No-talent atrocities

No one need know my life -- batters -- my mind -- a mama.

I no one -- ba ma -- a whore sucks ass, my friend is my Mom.

I hate -- baba-- my Mom as my Mom.

Why be ba?  Why be a baba?

I ask you what is strong?

My mama is Mom

She won't feel better and I am desiring to give my Mom
A womanhood of my Mom.

I feel worse.  I ask you what is my Mom?

I didn't -- torturous tense burying -- ma --

I hated dreams; I hated a world.

The world is in me.  I have anxious and overwrought
Cruelties blocking my awareness of patience.

They feel like tendons or bands of elastic or outward-pressuring (somatic representations of thoughts)
in which are buried the angst and anger I have no idea is my mind and my mind belongs where I have Andrea (hope belongs to my Mom --WHY?  Do I project and feel these constant alterations in my consciousness keeping me  from awareness of a stability, a strength that I know is there underneath the turmoil that bothers me so.

I don't want to be expositorially descriptive.  I want to shriek, so according to the rules of Art of the 1950s, 1940s, 1930s, 1920s, 1960s, 1970s, back to the French "symbolists," to Artaud, Jarry, Rimbaud, to failure in my life, to coldness that had part of in my changes (to become "Juliaa") I will shriek.


I hate this crap.

I spill my words as they come to me even in their cross-interfering low, mean, cruel conflict in the fight to become aware of gentleness and hope:

Fuck nuts;; Fuck God.  Fuck pain.  I sought my mama.  I sought a friend.  i have no peace.  I have no peace.  What is this pain?  Why did I ask for body?  Why am I sore (angry, a Chelsea-speak) and why am I a fool?  I feel momentarily stupid and angry and cruel.  Don't describe, spew words on the screen, each word resting like a fragile, unbalanced, stone on the others, rocketing outward and upward into an unfortunate and uncomprehending, unreceptive oblivion.  Blah Blah.

No one bothers me.  I hate my Mom.  She won't believe me.  She won't ask me what is my life for?  I blame her as I always did for making me (the handles are poor.)  I confuse, concern, intimidate and drain her of energy.  Horrible.  Absolutely unjustifiable.  I cannot be here.  I am on double the anti-psychotic.  In no more than two years I will probably face the "institution" with nothing to sustaain me except my memories and maybe a book or two while I shriek in frustration and anger, mourning my useless, hated and hateful life!.  I was never so offensive and scary.  I was a gentle person.  WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?

I hate bothering my mother.  My mother is alive.  My mother believes in me.  I disappoint her (and myself) a hundred times a day.  Every day, the occasional feeling of kindness and affection slips into a absolute Andreaic reservoir or morass of chaos and cruelty bubbling within this useless consciousness I established as a means to love my hopes (peace, love and a papapapa/ baba/ mama family baba is mama.  ) I have to know I am not my mama.  I hate boundaries and they are what I need to remember are there, even for CHELSEA GOODWIN AND RUSTY moore.  Otherwise, they would welcome my volcanic instability, my crude and directionless stupidity into their lives.  I insult my self and denigraqte myself so no one will get there before me.  No one cares.  Most people would rather watch me sink into the morass of my attempt to be absolutely without aggression or hurtfulness of any kind; cheering on the disintegration or at least knowing that whatever need brings me to this is mine alone -- none of their fucking business or concern.

I didn't know bothering my mom would be cruel.  I don't know stupidity is the only thing I know is good.  Stupidity rules the world.  My stupidity, perhaps?  Brutality and hate are the motivators of all, the backlash of 500 years of European/"American" expansion.  I do not see why I have to choose to be a militant on any side of this disgusting explosion of bigoted and blustering sickness.  Sounds like a description of me.

I have righteousness.  I am angelic.  I am peaceful.  Some of you, particularly Marilyn Cambareri would dispute each assertion, bitterly and caustically until there was nothing here but a naked simulacrum of a cruel, distorted fetal entity.  The destruction didn't start with me.

Ho ho my money is my money.  My failures are not this kind of patience toward strength/string.  I am bomomo.  I am a baby's nut, drunken and african in my mind being wordy.

Soon it will be illegal or at least socially unacceptable for one such as me to use the word "African" with respect to myself.  There will be no tolerance, no room for maneuver, only the psychological and physiological disappearance of a useless, murderous carapace of the people's of Europe's desire for laughter, peace, answers.  The problem is that the later developers, the conquered, do not believe in "answers."  They wish only for a communication that proceeds from a peaceful papa.  manana.  I think this peacefulness is possible.  Unfortunately, the rending of the beauties of European "civilization" will die/coerced and disintegrating/ for the centuries, for the millennia.  This is already an ancient world facing its death.  Transformation will be utter dissolution; life will go on without any understanding beyond the immediate.  I know my mind is a way to act peacefully.  I wish that what I know of "law" and cruelty were encouraging:  they are not.  Example:  a poem in tribute to Amiri Baraka saying that the writer needed to save the white man by kicking the law out of his teeth.  This is the kind of thing I don't think I have to welcome.

