Content Warning: discussion of mental illness and suicidal ideation


Park dark dark park     Park dark dark stone of the head: stone heading crown of my cranium

Park dark card shark suits central park in the dark     Risk dark – always risk – risk fool juggled fool park dam precipice (dark ben hinnom precipitation – participating rain runoff dark body ugly)     (risk park dark ugly – even ugly in the dark)

Any truly new art seems ugly at first / risk persistently ugly and perpetually ugly and ugly ungulates umbra – my face the shadow knows

Drowned park dark porno drone     Drown drone dark park porno grooves / drone porn rocks is less than legs     (My body – budding rod skull – blossom volcanic shields drones round park circles and the park drives circles around downtown.  My body buds my body pornographies play away hums and drones and bomb blasts of the body.  Bodies in general drone an erotic horror almost as kelp forest gods.  My body buds ugly – legs breast buttocks – hard stones and tumors.  Tumors tighten and constrict my body around dark joints – pits which double as pornographic peep shows.)  Drowned dark park plays pork peak skulls     Drone climbs my skull jacob’s ladder and shekinah on the eight rung of circumcision

Drone porn rocks is legs is breath     Drone porn dune dark park sharks fucking     Dark dark fucks erotic horror (The virgins sacrifice to the gods of a ghastly galaxy   The Terrornauts)     Drone something else – something risk new ugly the bare beware vulnerable


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Melancholy becomes a pornography and I exploit my depressive episodes for creativity (or sublimation?)

I disappear from the face of god and his face of the deep.  My melancholy exploits and I hope I die.  I hope that I die (I hope our few remaining friends give up on trying to save us).  I wave and work to die and I never die but to die delivers difficult perpetual motion machine clutch crutch ben body.  I think always a death and my death turns sideways and orthogonal death, and I ascend into death kingdom of the skies.  I hope I die difficult drone dune pornos hidden in sand cats, and how difficult death scavenges (In my life I hope I lie and tell everyone you were a good wife and I hope you die I hope we both die).

What does a poem about death and suicide look like?  What does this poem look like – what does this poem die to itself die – what does this poem bodily death and ego death – why does death go for poetics and theopoetics – a poem that destroys itself in suicide.  What does this poem cook like?  Death poem – I want to write a death poem before I die – bad poetry but true to myself – risk ugly and ugly (I’m going to make it through this year if it kills me).

Death demands an ugly body – body bruises ruse detective stories – bullies through the back of the head or through the jaw – my jaw falls off from licking radium brushes.  Death demands death additive death and multiplying death, and how strange the ears and hard canals death (the most remarkable thing about thing about you standing in the doorway is that it’s you and you’re standing in the doorway).  My death is but a doorway – I will be back.  My death jams drop-tuning doorways, and remarkable doorways and door drones porno ugly ben mangled bodies.

If I stopped existing in your life, you’d live on and continue living and doing life things and becoming a better Asia, but you also wouldn’t be the same, I say.  That’s true for just about everyone, says Asia.  That doesn’t give your life any less value.  We would want our loved ones to keep going, finding beauty and making beauty, says Asia.  Do you mean everyone experiences this with relationships in their life, or do you mean this is true with you with everyone in your life?  I think a lot of people experience it, yes, says Asia, but what I mean is that everyone learns to keep living when they lose someone.  That people in your life still keep living their lives doesn’t say anything about your value as a person, says Asia.  I would like to explain where this thought came from, I say.  Christina has been going through a hard time.  Yesterday an event happened that broke the camel’s back and she experienced severe suicidal ideation.  She alluded to us doing a suicide pact and in that moment I realized something odd for me.  I thought I could never live without Christina ever.  This is what I wrote her:
It could be I could make a suicide pact with you.  Today is probably not the day though.  I feel today I have much prophesying and creating to do and I cannot die yet.  […] I would probably unfortunately live without you.  I would write and prophesy my grief and even in death you’ll affect me as you did in life […] I wouldn’t be able to follow you if you did give up but I will take it into my body and make it into something else…
She is safe currently.  I felt sad I didn’t want to give up with her.  I felt I betrayed her a little.  I couldn’t go gentle into that good night.  I know that might sound silly to you but it’s a big revelation to me.  Her death would become a part of my living instead.  That’s how I imagine you’d feel.  My death would become part of your living.  You’d turn my death into something else in your life, transform it.  Your living would mean you valued me because you’d take me wherever you went, I say.  I’m so happy to hear you say this, says Asia.  I’m also sorry that Christina is going through a tough time; that is an important revelation despite the circumstance, she says.

Do you think it.  Failure do you think.  Do you think death unrest death.  Death determinism (superdetermined deconstruction).  Death do you think if you mean you’d want me living.  Do you think it I’m so happy to give on any less valued yeah you right.

The most remarkable thing about you standing in the doorway is that it’s you and you’re standing in the doorway (But when you are a young writer, boys get this idea that to really… to really show a woman the depth and purity of your love, what you have to do is something drastic and stupid, right?  And uh.. and young writers think it would be really intense to have a guy, uh, always harm himself real bad, and y’know, and tell stories.  So well I was a young writer once and here’s a story about a guy who travels someplace with a gun.)

I still think myself a young writer – I still think myself young and immature, and I only experience BIG emotions and INTENSE emotions and I travel somewhere any woman and the woman stands in the doorway (the most remarkable thing about you standing in the doorway because it’s you and you’re standing in the doorway)

I hope I die in desert – supernal desert and supernatural desert and my man bodies entirely death-desert.  I hope die door nor story living else in you in you also something and conversations a death poet look like – a third of the stars go out.  Out out bodies and the stars go out out.  Side slice bodies tennis court oaths what am I doing here – it’s all desert.  What am I doing continuously smoking stars (watching X-Files with no lights on).

My melancholy becomes a pornography and I exploit my depressive episodes prophesy death eschaton eschaton desert
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Park dark drone porno / dark gonzo journalism     Drone porn minotaur horns your writing world write and she experiments to be OK or not she     (She alludes drone horn morning not she alluded to is legs is breast)

(Your life world becoming I’m so happened that: that what death dune park park sharks fucking)

I live dark and park droned death death desert death poem central park in the dark (park dark undetonated explosives)

I live central park in the dark and death contaminates everything.  Death connects to everything and death follows everything.