ooo | I am

I am Voltairean while volatile


& I wonder if the soul-sucking media is the postmodern Soma of Huxley-modern times.

I hear camera lenses shutter past celebrity post-social-martyrdoms while


I see Celebritarians born from that which just passively died.


I want rampant intellectualism as a coping mechanism and we’re all going to die down

     here,


I am Voltairean while volatile.



I pretend the world hears the music fitting of my everyday’s theme,


I feel regressive in my possessive progression and that I am offendedly the most

     offensive, exemplified offensively—as if my lack of offense could come from being

     undamaged.

I touch Alpha Centauri A, B, & C but

I worry that it isn’t a far enough stretch, a far enough reach.

I cry for the millions self-annihilating by so called “free choice,” “free will,” to devour

     the published productions disguised in essence as their own ape hand...


I am Voltairean while volatile.

I understand that we are all celebrities and some of us are existing with extra

     Celebritarian needs.

I say that I, myself, a student first and foremost, is a Celebritarian revolving in a

     Voltairean era of and on my own.


I dream of cult immortalization because the clock is ticking and nobody’s all-the-way

     dead yet,

I try to remind myself that family is just betrayal with justifications while


I hope that the day all my dreams are destroyed, it has been thus that all of my wishes

     have been ultimately self-granted.

I am Voltairean while volatile.

ooo | this, oh my god

walking around listening and looking at things bigger than me I’m remembering what it felt like that night to be capable of saying “you can . . .” with completion. It’s struck that the reason this stuck is because it’s a humbling where the cold being has finally succumbed to their knees—

ooo | In the back, off the side, & where were you?

          Anything I touch or speak to will become the death of me and I’m unashamed of being your scapegoat, martyr, babe I’m here for the fame. Spoon it in because I’m the second cumming unafraid, this coverage will be the latest frame for the palest of sore flickering flames.

          I wish I could get that adrenaline rush off of attempting to ruin someone’s life that doesn’t care enough to care about their own public perception.

          Without the person you’re nothing from literal loss, with the person you’re nothing from subjective lowering.

          I wish someone knew how much these songs mean to me, that when they play they become the air I breathe, that when I envision myself doing great things they're paid homage.

          Offendedly the most offensive, exemplified offensively—revolving in a Voltairean era of and on my own.

          It’s intriguing how the nights I am all set to sleep early my mind wanders toward the darkest of precipices and goes for the deepest dive into the abyss forever gazing into my being, begging for a chance to reveal itself. We’re all going to die down here. These are the nights I blood paint, the nights of possible dissociation leaving me sobbing in corners resembling a fetus unaborted, and you’re surprised? As if my lack of offense could come from being undamaged.

          The only thing making it worth it is the only thing real.


& family is just betrayal with justifications.

ooo | Family Tree?

           I don’t think I’m meant to have a family but before you think this is melodrama stemming from a fight with my father just hear me out, I have some foundation to my claim.

           I’ll leave out the childhood abuse and abandonment, that’s a cheap shot to my theory and pointless if I’m saying she’s not my family—and she’s not. Despite my family being filled with drugs, rapists, molesters, incest, pedophilia, what else could you imagine, place that here, I’m sure it belongs too. Anyway, the point is that as I stem away from the Little Shop of Whorrors, other families hate me too.

           So why does the prospect of eating amongst others put me on edge and make me want to kill everyone in sight? Annihilation—it’s just something I don’t understand about myself. Logically, sure, it’s sound. Theoretically, well I’m not even sure what I mean here. I wish the application of this vice weren’t seen as such and though it’s not a virtue I wish it were recognized as something similar to what it actually is. As if.

           I also wonder if other people have normal families. I wonder if people have moms. I wonder if people can be around their family and feel safe, safest even. I wonder if that’s possible.

ooo | Survives the Martyr

“The disgust with dirt can be so great that it keeps us from cleaning ourselves—from ‘justifying’ ourselves.”

