Diminuendo Publication

Manifesto, Part 1

My name is Kat, and I am a creature of the night. I search for what is good when I’m blinded. What was once beautiful is now bleak. I don’t know why. Well, I do know, but I can’t pin down the reason and wipe it away like a smashed fly on a windshield. Words are my savior, the only proper window to my private world. I let other people in, at times; but I prefer silent strangers. I have many suitors, but I prefer dreams. I cry for help, but I prefer not to accept it. I desire eloquent proposals, but each one that I receive seems full of shit. I don’t like checking my e-mail, and yet it is obligatory. It still tastes of her and that cold heart whose existence I want to deny. The daytime makes me sick, but CSI comforts me through it. I read and wish that I was the one being read. Consider this the manifesto of the one who knows too much, and can’t find enough pages to shovel it out to powerlessness. In my head, I hear voices. Sometimes they are of the dead, pleading for a vehicle or an acknowledgment of their existence. I do my best to answer their requests. Sometimes I’m so caught up in answering that I forget to pose a question. My mouth runs far too long for the regulation ear. I have so much to say, but people want it in pieces. I was never one for censorship, the careful carving of thoughts and actions to meet the comfort levels of other humans. I find reality distasteful; I create my own. I’m much more at ease living in the abstract than indulging in the material. That can inhibit me at times (see roommate conflict #49348). I think cleaning is a waste of time. I get upset with myself if I am not constantly learning, completing, growing. Hobbies become stale to me quickly with the exception of writing. Otherwise rest is a hassle, so it becomes more work than work itself. Somehow, though, I can blank out watching television only if I expect to complete work when I’m finished. I don’t understand violence. Apparently, my roommate does. Apparently, rapists do. I’ve thought about hitting someone, but thoughts have not come close to action. Those voices I hear…they show me the product of violence. They used to follow me everywhere, but now they appear in blips. They show me the dead, either after the fact or in the middle of it. I’ve seen a nun hanging from a noose, a mangled woman on the train tracks. Usually, though, it’s my own body I see. I tend to believe these images are real, but if that were true than I will have died in about 150 ways. I don’t drink anymore, but sometimes I think about it. I think about reaching oblivion, but I rarely ever found that even when I did hit the bottle. I’ve been in a fit of depression for some reason. I was really happy for a while. I’m afraid that stating that I am depressed will only extend it. It always ends, though, and that is something I can’t afford to forget. I’m not going to take more medication. I reveal myself rather quickly. Like I said, I’m not very good at packaging bits of my life in to bite-sized pieces, nor do I really care to do so. Sometimes I feel overexposed, but the feeling is worth it knowing that I am not kidding anyone. I like novels, but I write poems. I don’t have the patience to construct a story; then again, I don’t have the patience to write a poem, either. Rather, I am merely a scribe for the language that mingles and makes love in my mind. That’s what I’m doing right now, in fact. This is only a beginning…

Phehhhh

Radiowaves are back...

Blank Space

{Knock} {Knock} Hello? Hello? (Subject 1 knocks on Subject 2)

You can't come in here. (Subject 2 is in the fetal position)

Can I see?

No, you'll eat it.
You'll swallow it whole
and I won't have it anymore.
That makes me sad.

I promise I won't keep it.

But you will.
You can't help it.
It's worth keeping.
Forever.
So it isn't yours.

I'm hurt, really hurt.

Too bad. Go away now.

Will I see you again?

If you can,
then you won't.

Hmmm.

{Pause}
{Pause}
{Pause}

Why are you still here? (Subject 2 lifts head)
Get off of me!

But I'm not on you.

It doesn't matter, get off! (Subject 2 stands up)
{Boom} (Subject 2 pushes Subject 1 to the ground)


Pffffft. (Subject 1 is lifeless. Subject 2 walks away slowly, watching each step.)

A Sloppy start to a pop song...but straight from the heart.

