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.