raven0us

interpersonal industrial collapse. the poem. | July 18, 2011


full circle interpersonal fallout.

calling each other out.

teaching a mother to mother.

i hover between neurosis and psychosis on the borderline.

i’d be sorta lyin’ if i said i was honest, but this time i stayed in town long enough to see full circle and the miracle is…

i am an asshole.

but i hitch hiked past the toll road.

i’ve paid my dues and i realized everything i am running from is everything it is ok to be.

ok. full circle. like industrial collapse.

someone snaps, usually me.

everyone proceeds in different directions.

everyone recedes and it starts an infection.

quarantine. antibiotic. antipsychotic.

band aids instead of mutual aid,

interpersonal insurrection.

colors show. whistles, they blow.

now go girl go.

sow seeds in the interpersonal fallout.

your truth is A truth.

be ruthless.

the true test is your stamina in the resistance.

persist. insist. interpersonal insurrection.

the antidote to infection.

full circle takes time.

and i might hate you passionately now.

but i. uh. have to.

you’re rubbing rough against my existence.

i am resistant to the dominant culture embedded inside of you too.

and i fucking hope you have the ovaries to resist it in me too. passionately.

then. down the road we’ll see each other again.

and you’ll be more of a friend.

and we’ll both be more humane.

more insane. more wild.

interpersonal industrial collapse.

relapse is imminent.

the soil to cultivate new habits is depleted.

we all know.

we all show different signs.

hunger in our dialogue.

lack of nutritional value to our conversations.

no worries.

we’re coming full circle.

with bated breath.

this state has left us behind.

our fate has left us. here.

fear only limiting.

no room for submitting.

trigger fingers itching.

flinching at vulnerability like dsm4 instability.

then soon we’ll see… our commonalities.

the same ones we once ran from.

hitch hiking away from the intensity of substance.

thinking it was our own personal definition of pain… just insane.

i am insane… so thankfully.

i hold my fury under my tongue like razor blades hidden in the mouths of cutters in this psych ward we call society.

insurrection weighs heavy, especially interpersonally.

my clit has an erection.

when i see. uh. uh. uh. us.

like us without our sparkling egos

writing ethics in the stomach damage that comes with conscious suicide.

that comes with ulceratic anxiety.

measured in slow liver damage.

it takes 3 bottles of tylonal pm within 36 hours to cause excruciating liver failure.

i’ve researched it.

danced it out to save my son from my legacy.

i gave up at 2 bottles.

our chambers rattle with all of our wombs lost souls.

full circle interpersonal fallout.

intergenerational.

sensational let down.

mothers alone.

touting nurturing liberation.

angry we can’t 5 finger discount that reality.

this actually takes work.

no grants. no awards. no settlements.

for one’s activist resume.

push came to shove and we got a broke cheek and a terrorized social center.

you can’t repent on your travesties until you submit to your own insanity.

banality frames even the most poignant action.

who is the police when we are policing anima’s visibility?

you’re damn right she’s a threat to your security culture.

she’ll fight for her reality.

she ain’t here to fit in.

our own community polices the brutality of passivity like a weapon.

black block your true colors they’re showing.

you’d have to be owning your own shit to get past this.

no boulder padded “umm ok”s cushioning you from seeing this whole picture.

you’re region of socialization isn’t the only one that makes progress.

we will fuck your comfort zones like the whores you play us off to be.

maybe then we’ll see. we can’t walk all over we.

full circle interpersonal fallout.

my messy seeing your messy.

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    Mother Lover. <3

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