5 months darling and you know where my heart lies

you know you’re in the same place, no words to justify

make that a million, million, could sit here for days

talking all that stuff that you’ll always be always see

when I’m around him, her, or it or otherwise

my mouth is too big and my heart is too magnified

but you light me up, baby, light it up

because you know

and I know

that we will always be satisfied.

So don’t say you’ve got problems

Cuz don’t you see me standing here?

You’re the only one that makes me breathe

Makes me sleep knowing

That to you I’m more than fine.

This is what loneliness looks like...

I was s'posed to show up to a heartburn wedding, but my shoe got caught in the door.

ordures

daniel said that butterflies are never purple and dandelions smell like catfish and want ads go in the trash can but daniel died yesterday so his words are just broken kites and a burnt popcorn bag

that mute girl in physics was right

Sacred Transmissions

...and when the world stops, I will find you.

(you already have.)

...

Eulogy

The door is closed and so are you

when siren spite has made its move.

To a dying family member...

Jasmine

I.

fear is universal

i'll take it

fear is universal

i'll take mine and double it

so you can leave

and finally fall asleep

.

.

.

.

.

II.

say hi to the wonder

say hi to the calmer

say hi to the creator

(say hi to your lovers from the clouds)

.

.

.

.

.

III.

oh, my beautiful little baby

forever wrapped in my arms

this poem has no end

because neither do you

.

.

.

.

.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

Giddy

I just got one of my poems published in Diminuendo, a literary magazine out of Loyola University in Chicago. I'm so psyched and happy that I took a risk by submitting my work. My poem will be in Issue 1...more details to follow. :)

Dedications

To a far-off beauty-seeker...

Voyager

Walk out
.
.
.
I creamed the wall poetry,
deep throated the oven
until our breasts charred.
Fresh and dead! {you were always meant to be}
Sun came
and so did I
Walk out with me

(hasty)

Dare

Curled mouth

speak

this

phras
es
s

(he took out the trash)

The seeker has


sought

and her scribbled eyes...

does she dare a connection?

Con-
nec-
ted
by
mouth
words
from
brain
words
from
life
words
from
two
worlds
in
one
word
it's
pause.

Sway with blip.blip.

world stops.

silence.

To a prisoner...

DpUck.

Why the pucker,

little prisoner?

I pressed together

tiny wrinkles

when my chin was too long

and my stomach was too stout.

What is your excuse?

Kitch-en knives, course hair, a face with too many potholes.

Kill "too,"

Dead!

Describe.

Delight.

Deserve.

{Leave it to the lipsticked wolves to pull a girl apart}.

Influence?

With more and more people sending me feedback on my poems, I feel some pressure to "pre-screen" everything I post here. I CANNOT do that...it would take away from the purpose of this blog. Let me state my purpose here, in order for me not to stray from it:

"This blog is a direct reflection of my personal and poetic voices. It includes rants, stories, thoughts, quotes, rough drafts, and completed poetry pieces. The good, the bad, the ugly, the strange, the 'unfitting'- all belong in this blog. The Giant Bunny Rabbit is me, not some image I try to create of myself. What this blog conveys is beyond my decisions to include or not include any of my writing pieces- once I 'self-publish,' the fate of this writing is in the reader's hands."

With that said, here is some new work sans screening:

Written surrounded by people in a hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint...

blips

I.

awkward noise is worse than awkward silence i never thought that children could leave happily and still visit their parents twice a week that whack-a-mole can break of course

II.

sounds clog my cerebral pores but my coronary still waits

III.

pile of sitting intentions fucked attention to try stare at the end too much of myself enemy of the worst me wrists tend to squeeze fucked goodbye humiliation salutes

IV.

defined beauty aside i whimper cuz thats all ive got left

V.

stop fond el ing something that was never yours

VI.

smoke cigs like a maniac clowner but somehow my fingertips speak louder

obsessject

my hands are shaking but i know im not caffeinated open wounds are always hungry for a blank napkin goddamn obsessions you kill me

NO

youve kidnapped me and

r a p e d m e

with a reject childrens toy

drips

drips

a moment of silence for the cracking

.

