stranger than fiction

Dup-poets, baby-people, crazy admirers, kitties from hell, lacey's, sychophant slags, dadaists, punks, feminists, BDSM, TGLB folks, all kinds of gender-punks, twisted dreamers, strange creatures, and personally the faithfull reader of my desperate   trial to write, our amorist feddeler..

dup was my exile, always was far away from medial hoax, is oasis for indie underdogs, eye thought eye am.

after this post, will i still have the exile here,
or will be disdained and abandoned of my 2,5 dup-friends?

i really cant provoke by you any thought, for the brain is attavism in my skeleton, the only i can is feel.

And since three weeks i feel aversion and helpless rage, since i feel presence on my screen of sweaty sticky finger of Psychiatric research Mafia.

Any of my trial to scribe, i put in on my wall  is written by my strangulated nerve metre, which roots on poor love, which is was always abused by male stupidity untill i met in last three year few true friends, and yet my dearly beloved, who is hippie, and blissful spirit, who is playfull and gorgeous, still he dont grasp my punk feminist resistance.

someone tald me of „emanation of spirit“. i wanted hysterically laugh about it but i howled. hardly ever it possible to share this addiction „emanation of spirit“. To wait for efvemidas
Not just through poetry but through letters. For i  need to write letters because i am zozo le skizzo
in the fucking capitalist sexist cunt-ry . Whereas my this odd „emanation of spirit“ is addiction, which is my treasure and my damnation at once. Dammned is one who think by heart. who trust by heart..

but what an hunted animal Psychiatric Torture Mashine will make from me?

Why i cannot find rabid nerve to write my lonely punk metre?

One cannot weep for whole misery of this fucked up world.

Either Resistance is illegal!

And i dont know how to help those  potential sacrifize of schipwreck unearthy love, who are next, after me!!

i cant get  drunk , as i used to be on all of my obscure days, and  when i suddenly feel  elusive joy,... since the judgement by this culture is again on fatigue on my bones.

i have been pariha, in the land i live in, then i was ugly hyped by some Artmafia to prove myself as  by performing some art-farts. i resist and avoid to perform, building my barricades on berliner garbages and separating my gourrilla warfare from hoax which provide in my existence honourable prick
and philosopher aka Schizflux, and my so dearliest deadly adorable co-worker of yesteryear aka Estdelacropolis.

Now since almost a month i am again becoming a pariha, because once upon a time in my early youth i was sex-worker, because i loved sex,  i lost my love, and throwned my body on beds of strangers,  yet i liked to be paid for it. I was young and i loved sex, and i loved money. Than i fell in love and stoped to fuck around. And here came my most sin : for three months in my life i was a „pimp“, i got part of money which my girlfriends earned with their bodies. Yet i didnt a slightest ashamed by doing it all three months long.

Twenty years went and for this three months i have been  for eight years judged, persecuted, executed,  inquisited by all unimaginable kind of torments and what most weird i have been coercily hyped by few of my Male Artists Friends-Foes, who are not not my fellow sufferrers and punk rats, not waster,not  indie rabotniks and not non-achiever how i imagined them to be. but fucking disdained fucking celebrities, making their fraudulent Art-farts and working doubtful films.

And me, grain of sand, born stubborn punk rat, their nigger of yesteryear, whose life is most unsignificant, being sold by those Artists  to the faceless society of Spectacle, which oppress me to prove whether i am a little lost poet, writing for selftherapy, borrowing sometimes words by dead and living poets,  or am i greedy wench who enjoy being hyped and climb her disdained carriere-bench.


Read Akutagava Runesku story „Snowdog“, this is more true than all existing comics.

This story is why i keep sober by all the surplus of sacred herbage.

Else, my tears will ever never make the world better.

like one friend of yesteryears prayed  to me:
cry, howl !your tears will help. This advise was a friendly Support.

i am blind trustfull imbecil.. i have howled  till moon fell in lake, and winds  withered this howl were sinister and fretful like ice-colded sea. Nothing changed. The world is wretched jism.