  I'm waiting and wondering what’s going to happen.

  How will this show in the breakdown (break-down?) of my life’s events?

  Who was afraid before their martyrdom?

  Who boldly faced it without opposition but with recognition?

  Christ may be the original martyr, the celebrity, the Celebritarian. I’ll sell out too, but I’m only dying for what I believe in. I’m not sure where I belong but it doesn't matter. I become the home I am housed within.

oo | A Spin of the Week's Weak Wheel

To a day of the spectrum,

  The thing is is that I loved you, perhaps not on my knees or with my shoulders back and my gooseneck vulnerable to your penetrating scythe, but I still loved you. I loved you more than I love the few I love most. We had history we’ll forever recall. You kissed me and I swear to the God who doesn’t love you that two worlds collided and you know the Earth was originally seven times smaller than what we stride to perfection upon.

  Now we exist without unison, creating a crater filled with constructs of disaster.

  What I want you to know and anyone else who can detect my passion for us is that I love you in the sense we both understood dichotomously. With you I’m in my mind, without you I’m out of it—now I hope you see how much you mean(t) to me.

— The Uncaring

ooo | Everyone Smiles with that Invisible Gun to Their Head & I just Don't Want to Die without A Few Scars

          Little days spent doing erratic things of today’s nature satisfy me to no end, I wish I knew why or how or when bloodprints translate into sex and is roughed up into ecstatic uranius bliss but I wish I knew a lot of things I didn’t ever never will know, like who the fuck killed Kennedy and who the fuck George Orwell was really talking about in newspeak, & for that I suppose I’m doubleplusgood but wait—

          Now the goverment tells me I’m doubleplusungood.

ooo | Detach, Desecrate, Devour

   & you were funny enough to trust me with a bottle filled with beautiful white comas of dreaming of snowy suicides

   & what's the point in living if no one knows you love them

   & no I'm not all the way dead yet but let's just say the clock is ticking

          So when you’ve reached the point of wanting to cry over everything you’ve lost out on from an experience to a friend you loved or something deserving of your care

          Then tossing away all of that care only to push harder faster stronger towards a brighter future of perceptional purposeful perfection —

                                  You're in areté. 

          Or

an undefined unrecognized placement of the prior

          VOID of your incredulous credibility, spire.

oo | Madre

          To keep myself from killing you—that is why I paint in my own blood, that is why the room is spinning and my hands are soaked in everything red. I’m not trying to be a martyr because I’m only trying to survive what you did to me, I actually wanted to be alive before you showed me what death was like.

oo | Victorious

This won’t be the first time I’m dropped from the face of your planet, and let’s not forget your condemnation, your (ab)uses of whatever I was and are to you, areté, yeah fucking right.

Point counter point blank,                                                                
the unhesitant end.

oo | P(r)ay on Deliver(y)

            I’ll be your G(‡)Dless mechanical bride when you promise you’ll seal me up in a watertight coffin. I request you don’t let my holographic entrails of the suspected fifth dimension leak from my cracked ribs stamped with so many “and then, and thens,” considering they’re all in reminisce of you. The funny thing is, after attempting such a bold statement of nearly dead celebrity, I escaped the clavicular pain and exposed myself to the survivable sun—but the story doesn’t stop there (it never does without a camera flash as vitamin supplement for the hollow soul). Reaching the bottom, I strode and still decided a healthy choice should be accompanied with an eventual, unavoidable sickness.

oo | Comedically Divine

            You make me girlishly happy, I’m giving you the blame, handing it over, it’s all yours so let me melt in your hand because we know I’ve become a puppy dog to your love already -

&  I’m falling hard flat and center, hook line and sink(h)er… you could be the ship I finally sail away on from my island of self-deceit and who would have known it would ever be possible—birthed from my bane of existence, I became yours, and I thought that was a good thing? What was I thinking I’ll forever wonder and such as ponderings, but who the hell knows I suppose. . . The point I’m trying to make here I’m unsure of, but what can I say, I’m a four year old and I need your hand to hold to find my way home, back home to you.