What am I saying?  I have no love for my passions.  They disappear with the influence of the anti-psychotic.  Nothing is spewing as gently rocketing stones and spears and missiles of words that have no relation to each other but the asshole desperately and angrily shaking off the cruelties with which "she" is bound.

I have no body.  I have no drinking.  I have no thought.  I have no being.  I have no alliances.  I have no peace.  Body is my mind.  Thought is my sex/reason/tree.  The fundamentals, the instability is glued together in this medical substitute for human self-reconstruction.  The humanity will die.  All that will be left will be the glue.

Why baba? Why baba?  i baba.  I have no baba.  What is a mama?

I hate my mama; I love her as my mama.  She is beautiful and gentle.  Yet I hate her misunderstandings, her lack of ability to grasp what is outside the ken of the Mother.  What is my life?  What possibilities are still alive?
es on.
No one will say.

I must make my own life without a place to go, with no defenses, with no understanding of this cruel and foolish time/place.

Bobo.  Momo.  I fucked up because I wanted home.  Now home surrounds me with comfort and consoling peace,, but it does not give me a way to life/baloney/mama/ drugs are dumb.

Poesy is meant to say a baba.  is meant to be God to its own sickness.

That is a hateful sickness without money or love.

I hate my mama for mamama.  She loves me.  I need that.  I return it sometimes.  Everytime it seems it will be enough, then daily the scaaffolding of mutuality falls apart, like a badly built, unsecured edifice of metal/plastic/stone heaped in a desert dust storm.  Blah, blah.  Misspoken and banal.

Worship is a way to live if you have words that mean peace.  Ai yeah.  Another hope is nothingness.

I have to listen for strong people.  Chaos is deadly.  So is life.  So is cruelty.  Life is not death.  Life goes on.  Life is vitality, presence, hope, the eternity of love in every moment.  Medicine muffles the presence of Love.  If someone really wants me to heal they'll put me in a place of meditation and peace, not leave my life in my hands where i see only wanger baba a mama, a child, a drunkenness, a dislocation, a painful bringing of loss and ashes.

Sylvia's ashes were home.  That is how deep and stupidly "disintegral" my self-awarness has become/descended.

I loved my Mom for making my mama a woman.

I am my mama.  I realized that during the torturous turmoil of my coming-into-being in the days of my pre-Bellevue dispensation, dying at the hands of nasty pagan poems.  These are all that I have to hope for:  that what I thought was my destruction will bring hope and peace.

What do you think?  I know you won't tell me.

Or mama o dada, o mamama.  I feel worse in this death-dealing analysis of self, this denial of the profusion that is everywhere.

I have joy.  I just want a whore that makes me hassle  anchors with pagan anonymity.

Chelsea is always three steps ahead of me.  I caannot turn to her.  No one else will ever have a clue where my consciousness has brought me.  No one will ever believe my strength.  Loving yourself brings peace.  That is the secret i have suppressed.

Who are your lies and pagan hopes?  What are you?  What is a God?  What belongs to me and what is strong?  Is there peace?  The very words by which I portray my mind seem treacherous.  I must suspect them as the police-orc despises the hobbit.  What bothers me is this pagan naturism.  I want to cling to its peacefulness, but it fades:  magic is the target of medication

If I stop medicating myself, I will be dead in six months.

I have no -- another andrea -- mama is my mama -- a mama is wise -- not --WHAT IS WOMAN?  I HAVE LOST CONTACT WITH MYSELF!   DESTRUCTIVE GLUE OF RATIONAL DISCOURSE!  WHERE IS THE GODDESS WITHIN?  I LOVE HER.  I HAVE NO PEACE WITHOUT HER.  I LIVE FOR THIS.  I A M A WOMAN BECAUSE I NEED DREAMS; I NEED A (SHOUTING TO GET OUT SOME WORD, SOME INDIRECT INDICATION OF MY LIFE) LANGUAGE THAT MAKES STRENGTH ANOTHER BA RAGAN DENIES IT.  I AM NOT MY MAMA.  I WISH MY MAMA WAS MY MAMA .  I AM LOSING TOUCH.  WHAT IS THIS PLACE? I HAVE MY MAMA! WHY BELIEVE?  ALIVE!  I AM ALIVE!