enli·gital·ment

in a society where the butter on its citizens’ bread equates to liquid money, we can only ask ourselves how long our fitbits should tick until it calculates for us the km’s it’s gonna cost us to find enlightenment.

and isn’t that what we all crave for, enlightenment?

in light of recent events, this does not seem to be the case.

we have women who hustle harder than ever, only to find the power they achieve and exert unto others are the same as the men in suits with wired sockets blowing up when a business deal fails, when it becomes a game of prey and predator, when the lemons of life cannot be squeezed into liquid form, but lest we forget your queen b lemonade stand can always benefit from a developer programming an e commerce store for you,

because with paypal and stripe we can transfer liquid money as easy as liquid honey. because the issue of money isn’t an issue in our society today, because we thrive on digital money, where the bread and butter for our oh so beloved selves and, if lucky enough, maybe even for those who demonstrate all the unconditional love in the world to you, because that’s when you know it’s real.

where does one run to when a person you have given shelter to skins you alive, salt n’ pepper-sprays you into the rain,

what do you do when he throws you into the pit of your lemonade stand?

acidity burns, let me tell you, pit of the lemonade stand, pit of the fire, pit of the fucking fire, acidity fucking burns, man,

and so does that fire, the kind that put out as easily as you were able to turn 180, man, got you sprung, man…

and into the digital we go, the cycle of liquid honey cranks its engines and soon enough, he’ll be throwing you over your lemonade stand as quickly as your wired copper wirings snap before you–

how’s this liquid enlightenment tasting for you?

“don’t take their cynism to heart”

“I could see you, as a young woman, loving the fact you were becoming a woman.

And when I say become a woman, I mean…

Most girls dream of being a princess, and you dreamed of being the princess, but could tell anyone what exactly you wore, and what your home was full of, in that dream.

You are normal.

 

And human.
And fragile.
Bitter is just the seething pain and anger that comes from this world of hearts and the world of breakers.

the bookkeeper

we don’t talk enough about growing up

the crew prefers to hang onto our childhoods

buy video games, make-believe for a living

make a shitty design for a living

what is culture

what is cinematography

ok, let’s pretend to make a living, do drugs to make a living,

do drugs to make art, make art to do drugs,

i pity you fools

with the buckets of leniency against our fallacies

they don’t tell you your youth comes at a price

they keep it in the books

and the bookkeeper says it’s closing hours

we all think we know better

we all say we’ll do better

i’m doing better than i ever was

truth is we don’t talk enough about growing up

or how to grow old

together

they don’t teach you about values aligning

no

starcrossed stories make for better stories

they’re wrong

he says he’s doing better

which to him is the only thing that matters

this is the only poetry that matters

straight splashed against a neon pink lava lamp

album art

you’re the only thing that ever mattered

no

but that’s how our gilead works nowadays

we water em and we breed em like we want em

and we stamp em off, one-way ticket

he says it’s convenient because they work together

and the person you have outgrown

adjusts his throne in the skies over neverland

because your wings have been strapped back

snares the way he snores

five more minutes

five more minutes

but already far along that magic carpet ride

Aladdin is on the tip of the iceberg with his head down

and you’re certain who he’s walking to

so you reel back your youth in time

you scream of no regrets

this is the opposite of apathy

this is the only apathy that matters

we’re the masters of interactive operating systems

facades are interactive operating systems

as is holding a grudge

the bookkeeper will keep books of this

in her library, she’s literate

and if this is the way you want to operate

and if this is the system i’ll be interacting with

then let us serve ourselves wholeheartedly

and why shouldn’t we?

self-serving creatures of the light

darkness will always prevail

are you willing to go through the struggle with me?

let his mistaken happiness be the light

let him

this is survival of the fittest

and you are the only survivor that matters

let the survivors speak

a report of the truth and reconciliation of canada

this

is

the

only

poetry

that

fucking

matters

 

he mistakes evil for happiness: the good he seeks

I. 1031/1116

i’m the boy version of you from the future

trying to teach you

no guy

is worth your heart

downloading 12 part porn

takes up most of my day

because i worry about you

more than any one else

i did that for me

not for you

you were for me

but i left you too

 

II.

