Creme De Mentia

What if you let your mother do your make-up?
What if she made you look almost exactly like a Russian Nesting doll?
What if when you took the make-up off you saw that she had plucked your eyebrows into thin rainbows?
How did you not feel her plucking?!
You are so pissed because you hardly had eyebrows to begin with and have spent years cultivating the poor things.

Ah, the night brought strange dreams and dusted snow.

I wonder why I thought that when I was a kid I had such promise. Sometimes I look back and think, what happened? Lately, I see that I was exactly the same then as I am now. A lazy daydreamer. So now, no more wondering what happened and why I didn't set the world on fire.

I am envious of people that can take the music that pops up inside them and construct it on the outside. I have a cranky synth bit stuck in a cranial crevasse. I still pine for a moog and vibraphones. I need echo-y chimes to bounce off my skin.

I am envious of people who work in radio. I am a child that pouts. I know that's not right so I'm in constant parent mode shushing, wagging finger, soft chides to soothe the tantrum. I love my daydreams and I hate them. They aren't helping, but I'm addicted. Little drug, little drug. I like to get my brain high. If I don't stop I will foster dementia.

Birthday Tea Party

Celebrate old people

That see other dimensions
Especially if they have the ability to slip into

This consensual dimension
You may find Mother Burgers

made for some hidden army
Hiding perhaps in that cool attic

That frequents my dreams
Everytime it's always a surprise

I'm always intrigued

To slip up and explore
It scares me sometimes
There's something there
Something that inspires fear
My attic is my brain
And vice versa
Mamby pamby story telling is for Assfaces
So stop

O.K.
Tourrettes is good for the dementional soul
Keep in mind it's their right

Let them flow, let them go
Let them see cats
Maybe ol' Spooky they ran over on accident with their car
For years they sat at the kitchen table with nothing to do
Never speaking a word to a grandchild playing with pencils like they're people
Gendering lead writing utensils
By the paint the pencil company chose.
Play for hours among the bookcases
That housed an enormous collection

Of National Geographics and Reader's Digest compilation books
Maybe a few Jesus hands in the mix of the decore

Pushed together like I Dream of Jeannie
Hours.
Each shelf a floor of a pencil apartment
Class roles
The best pencils get the posh shelf
How did I decide?
What was pleasing to me of that penthouse shelf?
Was it that smooth, cloudy, milky dove figurine made of unknown firm, heavy material?
Only a grand pencil family would have that as a statue
Years.
Maybe a newer, cooler pencil
Only stopping for the only words that were known anymore by grandma
Informing statements of regularities
Lunch.
Then later as I got older and taller and she older and smaller
The way she looked up at me
I began to baby her and hide from her
The reality of me