And no one little dreamer will ever find  find   the own violence to smash the oppression of state!!


two years i beg by few rabid poets, lets write letters about violence and resistance, concrete corrupted repressions of free spirit romanticers..

one what one rabid poet asks „what a practical sense of it?“
another said: read my poem, i am not for letters
third poet, my fragil hope that punk is not dead is Viaclovsky, who hush on my mails, because what he makes is secret..

i only may read this poem by him,

with bitter awareness that poetry makes nothing happen.

it is just fucking piece of Art, which he blacksmithed:




once our sense of speed ran dry  
the world felt much less sublime ;;  
 
oh shirk, oh sigh!  
 
 
its all  
gall and worm -  
wood.  
 
like her voodoo weaves  
acroamatic silences  
in waves of firefight  
upon my neighborhood.  
 
 
the shock of electric sunrise  
in an acoustic basement  
shot us back to life  
 
like a pistol to the temple.  
 
disorder from disorder  
spun of silk, ink, and iodine,  
spun of silt, sand, and formaldehyde;  
flouncing upon the tongue, a toxicity of kisses  
like rosepetals and cyanide.  
 
 
let us brush  
with all the skill of a scarecrow,  the disaster of humanity  
back from your  
 mind s  
eye  
or frankly  
mine .  
 


less  
lapse of courtesy.  
lapse of dignity.  
boorish buffoonery.  
layered and stinking  
like a more perfect onion.  
blah.  
slipping into simple stupidities.  
 
oscillate in anxieties.  
a shilly-shally,  
      seesaw  
of fear and loathing -  
but look!look! its all exploding!  
 
sirs, madams! with enough violence  
we just might negate the violence.
  
 
best  
look lively, Sport.  



and this is a poem of another rabid poet, who i recently discovered, whose verses  shuttered  deepliest my marrow, here is one  translation from russian, the poem written by russian poet, Alina Vitukhnovskaja, the poem to which i used to have scarying deja vue, being since 7 years fired and hyped and again fired and hyped so endlessly , me berliner semihundido, blind pitbull, lived on streets and parks, cleaning streets from faked guirrilla gardens, being bilding my own silly barricades, now turned into in puddel, being puppet of those friends who i still didnt learned to hate, like Nietzsche learn, we have not just love our enemy, but necessary hate our friends. i hate this poet, for slick vanity, for sprinckling cynicism, but her poems rocking so..



Norma - Raven Nevermore

All stop at the fish in necrophylic still life.
Girl flowing «PSYCHIC TV».
"Norma" - Crow NEVERMORE
in the future / in a perspective /.
 

Sorokin. Prose. Text. Totalitarianism.
West. Fashionable. Love. Nice One.
Norma, neat as "Ave Maria."
Dying after the movie "Stroszek".

Hanged himself after watching a movie
of the famous German director.
They all go mad and impotent
and meaningless until the edge.

All depends on the fish in necrophylic still life.
Singer of «JOY DIVISION»
hanged himself. Division of joy - a morgue.
Hormonal immobil.

Microbes's  zero. Dirtyliveness's jelly.
Videodeath. Have you seen? Have you seen?
Without validol watch idols.
Death is permissible. Idols are non-cognizable.
 
 

There were  Injected poison
Double vision of apparent spreads in devilhorizont.
In distance Dali reads Ovid
Through waking of devils and devilesses.

But no matter how amazing it was
Unconvincing is pain inside.
Suicidal video -
Come and watch
 

Souls of widowed wenches envy -
They squeezed him their love.
And he strangles himself on video
giving an elongated videocramp.

All stop at  the fish in necrophylic still life.
Girl flowing «PSYCHIC TV».
"Norma" – Crow. NEVERMORE.
in the future / in a perspective /.


by reading this first my marrow became as thin like a string in my soul,
i layed and dreamt of black crow, which devour all salmon belonging to supper of our cat.
Only now i know that i am mad
and cuckoo calls with gloomy crying