poppies

November 29, 2021

When will begin my period" . . . ?
I feel deep loneliness, outsiderness, and rejection all the time in this house.

I don’t feel like acting, or putting effort into other humans. I also feel like no one is experiencing the level
of loneliness that I am.

Connection feels like a miracle to me, and it seems like a given for other people. But that must not be the case,
because most art comes from people yearning for an ache to be soothed.

Prince Charming visited this weekend. It was lovely to see him. We fucked a couple of times. It was great during parts
and disappointing in others. I never came.

He is a good man when all is said and done, and a nice friend for the level of intimacy we have, so I should acknowledge
that deep levels of loneliness and horniness are influencing this diary entry, but I feel horrified that no one is fucking
me like I want to be fucked.

Both Prince Charming and The Constable have actually verbalized to me that they are “afraid that they can’t fuck me like
I need to be fucked,” Prince most recently in the last few days and the Constable on more than one occasion.

I need a whole day to be properly fucked. I want to channel moon energy and fuck below the moon.

I wish Baby had more imagination.

The blackbirds nibble at the poppies
I clean my my nipples with alcohol
and feed Baby
We continue walking

All my poetry is lonely and horny.

Poppies

I didn’t get to see your full nakedness
the evening you visited for the blood moon;
We baked blackbird pie in the glow.

This went on for hours.

Your drippy visions are a string of dark pearls around my neck.

I’m scared that I’m romantically primarily attracted to women and sexually more comfortable with men. In any case good sex is hard to find.

to the lover of my dreams:

thank you for loving my poetry, playing with me, fucking me on the summer earth beneath a canopy of trees,
until I cry
for making love and writing poetry

do mushrooms
write poems
make love

eat, drink, and be merry
for tomorrow we die

I am stuck, for now
stuck, for now

I am lonely
so so so so lonely.

no man reads me poems to lull me to sleep
as the Moon has always done for me.

I feel relief when they have left my room . . .
I feel jealous and needy at the thought
of the Moon going off to entertain other guests

The day is long and the sun ages me.
I am catatonic until the night finally falls.

You are afraid to be alone
The hole,
needs to be fed.
The blackbirds feed on the poppies

moon maker
moon maker
moon-maker

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