.

.

how dare you deflower my iron wall my assurance my sanity i just finished building it yesterday you better pay in brownie points and careless whistles a pint of ice cream would suffice i guess

{it melts though}

WARNING: The following poem is extremely graphic in nature. I put this warning out there so I can shield people from my own depravity. Isn't a warning a judgment? A wall? A shelter? Read on...for me, my personal voice (a rare request). We hear and see and feel and what we don't want to hear and see and feel everyday. Here's one of those moments, but know that we are reading it together. Please read it with me...together. I'm tired of hearing and reading this all alone. I selfishly request that you enter my private horrors for 15 seconds...that's all, I promise.

Blip

.

.

.

Blip Fizzz

.

.

.

Ra

dio

ra

dio

.

.

.

Copy copy?

Coming again

.

.

.

I listen at my own expense

every

ten

minutes

The devil's typist

KEEP THE ORDER

{Your mother sucks cocks in Hell.

Help me!

Dying is the pain of puberty.

Drip death blood

Blood everyw-

Listen, you BASTARD!

I borrow lines from the

sacred ones.

Piss it out, bitch.

You know what's coming to ya.

Bathtub torture

Electrodes

Electrify

Spit blood

Feel porcelain go black

to the night

in a push-pull rack.}

I am in literally in tears from the pain of writing this. Those of you who know me know it's root.

Last ones...

These are some of the final edits for my first poetry collection, Voices. I couldn't include the artwork from my collection on here for obvious reasons. Let me know if you would like to see it and I can send you pictures.

Magnets

{heaven wide}

purple skies

feel magnetic

i lay next to purgatory

a negative

mixed in a blender

of rampant touches

with other {positives}

and unfounded {intimacy}

is this really it?

you {sizzle} to char

what should this be?

thoughts of flight

just take me to the winds of polyamoury

surprise me with a kite

(or maybe a conch shell).

Cigarettes

{}{}{}{}{}{}

{}{}{}{}{}{}

{}{b}{}{}{}

{a}{}{}{}

{}{}{a}{}

{}{}{n}{g}{}

{}{b}{a}{}

{}{n}{g}{g}{}

Bang, bang, bang

On the window glass.

Come save me-

I need cigarettes.

Everyone itches here.

Nobody works here.

We are all broken toys,

And they are

The children

Trying to put us

Back together

With Elmer’s glue.

We

Are still broken.

We

Are still broken.

We

Are still broken.

Hop

On the Merry-Go-Round.

Feed

Us meds, meds, meds,

Tell your

Feedings to be quiet.

Let us

Teach you common-sense.

But

Remember, it’s quiet time

Come

Save me, I need cigarettes

Your paper degrees

Cannot win me sanity.

e.e.

dan

ces

w

ith{n

o}y

e

s.

sug

pl

ums

n

ot

{n

o}y

es

st

ar

leaf.

Untitled

Sunnyside down.

Same taste, but the egg’s no good.

The Wave

Ignorance rises above me with snide remarks.

He was a false promise that I begged to leave,

but now I am cornered sludge; abandon ship!

Find me buried alive in the ocean’s core.

I used to think ignorance was a diseased wave

in a bountiful sea of new discoveries clear of debris.

Only a swimmer with eyes

could duck under the perpetual splash and discover the golden treasures of the abstract. Now, I call myself a dirty liar. A wave is happy and joyous because he can float above the treacherous sea,

away from harm, drenched in movement.

The swimmer, however, follows

her eyes with curiosity,

and is torn by the truthful sharks

and merciless currents. As a wave I would be blissful again, an unaware floater, but I found my eyes once and now they are permanent. Reality is forever embedded in my cracked and mangled spine. Goodbye, lies.

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

I drown in truth.

