Dead Again..

“Looking Back”

All of a sudden—or maybe, even, not so suddenly—I was Clark Kent—or whatever Superman's name was. I had been without contacts or glasses for quite some time, and had quite explicitly in one of my many letters to God—or really any holy power in a realm which might have received my charred requests—all the things I needed, and some of the things I very badly wanted—tightly bundled and wax-sealed with intention for nothing besides that of the greater good, or course, for myself or anyone else—set ablaze in the unforgiving streets of New York City, in secrecy at odd hours of the night; it hadn't been my actual intent to have to practice any magic at all, especially under the circumstances, and it seemed that someone nearly unmentionable at all, had hexed a nasty attack on my psyche—a satanic, demonic possession of the weak and feeble bodies around me, and unable to isolate in completion, I had become vulnerable to such a wicked curse that it had altered my psychic morality—as one does not practition a counter-curse or attack, in my own medicinal expertise, without first being provoked—as one military typically mustn't bomb another, or even it's own enemy without being first considerably attacked—and it was, at this point, indeed a terrible holy war.

I had at the very least been able to return to regular gym sessions, though still not training as thoroughly as before; I had allowed myself to gain quite a bit of weight over the period of just a couple weeks, eating for the most part what I wanted out of comfort, especially having nearly starved and defaulted into severe malnutrition after eating nothing but bananas for a period which lasted something like three weeks—and without adequate protein intake, I had l lost quite a bit of muscle, not that, for the most part, the muscles that I had been building weren't there—in fact, I found myself, at least as of late, looking like any retired or untrained athlete that had let themselves gain atop the muscle they had built—fat now sitting on top of my larger muscles and making the weight gain look and feel even more hideous, and after several days of at least regular lifting and sauna, I still didn't feel like running, which would alleviate most of the gain more rapidly. I was still somewhat sort of depressed—my new roommate having obviously been possessed, constantly bringing up things I didn't want to think about or remember—mostly things from my terribly abusive marriage, and of course grinding her teeth, moaning and mumbling all through the night, always specifically having some kind of problem when I seemed to be making any progress at all in music; My miserable, fat, and drunken ex had after all wanted to be a musician, and I considered him probably to be the soul proprietor of the cruel attacks, and though I had forgiven him, at least for the cheating and for the most part for beating my face in—at least as much as I could, it seemed that simply having become an actual working and professional musician myself angered him greatly, making him bitter enough to the point that he would sit and ruminate on my imminent failure enough that I could sense this—not that it mattered, as by now I had gone too far and worked too hard to do anything else—and though he was well aware of Sunnï Blū by now, I was certain he hadn't the slightest clue that Sunni was just a fictional character. I had started creating music under a number of different aliases, which I learned to be common amongst musicians—but I felt it rather to be nessececary, especially sense whatever satanic and demonic force continued to urge me to kill myself (not entirely out of the question, but still the furthest thing from my mind), as in his care our poor little boy had become morbidly obese, which also ate a hole in my heart and my soul; it wasn't fair that through our separation his body had become so grotesque
and unsightly—but now, it was out of my control.

This Clark Kent was not a mother—I never spoke of my failed marriage or about my son to anyone; I was simply a single woman, business minded and for the most part no-nonsense. I secretly sent care packages to my some 150- pound 6 year old in hopes that he would somehow understand my love for him; I often made mixtapes with him in mind—he loved Daft Punk. I wasn't interested in dating or even socializing beyond the neasesaey network connections, which were far and few between in the area I had been settled in, but not quite comfortable. Black men in the music scene never wanted to collaborate or or facilitate promotions without some gesture of romantic or sexual connection—in an area, music—which I considered now strictly business, and for the most part, had been talking myself down from the fantastical wet-dreamy world of fandom which might have anything to do with seeing myself with anyone in such a realm as to have crafted for themselves a career in the world of music at all—in fact, I had become unmovable from my cellibacy—though the sexual beast that dwelled on the base of my spine flamboyantly crept up into my loins and even sometimes up into my heart, I had learned to swallow it down; there was no man that I wanted or needed so much as the ones I had, and would now rather suffer alone than to struggle to try to find someone that I actually could see as a partner—Creative and emotional intelligence aside, by now I just preferred being alone, and it seemed that even those I had cared for had started to become like my ex husband—probably also overtaken by demons—and so I felt it safe and more valuable to be alone, thinking perhaps having given birth to three of his children, that my body, mind, and soul was ruined—but I'd rather go it alone myself than go back to him, or worse—end up with someone so much like him that I ended up dead, homeless, or a combination of the two—which I already had, not that I saw it as an immovable fate.

