make me some furnitures http://thedailypos.org/friends/index.php?topic=1360.new#new

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Messages - Tenda

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« on: April 15, 2021, 12:49:38 PM »
okay all good


« on: April 13, 2021, 09:34:59 PM »
unironically i still need to archive some of my poems i only posted here so i will get on that and give me a little time before you stop hosting it  :spot:

The Posting Range / Re: Happy New Year!
« on: January 15, 2021, 12:57:26 PM »
i wouldn't touch it anyway but you do you

The Posting Range / Re: stay sfae pt 2
« on: June 07, 2020, 09:36:37 AM »

The Posting Range / stay sfae pt 2
« on: June 01, 2020, 12:50:01 PM »
okay, now only the americans

yall staying safe?!?!?

The Posting Range / stay sfae
« on: March 29, 2020, 09:08:03 AM »
you know why

love ya

The Posting Range / Re: what's up
« on: March 12, 2015, 11:13:41 PM »
quit wreckin m thread :cb:

The Posting Range / calling all witches
« on: March 12, 2015, 12:10:35 PM »
witch dresses are back in style now i guess


get the witch dresses once they go on sale. be prepared

Junk Heap / Re: oh no
« on: January 30, 2015, 07:54:27 AM »
thank you dr oprah

Junk Heap / oh no
« on: January 30, 2015, 04:10:17 AM »
i had an incredible dream, which provoked me to remain awake despite it being 3.30am so i could dedicate myself to remembering and plotting out as much of the dream as possible.

the dream, though, was about me dream-experiencing what i thought in the dream was a movie and then searching for what the title of the movie was, so that i could reexperience it, leading me to get involved in a situation i realized was the start of what i had perceived in the first place to be a movie... but was actually a sequence of events in my life that i was going to, because of the dream-within-a-dream, become trapped in

and i realized later, while awake and putting the details together, that my obsession with figuring out the details of this dream -- which was presented as a movie that i was desperately trying to recreate the very script and choreography from -- could itself result in me embarking down a path in the real world of inevitably causing the events of what i thought was a movie but were actually unfortunate inevitabilities in a dream to occur in real life

so now i don't know what the right thing to do is, because it was the most beautiful sadistic thing ever witnessed, but my obsession with trying to relive it even mentally may lead to me accidentally recreating its circumstances in real life and trapping myself within its whorl

what do i do. help me, oprah

The Posting Range / Re: what's up
« on: January 13, 2015, 04:43:25 PM »

The Posting Range / what's up
« on: January 13, 2015, 11:10:38 AM »
how are you guys. i'm p good

Yo Check This Out / Re: Megatenda's Poems
« on: January 01, 2015, 01:48:46 PM »

I trade downward freely,
Exchange the aphorisms that failed me
For zoonotic platitudes:
"Meals must come before molts!"

Which, well, seems applicable enough.
Men and wormkind,
The larvae of the world,
We all must eat.

Today I feel less than human,
But trying to remain more than nothing
Puts me in the position to
Ascertain my instar
Before I can see just how far from my imago
I have fallen,

Because my brain will not permit me to think;

Cultured and wired as it has been in my life;

That I am a no-good-worm
Without instead appropriating,
"I am a no-good-caterpillar,"

And the human failing I'm
Running away from
In order to see myself as one
Is my fear
Not of what tomorrow brings,
But, tomorrow,
What will I have become?

Growth is inflation
In a closed system,

The unavoidable need to feed
Rubbing up against
The physical constraints of a shell.

Perturbing it,
I am perturbed.
To move forward I must molt,
Discard the limitations,

But the running metaphor,
As they often do,
Just runs up against a wall;

I cannot molt.

Today I feel less than human,
But running away and
Self-deprecating down the evolutionary line
Puts me in the position where
Its solutions
Simply do not apply.

I cannot molt.

I carry the non-molting liability gene,
The human germ line germ
That when the form of the body no longer fits,
It cannot simply be discarded.
The liability germ that when the body is blighted,
Its proliferate sarcoidosis must persist
Throughout the systemic iteration --

The agglomerated ruins of immune warfare
Remaining, without perpetuation,
In a closed system where everything else

My lungs will, some time from now,
Contain no cells that they presently contain.
But the scar tissue,
The granulomas,
Remain where they are,
Persistent in a system where nothing else
Other than the mechanism to persist
Because the scars I carry
Are more immortal
Than the genetic postulate
Which will replace,
Which will perpetuate,
On-and-on for as long as it can,

Until it cannot,

And when I am dead,
Every perpetuating part of me will have
And be dead;
And the scars,
Of all kinds,
Will have outlasted them.

Today I feel less than human,
And I dearly wish I could molt.

The molt,
The progression from
One instar to the next;

The quantitative,
Measurable progress
Towards the imago,
Towards the adult,
Towards completion
In every molt,

Alongside the liberation! --
The freedom to discard
The boundaries of the closed system that,

Rubbing up against,
Leaving my probing hands and mind
Scarred and burnt by friction,
Shrunken by the compression of
Growing so large and complicated
Within a space that cannot change evermore,
Whose specifications were set
Within limits
When the germ line was first born,
And the liability gene enacted.

I must grow to survive
The changes tomorrow brings,
But today I feel less than human
And I don't want to grow anymore
Than I want to face tomorrow.

Carrying the burden of so many scars,
Confined by limitations I cannot trade up,

I just don't think
I can handle what comes tomorrow.
I wish I could molt,

Because molting,
The caterpillar gains the advantage
Our liability gene
Means we do not always gain;

From one instar to the next,
The caterpillar is always closer to
Being what it is meant to be,
And to fulfillment of the few, but all,
Instinctive desires
It has.

