sept
hurl / party
September is an aching forest.
You went out for a spell and got lost in your dingy attire.
A little limb was born therein the weeds in shame, transmogrified, and shattered in HD. No one cares how far you've come. Your scars appear like lemons, and synchronized they pull pitchers from behind their backs.
The only metric that matters now is the elliptical you would rather die than describe. This is how faze darlin. I'll tell you how: a familiar hand chokes you in reverse and you call it a faze.
Stop humping the cow, wrong century. You still haven't squeezed it proper, just topicalized, topicalized, topic.
You cannot formalize your way out of heaven, click. You have a gnome for an ego, snuck in with the wash, you bored it and now it's leaving. Say bye-bye honey. You're fired. You filament?
How many times will you watch your face in the mirror frowning whiny-slack-jaw saying I wAnNa pLaY.
There is no big brother. Just you watching from the back window.
And the scene, it breaksβ but you will yourself not noticeβ ooo, busy, busy, thumbing in your fanny-pack.
September is the forerunner to thee digital-white surface. No one earned it and for that the world hurled a party to celebrate.
And now you, you now possess: The No Idea:
Make a list of everything you truly want. No single words.
Identify The No Idea: the one thing on the list you must admit you don't truly want.
Remove every vowel. Count them. That number is how many days you have.
Each day, add one image to a digital collage, one letter at a time, in order. The image must contain something that begins with that letter.
If you miss a day, add one self portrait.
On the final day, place one object of destruction at the center. Post the collage, story or grid, captioned only: No Idea.
Tag me @nyoka.now. I am watching for what centers you.
September is a trap you fall into to keep from foaming at the mouth.
Lift your self and toss it up in a warm basket. Then make it hot. Move. Make it so hot you grow the fuck out of it. So hot you cannot hang. So hot you walk around inside your big boned private wife like a bunk formula. Beamingβ So hot the forest for the jungle. So hot the mad for the knife. So hot you funny. So hot you scream backwards and vomit the cherry excuse.
Now Flee.