This new and most astonishing Clark Kent kept to herself, and was quiet; she was observant, and critical, but not too critical—kind, but also not too kind; In New York City of all places, a sucker is a sucker—kindness is considered as weakness, and no good deed does in fact go unpunished.

The prescription was perfect, and I could see sharply and clearly now; the world was color coded with shades of dark green and royal blue, with tinges of bright yellow l as if hinting that the wishes I made upon the candles I had burned would come true—and I hoped that they would, though I had done most of my spell work for protection and binding—not to collect such terrible karma for the injustice done, but to dissuade whatever had been following me—attaching its nasty energy into my world and in my realm and urging me to kill myself; everything was evil blue eyes and perfect bodied women, my music unheard and unliked and no notable achievements made.

I dreamt of a world where my evil and estranged husband would reproduce with someone else—that all the hatred and darkness and energy of our shared past that he was constantly sending towards me would become a distant memory, his attention set on his new wife and child; I wanted only really to become a non-factor, left alone and loveless, albeit never unhinged or undone by love or in the hands of a man again—at least in that matter. I ran my tongue over the inside of my bottom lip where my teeth had punctured through, all the way to the other side—amazed that even years later the scar was raised, which always made me wonder how bad it really was; I couldn't have known then, even with the remarkable and obvious damage that he had done to my face, how bad it really was—and here, still, six years later, I wondered how I had survived such a gruesome assault—not that about I would have admitted it, as it seemed Hollywood itself even had been overrun with the never ending infinite saga of the he-said-she-said Battle of The Sexes, even my own pitiful self having to side with the men.

“I must have deserved that.”

I only see your shadow;
For you, I kindly waited—
My eyes are very open,
But my heart is very hated

LOOK AT IT.

I—

JUST-LOOK AT IT.

I want to die and
I don't know why
I want to die and
I don't know why
I want to die and
I don't know why.
Why lie about it I
Feel like dying

I look past everything—
Even what I should see
I feel like dying
I'm constantly out of alignment
With my design

Don't mind me,
I was just l
Light at the end of the
Nightmare, or just a dream
I keep on waking up
Crying myself to sleep

I want to die and
I don't know why
I want to die and
I don't know why
I want to die and
I don't know why.
Why lie about it I
Feel like dying

—

I love the way your body looks—
Please, hold me tight and don't let go

I love the way your body looks—
Please hold me tight and don't let go

Come take a glance
At my mammary glands
No arms, no hands
No legs, no chance

Something bout those camouflage pants
I
Yeah, I'm just a fan,
I promise
I'm Stan
It's that bad
It's that bad

I run 15 miles an hour down a mountain
What you think about that?

I forgot a pen and a pad,
But look, I found one on the ground—
Aren't you proud of me?

I turn a mound into a man—
I promise,
I'm a fan
It's that bad
It's that bad
I'm a fountain

Look, I found you
Proud family fountaine
Yeah, I'm just a black
Campaign magnet manager

Yeah

Everything the prophet Jon said was a code,
And yet
I was nowhere to be found at all
I was
Probably still drowning in blood, after all of it
Writing my name on the wall
Or deposit slips
Slitting my wrists at the catacombs,
Woah
Slow down
This is all so uncalled for
So much the overachiever
And leaver of lovers,
The teacher
“I loved him so
Much”

Stockholm,
Stockholder
Stop go,
Stop go
red rover,
Red rover
Send someone right over
Cause
911!
911!
Hit the ground running,
Or duck and find cover
(Or better yet, find a revolver)
You're calling a four leaf clover
Art for the front cover
Ah, a world wonder
“I should probably call her…”
Enough

Sir, you remind me of someone
You left the door open
I probably won't close it
A loft, like the apartment I once
Grew up in
Or whatever my mind was,
In the moment

Why would someone smell this way
I'm just a machine, I'm
Irony, irony—
Ey!