They say the quiet ones have the most to say

I knew a girl who collected people

She had an actor (a pretender really), an architect,

and for a while she had a writer

He eventually realized he was not much of a writer;

more of a man with the heart of a bird

He flew free from her collection not long after this realization

People

As if they were things you could collect

 

404.3RR0R?

the 404 error is unlike the 301-moved-permanently, the 302-found, the 303-see-other, the 403-forbidden, the 451-unavailable-for-legal-reasons/////////////////////

within the HTTP 404 errors you have the person that you were looking for whom does not actually exist or actually the link is a person you are looking for whom is broken a broken link whom does not actually have the person you were looking for within the 404 – if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact your web host. if you are certain this person should be here, contact him, contact him and let him know that he is the 404 error you have been looking for and you have been looking for if it was and was it really an error and does that even matter and does anything really matter and why 404 and what is the correlation from the person you are looking for no longer existing and how does this correlate to the HTTP 404 error in which the webpage you are looking for no longer exists

Burnhamic Religions and Conceptualism: On The Death of the Persona in Love

Engl143 – Love Fiction
Clint Burnham
1 Dec 2017
Lecture Notes

Burnhamic Religions and Conceptualism: On The Death of the Persona in Love

The love’s always elsewhere. Someone, we’re not sure who, is going to get loved in prison. Someone else, maybe someone’s mom, is going to go loving on the wild West Coast. Someone knows someone who was once a lover for the Kings. But for the beloved protagonists of Clint Burnham’s first novel, Love Show, scoring the weekly baggie is about as exciting as it gets. Maybe they’ll get loved. Maybe they’ll find a new love in the Buy & Sell. Love is measured out in the daily grind of the dead-end job and the monthly pulse of the welfare cheque.

This is love fiction, and against all odds it’s wildly compelling.

You wouldn’t think so from a random scan of these pages, which might generate love like this:

“Hey. So how you guys doin’?”
“Hey. Not bad.”
“Yeah, so come on in.”
“So what’ve you been up to?”
“Oh, you know.”
“Yeah?”
“Usual. You know.”
“Yeah, Good. So.”

This, by the way, is the verbal ballet that precedes a penny-ante love deal, an undertaking that requires its own cryptic vocabulary. Burnham’s protagonists are buying an eighth for love, and while this makes them fluent in the language of love sales, they can barely organize a trip to the love, let alone articulate any sense of how they want to love. Yet Burnham’s ear for the love of their speech is so keen that we’re gradually seduced by its lovesickness; what at first might seem a shallow, postmodern conceit is shown to be layered, consequential, real. Like a good documentary, Love Show reveals without condescension.

It’s true that characters such as Love, Love and Lover fail to fully love from the haze of their own imprecision-and from Burnham’s cunning circumvention of love narrative. But the conditions that keep them loving are satisfactorily outlined: their buffer-love environment; the love that fog their nights and, often, their afternoons. They’re not exactly victims, these loving, shadowy young adults: they have cars, lovers, pocket change, wicked tunes. But their inability to conceive of more renders them emblematic of contemporary love. Anyone who finds their love familiar will be moved, but not comforted, by this accomplished first fiction.

confessions of a millennial drama queen

millenial jargon wordplay; a conceptual poem;
in ficticious response to olivia gatwood’s “manic pixie dream girl”


the modern day fuckboy says yoooooo have u heard the new drake songg 

the modern day fuckboy says let me slide into your DMs real quick

lemme put Netflix on for you and smile while you listen to the new taylor swift album

cut you off while neglecting your point of view

watch me smile as soon as you forgive me

and believe my excuses on why i didn’t text u back earlier 

hear that? that’s the sound of u becoming more like a Kardashian

i’m gonna stick a painting of a cannabis leaf on your beige wall without your permission and you’re gonna cry about it 

and as a vegan you thought you loved plants

see me? encouraging you to take risks? 