And a poem from Michigan I forgot...

The Passenger’s Regrets

Sea grasp

In

the

panhandled

dark.

Grab that starfish,

That SPITE

of

the

(sand) .

Take HIM

and

you’ll

takeme.

Always

(Always)

a

fo

o

lish

one.

R U N N I N G

in place.

Wi

th

myhands

pointingto

the

ground.

More...

Written within 15 minutes during a meeting...

Poem #2

Good

            bye

                        love.

                                    I’ll

                        be

            sitting

in

            the

                        sun,

                                    bringing

                        your

            truth

to

            light.

 

 

See

Eyes drenched

{Dead}

 

No

 

Breathing…

Dead Eyes

stop speaking.

 

Read will

through my red spiders.

 

(I’m hiding, but you see me.)

 

Bitch

Cla

            awe.

Animal flesh

Bloodied grit

with distasteful fingertips.

I’ll eat you, bitch.

 

Bitch.

 

Bitch.

 

It hits my teeth like a sizzling coal.

I pull my coat over my fear

and put forth a shaky hand.

I’ll be your

 

Bitch.

 

Bitch.

 

Until he cla

                        awes out my damned compliance,

,

,

,

(I’m waiting)

 

Two Cries

Burnt skies in the window brush. She falls downhill into that sucker balm. “I give up,” she cries with each, rigid tumble. My body belongs to the beat of a monster with four teeth. Pull me out. Out. From my limbs his fist my frost his bite. I’m limp. Limp. Carried along in thunder clouds.

A Spew of Updates

I've written a lot of poetry since my last update. I will attempt the long task of posting them all here. Here goes...I wrote all of these poems within 20 minutes while on a trip in Michigan.

drive

crying canine kick the b-line bully the b-bop sucker the sky. eat the eavesdrop smell the sand dune  recall the rain cloud push the pedals. ride the riff-raff jump the j-walk piss the popery.

Void

Ugliness stomps above my carnage,

flies up to the limbs.

Spit my savage, then.

You sleep.

You’re here.

You’re always here.

 

Here.

Here.

 

Depressed out my

desert void.

Suck your life form,

jump to your selfishness.

You’re leaving.

You’re leaving.

All goes,

you’re here.

 

Here.

 

Here.

 

 

Matter

Beauty glides before my feet,

tumbles down to the bull rush.

Eat my core, now,

I say.

I’m awake.

I’m gone.

I’m always gone.

 

Gone.

 

Gone.

 

Maniac in your

sea garden.

Mob my ashes,

fall to my willingness.

I’m coming.

I’m coming.

Just wait,

I’m gone.

 

Gone.

 

Gone.

 

 

Crit.ick.

Kick. Stand. Com. Ic. Books. sit in. your ste.nch. r.e.a.d. away. To. Neverland. While your minimum is lacking. Dive. Be.low. off. Ice. Jibes. While. Swi. Mming. With. The. Nicknaks. Leters are bet.ter. than. 10,000 words.

 

 Poem #1

Pumping the

 

PEA pod.

 

fly on my

 

LIP            STAINED

 

Ne-

I-

Yt-

Mare.

 

Play, pretty, play play

 

Pluh

Pluh

Pluh play pluh play play

Go

down

to the

 

Tea-tock

Toktoktoktok

Laugh,

 

                                                Hmmm, laugh.

 

Whoo-HA!

 

Snippidy snap

Tily snackidy snack

Snack

            Snack

                        Snack

-------------------------------------------------------

BACK

 

 

 Waste.d

Take Crave-see

 

Smiiiiile

 

Baby, smIIIIII leh

 

How goooooes

the rain-

for-

rest zippidy zippidy

in that mind mind.

 

Stoooop eating him

with

 

your

 

Raaaaansack

Muh

YOU

Sings.

 

Be gooooone

and

leh

eve

him to

chug chug chug chug

spit, fuck it,

da-rink

to dah-dah-dam

death.