            Pouring out to you would be the ultimate as long as you don’t pour out to me a part of your community, I know you’re the Giver, so give give give. I’m waiting to receive for I think I’m about due, pregnant with this principle on this precipice for the catcher is peering out of the rye with a pair of pliers, and eventually they’ll arrive with a spanner for my ribs. 

The breathing in of my entrails is upon us - 

This will end in you being worth my every second

      and me being a complete waste of your time

oo | Ring of Fire

          Walking a fine line of trifling the tightrope, infiltration is my name and game and I’m here to possess all red cups for I am the die you strable inside, grappling for the winning combination of “This will help me!” as I stir lifeless on the table cast aside the playing table, for I’m not player so hate hate hate the very game, I spit mine.

ooo | Alphabetum, Alphabetos

JOB DESCRIPTION:

            I enjoy waking up early and slugging into the kitchen to prepare a breakfast drink of some sort to down my Adderall with. Lingering on the couch sipping it away until my little dog begins barking in the back yard for me to let him in, then wishy-washing whether or not I should A. watch an episode of Degrassi, B. read a bit of fiction, or C. go back to sleep to wake up because sometimes counter productivity is the best production produced.

I attempt rubbing away the hoof prints from last night’s mares.

            A. is out of the question because I watched at least six episodes last night while simultaneously hoping Prince Charming in a Maserati or Humbert Humbert in a Melmoth would ring my doorbell, drive me cross country, and drain my heart for the fuel.

Who said gas prices have gone up if you can afford me?

            B. I let Kauvuo in and he races around the living room, almost knocking Survivor off of the couch’s armrest. I go with placing second this morning, the book survived the fall and I’m curious to see if Tender Branson will too.

Sometimes life ends halfway and this is the in between extreme of choices.

            C., I like reading in bed with morning light shining through my flexed window blinds. There is no (window) pain and my room glows as brightly as what a Sol might resemble—this is why I painted it yellow last November. It’s just me and gravity surviving the bottom of the abyss with enough character development to scramble back out using our tight rope as a climb rope, ready to lecture on the knots along the way to the precipice of the Lake of the Dead.

We just have to get there first.

            Full circle we rise, fall across a sea span of days where I have completed the whole alphabet, you C. Eventually I drift back into sleep’s hull—but not before setting my alarm to shoot off with lyrics of all-too-hoped-for Armageddon in just over an hour—after reading a chapter of misery and what I assume to unfold into imminent incest that I can relate to because sometimes counter productivity is the best production produced.

            Please submit all applications in the form of a question of my sincerity.

SIGNATURE:

X _______________________

oo | Gravity

          I’ve stuck by my principle of never showing fear and never showing the plural in presence as a presentation of sympathy unavailable. Gazing at the stars sharing some box of grease as clogging as you, I didn’t realize it those many moons ago. When I saw you chained in traffic while my eyes were locked on you so seamlessly, I didn’t recognize it last night, either.

All realizations must not have a big bang, for I cannot pinpoint our carbon center. From the plethora of still true fates I promised to you, the publicly sharable is my existence: a galaxy, as you, & our crash course collision.

Now for the common speculation I offer my fears—every last one of them and you.

Ω | Krank Kunst

// Body & Blood

“Self mutilation is like a sick art show,
To be ourselves, we have to destroy ourselves..”

- Jeffree Star (Jeffree Star's FB Page)

oo | Praying Godspeed for Themselves and Us

I’ve been thinking a lot about a string of conversations my friend and I roped or wound the other day, tightly imbedded in our years long friendship lying on the foundation slick with confusion/confliction of the outsiders’ grasp.

