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

 

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).