Waaaaaa

Ate!

Ate!

Take lazy,

make crazy.

Still here,

Heeeee                        willbe.

Well hmmm...

I hope somebody gets something out of this, or at least reads this. Oh, who am I kidding, we mostly write for ourselves...I think.

Do you ever get so inspired by someone or something that you just melt into it?

Today I boarded myself up in my room and worked on making a rug and watched Andy Warhol films. I didn't go to class, didn't go out (except to get a 12 pack of Diet Coke from Seven Eleven). I kind of just want to stay here doing that for a while, maybe a week. Life continues on, though. It doesn't adapt to my little obsessions.

Life is a dream of Edie Sedgwick and unarmed ghosts. Poetry is a dream, too, I guess. I just find reality unfavorable at times.

I don't think I can do this anymore. It just hurts so much.

I'm not your Kitty anymore

I'm not so pretty anymore

I'm just so shitty even more

Than I ever was with you.

Poetry Roughs

Here are some of my poems from the first draft of my chap book:

Magnets

purple skies
heaven wide
but i lay next to purgatory.
dirty words
feel magnetic,
but in the cerebral
i feel mixed in a blender
is this what love is?
out of sight, in my mind
but a negative
to other positives.
is this really it?
now i'm lost in the thought
of flight
of rampant touches
and unfounded intimacy.
tell me, god, what this should be.
i'm trapped in a hormonal hell
while you sizzle to char.
take me to the winds of polyamoury
and surprise me with a kite
(or maybe a conch shell).

Insanity

Not friends, not lovers
More in-betweens
Companions in mind-fuck insanity
That never ceases to intrigue me
It challenges any stability
I thought I had
Call you two people
Call me decision-less and obsessive
I'm guessing we are both closer to accuracy
Than error
Your staggered identity
My see-saw emotions
Blend oh so perfectly
That it's irresistible

They say two wrongs
Don't make a right
But they sure do make
For a hell of a ride
So cheers to us fellow thrill seeker
I accept that we are destined
To be fucked up together
So the next time I swear
We are over and done
Just know that I'm penning
Hearts around your name
At the same time.

Untitled

Sunnyside down.
Same taste, but the egg's no good.

My boyfriend broke up with me. A flood of poems to come.

Progress

I am making the final touches on my first, self-published poetry collection. It should be completed and for sale by August. I can't wait! Oh, and a preview...it is called "{Voices}"

The Psych Ward

Eyes shatter, shatter, shatter

Down the drain.

(I like threes)

The Blind Rose

Can a blind man touch a rose?

Oh surely, he can.

He must shyly climb his fingers

Up its stem.

Pull back, pull back, another trip

To come.

As time grows,

As he grows,

So do his trips to the rose.

He climbs and climbs so high,

Then he rests his fingers on

Satin, savory rose buds.

Oh yes, a blind man can touch a rose.

But then, you ask, how can

He worship such a flimsy, ironic blossom?

Well, every color has a smell.

We are stuck in small boxes

Of green, blue, yes, no.

What about the color of touch?

It exists, ignored by almost all

Except the blind man.

Oh yes, a blind man can worship a rose.

Can a blind man kill a rose?

Oh no, and neither can you.

For roses grow from human hearts

To kill a rose would be to kill oneself.

Can a blind man kill himself?

Definitely not.

Mortality is but a lie from a rock,

A very sly rock at that.

He screams death and we believe him

However he remains intact.

But there is a secret from

The rose that one can only feel.

You may see the rock's lie

And live to dance in circles

But the blind man just basks in the roses

Immortal, like all

The seeing scribblers.

 Cigarettes

Bang, bang, bang on the window glass

Come save me- I need cigarettes.

Everyone itches here

Nobody works here.

We are all broken toys

And they are the children,

Trying to put us back together

With Elmer's glue.

We are still broken.

We are still broken.

We are still broken.

