Aasha McQueen ﾒ𝟶

My face card is beyond black card territory.

Endured two brutal hours salvaging and curating lexical charisma and constraint. Feeling utterly gutted, and still—how brilliant the task: to think and refine without grace. Brutality sculpts the monster fit to execute genius.

Pondering, musing, incessantly catastrophising. Is potential born of a disturbed sense of self—suffocating fright of ornamental execution? Fraudulence plagues me; perhaps I am only ever humouring a funfair of dress-up in shoes not my own. Have read little and understood less.

Knowing other people is something brilliant and absurd, but the integrity it takes to know yourself and etchings of your bones and bounds is outlandish.

@crisxmadrid Can promise you they are all worth a go

Jean-Paul Sartre, Byung-Chul Han, Carl Jung, and Nietzsche. Feed me more, I beg you. Toss in some Russell, a bit of Klosterman. My mind’s a gluttonous creature.

The Weeknd is the only man I’ll ever need

To immerse yourself fully, with intent, and let the music lead—without the tainted lens of needing to render atmospheric sound into precise language.

If you’ve yet to learn to live and face the throes of dread and the weight of simple existence, I would urge you to try it on for size—with Conditions by Temper Trap serving as a framework. Synthetic-born speech fails to capture the gravity of it. But that’s the point, isn’t it?

Recall.

It takes something more than intelligence to act intelligently.

Yet to master it organically, at least.

Mr. Richard Siken, may I dare ask if you have any insight on taming the beast of chronic consumption? Starting with dignity is trouble enough, but stopping—sitting—is the real horror. Still learning how to quiet the eager writer and reader inside me.

Sit with it.

No tree, it is said, can grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell.

@JesseUli Woes and rancid desires bred by the raw and unrelenting human condition. We are animals—feral instruments, creatures to the core. And isn’t our wild longing to be fed, to be satiated by affection and shared existence, just the purest expression of our humanity?

I need to peel back my skin and etch all of Richard Siken’s words on my very bones. I say this with the least remnants of drama as I can. The theatrics are a soul call.

The sequel to "Kitchen Window" and two other poems. hobartpulp.com/web_features/t…