I could have posted this publicly, a month ago I carelessly might have and disregarded what anyone thought of it & clearly my process has redirected its course. We know how we feel about each other, therefore we understand that the following excerpt of Dante’s Purgatorio holds zero romantic symbolism for the two of us in union.

When I read it earlier this morning I thought of you as a whole. As my best friend, yes, first and foremost, indeed. I considered our disagreement the other night—or perhaps a misunderstanding is a better term for it—and how throughout the entire conversation it never crossed my mind that, “This could end our friendship.” Fleeting about my mind instead, “I am grateful I love someone (and that someone loves me back) to the degree that I have no fear it would ever end over a petty difference, or perhaps anything.”

It’s difficult for me to show emotions, you know that better than most. It’s not an excuse or a justification, but an acknowledgment. As I’ve explained to you with elaboration at length: I do work on faults I discover. I would not be the person I am today had I not met you or had you not guided me as much as you did and still do.

Throughout Dante Alighieri’s epic poem The Divine Comedy (Inferno, Purgatorio, Paradiso), Dante is led by a shade named Virgil through hell, limbo, and then to paradise where he “sets him free as his own master.” You are my Virgil & I thank you for it.

“I hear love’s voice in every word you say.
Often, indeed, appearances give rise
to groundless doubts in us, and false conclusions,
the true cause being hidden from our eyes.”

- Purgatorio by Dante Alighieri

ooo | Violent Saint

            Last night my father informed me of someone recently approaching him inquiring, “Alexis is so smart and beautiful, but why is she so angry?”

            I didn’t respond for myself because I was not made aware until after the fact.

            A self-providing module, my response is a twisting of playful words: my anger is the result of my “smarts,” for this reason above all, I am beautiful.

“Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.”

- Ernest Hemingway

oo | Evol

            Like unfiltered rain you reside on and in my jeans, delicate Delicatessen eating me away from the inside of your factory fuck shop, I want to scale you like an animal, breathe in your entrails, and personally suffocate to know your every nightmare.
            Scream from the inside out to the raw bare back of your bone fibers to my ribcage collapsing with and for symbols too ominous and blue for our situation desperately seeing a “forever, I am so yours,” written in overtones of yellow beginning in &.
            Hearts crashing and colliding to rip and tear apart, forgive the car crash—it was only a second away—there wasn’t room in this life for the threat of death…

Ω | The Komarovian

// Blood

“What children love is singing ‘we’ll know that their tied hearts sit broke,’”

- Marilyn Manson (MarilynManson.com)

Ω | Spade

// Blood

Ω | Untitled

// Blood

“It is not easily possible to understand the blood of another: I hate reading idlers. Whoever knows the read will henceforth do nothing for the reader. Another century of readers—and the spirit itself will sink.”

- Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

Ω | Your Living Invitation to an Icicle Island

// Watercolor

Ω | Trio No. 2 in Catastrophic Minor

// Watercolor

Ω | Trip Three

// Watercolor

          “I am a single galaxy existing in multiple events of space-time waiting to collide with another who considers themselves just as great or greater as I manage. I want a collision of worlds, absolute annihilation of the horrid and welding of the better, perfect globes. Dwarf stars and exploding thus collapsing supernovas: worm holes to a better place.
          “Lost on an island,” a common description of one’s life journey. A home base, a safe landing space for the extreme in betweens. A location for my tightrope far enough away from the cheering and jeering crowds... I don’t dance for entertainment or praise, but to prove to myself that I still can after everything that’s occurred. The sands are deceitful and card-carrying mood rings, but how they are so tiny grains of me.

          Grasped best—the abyss. My dwelling basement, but I created it there in its place and depth, adjusting the light bulbs as I move along. Left in its existence in case I've lost sight of the importance of life, should I ever need a gaze for recollection of demons, I flick a coin in and watch the city burn beneath me once more.”

- A. Komarov Voltaire (COSA18.com)

(Full word painting by A. Komarov Voltaire can be read here.)

Ω | A Brief Hawk

// Watercolor