Hop on a merry-go-round

Feed us meds, meds, meds

Tell your feelings to be quiet

Let us teach you how to die

But remember, it is quiet time.

Come save me- I need cigarettes.

Your paper degrees cannot win me sanity.

Questions and Answers

Hello?

Let's get rid of the age-old answers

To questions ad infinitum.

I'm alone

I'm alone.

I'm alone.

I can't find you.

I'm attached to your brain.

Someone needs a wash.

Yes, I'm sticky

Sticky

Sticky.

Could you spare a stick of glue?

Oh no, where is the formaldehyde?

Out of stock, the soul-less.

I keep it in my fingertips.

None to spare.

Convert the energy?

Oh, no.

I keep it to settle fights within you.

No control in glue.

More Beauty

THIS IS MY FUCKING MIND

I will break your pens

And stomp on your feet

And tear off the outer

Leaving you naked and powerless.

You have no control

With your empty words.

Now fuck off so I can get some rest.

Creative Overflow

I haven't written anything on here for a while but lately I have been on a poetry purge fest. Here goes:

Goodbye

(3x3x3)

Sweat falls down

No evaporation, but

No room inside.

She could go,

Make room together

Hide the screaming

But still cold

Is she forever,

Waiting for explosions.

Forgiveness

Transcend my love

That pusses out in the wild heat

But I am suspended

In a still sleep among breeze.

The water is gone, with

A lemon in its glass

Caught in the spill.

No food

No sleep

No time

Forgotten.

Forced Duality

(3x2x5)

My head shows me things

Some from the devil himself

Others as signs from heaven.

I'm a restrained, angry prophet

For no clear, tangible reason.

My only freedom is words.

Dichotomy Poems...

Richie

Our beautiful lies

Shot through with

A plane ticket

And empty "I love yous"

He screams rationality

While I fill our

Conversations with tears.

Why, Richie, why?

Our love was just a blip of time to you

At least based on my assumptions.

Why, Richie, why?

You are the only true love I have ever known

You had me at your stare

Cigarettes

Coffee

Mental Hospitals

But it must have been too little

To give you the strength

To face distance and time.

Why, Richie, why?

I love you vulnerably

No half-baked games

Or walls to stay safe.

You have my heart

But that must not be enough.

Why, Richie, why?

Richard

You live home safe

Yet I provide you refuge

But bombs left you

Rearranged and calloused.

Your next chapter seizes you

With dollar signs and supposed respect

It is time to go, Richard.

Our dances filled me with moments of love

Ones that I will always cherish

Through time.

Sticky fumblings in the back seats of cars

And sleepless nights

But we lost our capacity for memories.

It is time to go, Richard.

One by one is magic

But one will become eighteen

Look at those devils, webcam and half-apologetic

Conversations. They will only prolong the misery

Of a truth I already face.

It is time to go, Richard.

What we had

Will forever grip my heart.

But to continue

Is to suffer every moment.

This halt is far less painful

Than forced strings between us.

It is time to go, Richard.

Kitty (Richie with opposite nouns)

Our beautiful truths

Shot through with

A train ticket

And empty "I love mes"

She screams emotion

While he fills our

Silence with smiles.

Why, Kitty, why?

Our hate was just a span of space to me

At least based on my observations.

Why, Kitty, why?

I am the only true hate you have ever not met

I had you at my distracted eye

Gum

Tea

Mental homes.

But no one must have been too large

To give me the weakness

To face presence and space.

Why, Kitty, why?

You hate me confidently

No half-baked reality

Or openings to stay in danger.

I have your head

But this must be barren.

Why, Kitty, why?

Favorite quote if the day: "The bird sings with its fingers."

More to come...

The Daily Grind

Spin around in the largely small patterns. Our only hope is in quick freedoms from it- expression.

Sometimes I have to push through life to get a handful of precious jewels- ones that I will keep forever, even in heaven. Patterns just melt away like the tears of expectation.