look what happened to Anakin for letting a man live to "stand trial" when he was clearly and obviously evil.

I live to see evil eradicated, sometimes it is that simple.

Analysis:

The first few lines about science and untroubled silence puts me in the headspace of the learned astronomer. I appreciate how small of a moment this poem tries to capture, and how that is emcapsulated by the subject of the poem a snowflake (though the word is unused in the poem). Perhaps the exclusion of the word snowflake or any such name for the object of focus has some relation to the final line, which deals in form as a "...perfect individual shape is lost".

A perfect individual shape being lost in the mass of complexity, which on the surface appears simple as snow often does. Thats whats so perplexing about nature, makes me want to stare at it for long periods of time.

Its somewhat melancholic that something as perfectly indivual as a snowflake is lost in frost, yet still when one looks at fresh frost it is beautiful. This touches my gothic sensibilities as someone whose come to see beautiful in the misery of a quiet untroubled life (perhaps thats hard to explain to most people but maybe poets will understand that).

A perfect individual shape being lost in its collective also put me in mind of platonic forms (ie what is a chair?) Perhaps something as seemingly simple as snow is really quite inexplicable when you view it in its totality of snowflakes, such is humanity in the context of humans. I find such truths overwhelming and depressing particularly in cold winter months.

Snow is suffocating with this reminder yet it is also an escape, as it is profound.

(Reblogged with permission from author)

They crystallize in untroubled silence In this early pause, it's a quiet science When you look up Standing so perfectly still No movement but your Breath billowing up towards the sky One catches your eye Before weaving slowly to the ground Before joining the others in the frost You don't make a sound As its perfect, individual shape is lost

Terror.

Blur on a black screen not blank

As if electricity still itches

Under its glass skin

A glossy glimpse of my eyes

I long for a longer time

As I look into my own eyes

I see the wires

Vessels of blood and butchery

Bathing in that black

They anticipate a world beyond my own

When I let go of my life

Joanna Klink, from her poetry collection The Nightfields: Poems; "Almanac,"