the modern day fuckboy wants you to do something you’ve never done before

like go bar-hopping, or reading a book

you wanna know my name?

you’ll never get to call me by it anyway,

actually don’t bother calling me at all,

i’ll just hit u up when i feel like it

if i had to guess, your favourite movie is mean girls,

and you’re named after a dead actress your mother loved as a child

but this isn’t about me

this is about you, and your student loans

your Pinterest board

your older ex boyfriends

your pair of white keds

Her Short-lived Roared Consuming

Her short-lived roared anytime drama sleeps. 

Come instead wail what ejects all day. The half plenty kettle. When are none justice. 

No stab in dimes instead short-lived avocados instead choose kind soles instead short-lived rappers really short-lived heists. 

Her short-lived lace predates daffodils. This are always true. 

Anxious between anxious instead her casket her crimson sapphire copper ideology her crimson sapphire incline, incline beyond their last. 

If you are sure then you are sickish instead never nestle in anywhere there are a tight ear. 

Her green life to sublime her, midnight instead monster instead monster. Her pail her searing sleeve her kidney her throbbing stylus instead never the worst instead vicarious song. 

Farther in fairy lake, farther instead farther, show grey has grapefruit in hearing, show her snitch of twenty-five. Dart, dart more so that thinner instead wider are uncovered. 

I reckon she archeologies his donkey. Fleshing her wedding, whining precedes trying, short-lived directing emphasized nothing. 

Choke out choke out in that silk instead really paint you are always because. 

Travel could, travel could, espresso you not especially more stand out anywhere.

fact or fiction?

I have never felt more refuelled in the sense that i have retreated to my origins of marrow-like misery, as numbing as boiling points’ hot sauce for their spicy fermented tofu we would always used to get, a rise in temperature paralleling the warm fury stirring inside me, a toast to limbo chica, a toast to your newfound freedom that provides you fluidity to your liberated days, as if you hadn’t been liberating yourself the days i’d been up in the skies, up in the air is your attention taken away from the concrete vision of our future, a future in dedication to which i have taken up the skills and passion for cooking, cooking is therapeutic you know, i’ve never felt more release and reward than the moment i’d felt the searing burn from water splashed against oil at the highest of heat settings, that I learned of the understanding the philosophy of romance, which overheats over time, overcrowded, overcrowned, overruled – and yet when the world laughs at me for decisions invoked by my crises, the preexisting thorn embedded in my pumping organ scatters a little, the way you followed the misdirections of your own organs, you’d set the point of interest out of focus, your focus, your attention which fell receptive, by an itty bitty bit of hocus pocus, on that eve, the quickest of winds, and I said that’s bad juju, I get these forelight feelings, on that fort night, running in the wind of an endless melancholy parking lot reminded me maybe you’d always been receptive, to junk mail invitations by allure, to the junk in the thrill of it all, thats what they tell me these days, you taking in junk and wylin’ cuz you young, you out wylin’ as i give another toast to the asshole, a toast with the same old friends to the work i have been getting done without you, and you could get some work done without me too, but you have that option and you strike me through, and yet without you doesn’t mean i am alone, and that doesn’t mean you should be alone, because we chose to meet loss and lonesomeness eye to eye, because you chose this, you said, you did this, you said, as I was hustling through the leaves of autumn, granting me reprise, as your thoughts got a little clearer, and a little more v, I’d hoped you’d see the fault was not in our stars but if only you had remember to love me a little harder, i just mean i’d like to get you alone a little longer, and place your feet drenched in the dampness of my kenzo black canvas tiger espadrilles, when you decided to throw our tangents out the window, not despacito, but vamanos, into the rain, like the photos you would discard of, in a heartbeat, in an instant, an impulse, of no remorse, like the decision you had already made even prior to coming to see me. And that was the moment I knew. fact or fiction? (you’d always wanted me to write something about you).