Flock to the crossing,
I've never felt so dumb before
Just after
Loving one star
As hard as I could
And it all fell apart at the alter
Now I'm at the crossroads

Sell my soul, sure
For certain
But I never owned it
You'd better talk to my husband
He owns it

I'm better off drowning in sorrow
Than blood now
I'd better count all my arrows
And bloodhounds
Before the sun goes down
And before the hunt's getting started

A carver, for carving
But I couldn't quite catch the words,
I was starving

I couldn't quite make a song out of stardust
I'd better go
Just before the war starts up

“What did you call this?”

“A word,”

I said to my father

The world that I started, in ruins
So I stared it over

And over and over

So much for luxury—
I thought I wanted towel service and saunas
But turns out I love Eucapuptus
Whatever that does
Or something

I thought of being discharged
Or discarded
Like all of the common in poverty
Washed up
Like mau5 was
Before and after the comeback
“Commander…”

I never liked being captain
I warned you;
I only practice three out of the Ten Commandments
Serve condiments like mustard
And never ever wear condoms

I warned them,
Warranted

Now, let me show you where your cock goes
(In the ocean)
Cous-cous, or Caucasus
Persuasion, a caution
Caucasians

Dark, was the sun when I woke up
In all purple armor
Better to marry a fighter, prepared for the war that was coming
We all won
We're all in,
But undone
Rough,
I like a ruffian, I might add
But things never add up
I would love a muffin

Here goes a whole stream of conscious
(Or cous cous, or caucus or)
I lost the word for it
Watching the omnibus roll past
Fuck, now was was it
Some carbohydrate
(Quinoa)

You never know what you got
Till it's gone
I just lost a penny—
I'll pick up another one

Haven't you suffered enough for the moment?
I suffered once,
But it's still not over—
One for the floor and then
One just to follow
One for the floor, and then
One just to follow
I hate losing money, you know.
If I cut you off [Now]
⌨️️ ️
, you might lose your tolerance…

Hello, again
My dear old friend
I've missed you

How could you leave me
After all we've been through

That's just what I do now,
You know

I should have been more thorough
With all of my old stuff

I couldn't love you enough
In her body or another
Or all of us

INT. PLANET FITNESS. NIGHT

survivalism, deadmau5

Wonder, wonder
Would you, would you
Will I will I
Die tonight

Wonder wonder
If if if I
Stay up to the
Morning light
If I if I.
Could find
Your eyes again
Your eyes again
Your eyes again
Your eyes your eyes
Are mine

Thank you, kind stranger
No challenge, a charger
I was awfully awestruck,
But stood there just after
Standing on sutphin,
No love and no laughter
I'll see you tomorrow
Cause I'll be here after all

No wonder, no wonder
A wonderful somethin
No standing on sutphin
No love, and no laughter
There's no code of arms,
There's mo alarm, either
So unfit for love, so unfit the mother

Thank you, kind stranger

I couldn't care anymore, if I tried
Who loves me or not
I was what I was
Now I'm gone
And I'm off of it
I couldn't care for the cause
Cause it's all done
I couldn't care for a father or mother
Who loved me so much all at once
I was born from the stardust
To stories of Noah and Arks
(Or just one boat,)
But I stood on sutphin and archer
For nothing and no one

Here we are,
At the turn of the hour
Fear for a flower
A finder, a follower
Folley, you all are
The whole world, we're rolling
We're wrapping up capstones
And craping our pants
Just like pansies

And on we run
And on we are
And off we're not
—but we're off work when the party ends
And up at dark
And here we are, at once
So far

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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-U.