THE EARTH IS A COLD, DEAD ORIFICE

THE EARTH IS A COLD, DEAD ORIFICE

 

part one : the thousand years waltz

thinking back to when Billy Jack said that black hole sun don't shine too bright anymore and nobody believed him then. 

thinking about the way we was. God was happier then but his soul is about ten gray shades of dead now. in the age of about twenty years past the era of dial-up suicides and about fifteen years before the era of social castration we've entered a state of metaphysical limbo and unrest.

thinking about that day in February twenty-two years ago when my mother played the cruelest practical joke i've ever lived through. if i had any sense i would've became a shut-in by any means necessary. 

all technology will become obsolete in a thousand years. it makes many apprehensive but it's bound to happen. the wires running beneath the earth will rust and rot and nature will take over, filling the aboveground with flora....... a fern growing out of a thrashed open computer monitor. the nature of the world will revert back to pre-cambrian times. seas will freeze and every piece of evidence of cybernetic hedonism will be destroyed. only thing left would be for the amoebas crawling around to finally pack their bags and leave town. a world usurped by disgusting vices and de-evolution.

"Campbell's Primordial Soup! Mmm mmm good!"

part two: the death and inevitable reincarnation of one Mae Emerson

staring at the poster in my room that reads "Hang In There!" with a graphic of a cat holding onto a treebranch. surfing the web and attempting to hang ten but falling into the undertow and drowning in the process. cursing God for not making me a woman at birth (this practical joke has no punchline).

do you think that when God slits his wrists little stars pour out? pools of galaxies filling up his cosmic bathtub as the final thoughts race through his head (fucken hell, i'm way over my head in this shit).

i'm sick of the faux, melodramatic poets. the pseudo-intellectual circlejerks. the fuckers with influence.

you're not special and you never will be.

Christopher McCandless had the right idea you know. packed my bags to take a Greyhound up to the Yukon to plan my burial. skin and bone. i plant myself in the dirt and snow and fall asleep forever until a sunflower grows out of my open head.

i died in a mental health institution in November of 2015 after getting my vitals taken, blood drawn, hospitalized for a bounced check suicide attempt.

i died in February 2014 after discovering i wasn't cis. i never was. my childhood was lost in a flurry of identity confusion and neurodivergent hyperactivity. 

i died last year when i moved out of university after only one semester, after months of being off schizophrenia medication. 

I DIED IN BED THE DAY AFTER YOU TOLD ME YOU LOVED ME, THEN HAD THE AUDACITY TO GET UP AND FUCKING LEAVE ME

i was born February 12th, 2000, at 10:33 am, shortly after the death of Charles Schulz. maybe thats why i feel such a deep connection to art. 

Jesus shotgunned a Mad Dog when sprinkling the universe into my seed, into a Boötes Void womb comprised of nothing but dark matter and Vyvanse. he strummed the oud and thrashed me into existence, pulling me by the arms, birthing me through a wormhole in the Horsehead Nebula, and spanking me with a cosmic paddle, finally waking me up in the middle of a black hole, reaching into my nostrils and tearing my insides apart. i cried so hard that day. i was too stupid to understand. the spaghettified remains of my body and soul were sent to a podunk hospital in Brunswick, GA. the street smarts went to Timbuktu.

return to sender. so it goes.

- M.E.T.