Western civilization seems now to be evolving into some form of post-techno-capitalist society in which the meanings of grand signs like ‘Progress’ and ‘Freedom’ have shifted to signify only higher corporate profits, improved industrial efficiency and wider consumer choice. Our postmodern world seems very likely to become one of spiritual emptiness and cultural superficiality, in which social practices are endlessly repeated and parodied, a fragmented world of alienated individuals with no sense of self or history, tuned into a thousand different TV channels. This is certainly the vision of both present and future offered to us by the postmodernist Jean Baudrillard (b. 1929). For him, this postmodern world is one of simulacra in which there is no longer any difference between reality and surface. Modern citizens will not be ‘Overpeople’ – just consumers of media in a world of signs without signifiers.
Dave Robinson, “Nietzsche and Postmodernism”, 1999 (via purplemonkeysexgod69)

december held my hand like summer held spring

She pointed the Portable Electron Canon Killamajigga Ray (P.E.C.K.R.) at his bulbous head.

His hands, up. His mouth, firing empty promises at her in rapid-fire succession with drunk-Armenian accuracy.

It all sounded Greek to her; especially since she left her Babel Fish swimming in a Martini glass on the kitchen counter.

"Turkish men are such mama’s boys," she stereotyped in her native Alvorian tongue.

One hundred thirty seven light years in deep space hibernation in search of a suitable mate and she finds herself with this mostly hairless ape.

Three point five billion life credits worth of the most advanced match-making technology in the entire universe fooled by a filthy human that had apparently immersed himself in a bathtub full of cheap cologne.

She pulled the trigger with the disdain of a thousand Disney princesses in the first act.

His atoms scattered into the ether with nary an explosion of light nor sound. The obliteration was unsatisfying leading to an empty vodka bottle being launched into the curved flat screen abyss of the television blaring the fùtbol match that ignited this turn of events.

She stared at the P.E.C.K.R. in her hand. The blinking red bar indicated that there was forty two percent of the firing cartridge left, jut enough to obliterate a planet full of mostly hairless apes.

burst poetics and a fetish for fornicating with Imelda’s footwear

sexiness in slavery

she is blood-lust
on red velvet

my lawyer
advises me against

high heeled
and hell-raising
contoured with care
like an assassin’s sword

sweat is not for the stand

your lies must be dry
to be believable

she slices my tongue
with a stare

I babel, julienned

I am judged:
guilty, guilty, guilty

on all counts

such a sweet sin,
this surrender

For the maybe girls


If she woke once too often in an unfamiliar bed
forgive her this brazen wickedness, won’t you?
There’s nothing any more familiar about the one at home
and at least here she can’t wake alone

You really did notice her eyes first
and where yours wandered from there
is of little consequence
If there’s a grain of truth
in any of the snake oil sold
by those “first minute’s free” charlatans
it’s that ghosts will seek out
those they know can see them

You’re the most amazing person
I ever wish I could’ve met sooner
you understand
And of course she understands

Some girls have to grow up
peering around corners
waiting till the coast is clear
perpetually one step behind
this perfect time and this right place
in which to be when it occurs

Tomorrow then, maybe
tomorrow he’ll miss the bus
and falling in one beat back
glance up and think
I could spend my night life with her

Paper Fans


I thought about transforming
your words, to repurpose
the objects of our discourse
into something other than
that which I reread in my hands

so I started to fold paper fans
but paper fans can’t spin aloft
from ceilings, and the
words would never achieve
their intended heights

maybe I could create
delicate origami swans
or those beloved jumping frogs
but the fragile creatures
would never tread water

or take your breakup note
and make scissor snowflakes
but the results would lack
the coldness of your goodbye

but we can’t un-write
all the words that we’ve written
so with needle and thread
I will entomb them in wool
sewn in the pocket lining
of my favorite tweed jacket
always taking them with me