From one day to the next, though,
I only too often learn
That the growing contribution from
Scars inside, never healing,

And the growing realization of the
Hard-and-fast boundaries, limitations

Of my body

That cannot molt,
Only too often learn

That I am not going to be any closer.
No closer at all.

Today I feel less than human,
And I can trade down freely,
Glorifying all I want
Life processes that do not belong to me
Because, being human,
I all too often wish solutions were simpler:

"Meals must come before molts,"

And then,
I would be there.

I cannot molt.

Today I feel less than human,
And play escapist mind-games
Of rhetoric and could-have-beens

Because these are the tools
My body provides me
To numb the dull, sometimes painful,
Pursuit which still only mimics the caterpillar:

My dumb, animal pursuit -- meals, without the
Luxury of molts --
In the day-to-day pursuit of finding,
One day,
I am not feeling the way I do today
About tomorrow;

Because notwithstanding the scars,
And notwithstanding the limits,
Notwithstanding that I am human,

That I cannot molt,

I am driven ever-on -- notwithstanding --
To become my imago.

Yo Check This Out / Re: Megatenda's Poems
« on: January 01, 2015, 01:48:02 PM »

The only position I have in which to
Sweat out the tension
Of being in your bed
Is in your bed.
I recite silently a cite once sited on Wikipedia:
In the post-traumatic, the fight-or-flight response becomes
Fight, flight, freeze,
Or fawn.


I cannot impress while pressed against.

I feel so large but must be so small.

I have so much time to think this over,
So much time to meditate on the suddenness
And completeness
With which the smallest, most incapable
Was distilled out of me.

I don't drive my car.
I am a passenger. I am passing. I am

I don't go anywhere.
I arrive with. I am second. I am

I don't choose.
I am spoken for. I am I am I am

I am I think, spiraling,
I am not a person.
I have so much time to think this over,

And the thesis I can't communicate
Is that I have forfeit my personhood
Because all of that therapy I had in
Another time, another age,
Had always stressed autonomy so much.

I consider whether I am an inautonomous person.
I have so much time to think this over,
But I cannot impress this upon anyone

While pressed against,


Against walls
Through doors
Into the sheets
And around bodies, like an
Inautonomous glove
I am pressed.

I am the carry-on he impresses upon
Everything necessary to prevent
The carry-on from impressing anything
On anyone the carry-on must see,

For the carry-on is

Odorous, something controlled for
Circumstantially, something prepared for
Owned, something cared for
Used, surviving only ever through

The direct lineage of
And care,

Prior to use.

The hart sings my verses that appear on paper,
And I read from the liner notes
Written in by the hart.

The duet, as-written,
Is never voiced,
But the distinction is lost among

Compensating interpretation.

After all,
Make a duet.
And we are two.

I have so much time to think about this,
And I just assume it doesn't seem suspect
Because every mind in the audience
Harbors now, and forever harbors,
The fantastic notion
Of a hart so doting, so loving and
That he will sing the doe's part.

The compensating interpretation:
She must not want to sing.

The correlating thoughts,
Filling the mind with vapor immediately after:
She must not have anything she needs to say.

We pass through crowds as
As any other duet, pair,
Because for these parts of the song,

I am voiceless.

But being in front of public eyes is the
Bearable business
Of being his doe.

In private, I must sing. I must always fawn.


I have all this time to think because, mentally,
I am always trying to be as far away from the present situation
As is at-all possible.

I think about The Handmaid's Tale a lot.
It had lots of tips for a doe,
A somebody else's woman.

Offred's way out is one of the
Only ways out
I might foresee for myself.

When the storm is already upon you,
Ofttimes the shortest path to
The only reachable path to
Is the path leading to the eye;
The eye, and its constant, unending
Outpouring of

Two-faced generosity

Recalling so clearly Atwood's epigraph:
"In the desert, there is no sign that reads
"Thou shall not eat stones."

I fill my cheeks with stones,
And sing what the hart wills I sing.

The moaning notes.
The squeaking notes.
The pleading notes.
The crying notes.
The fawning notes.
The loving notes.
The loving moaning
Notes, the crying pleading
Notes, the fawning,
Fawning notes,
The notes I must sing with
Mouth and belly
Full of stones
Without ever connoting
I have been eating stones in the desert.

Because it is verboten to eat
What I will
In any measure;
It is only safe to eat
What I am given
In all the measures I receive.

It would not do,
That he discovered I take strength from
The nutritive capacity of a rock
And not from his seed.

It would not do,
That he discovered I grow fat from
The comforting space-filling nature of stones
And not from his seed.
And not from his child.

I satisfy myself in the small margins
Of the placebo effect,
And the smaller margin
We each take when we have control
Over even the smallest,
Most insignificant or
Most harmful

I eat stones in the desert,
To maintain the poise
That, should I ever draw near enough
The eye of the storm

That I might be threaded out of it,
Woven back into the warp of normal life
Via some escape engineered by the operative plan of

Fawning, fawning, fawning

And praying with all my heart to God
That for the duration of one chance,

Janus will not turn his head

And will act according to his better half.

Until then, I can only do what I must do
To preserve the storm,
His fluctuating whirlwind of feelings
Neither breaking me
Nor saving me.

I absolutely must take ownership of my role,
Not as victim but as chattel;
Taking ownership of ownership that I don't own
Affords me the position of
And what property owns:

The master's service to the property:
To utilize,
To keep in working order,
To not leave by the side.

To keep close,
To shelter from the storm,
But never let it outside those borders.

Mouth full of stones,
I sing so beautifully
Everything he wants to hear;

I inform his investment. I substantiate his
Investment. I corroborate his investment,
Invest myself into his investment so he
Will invest himself into his investment and
Never discard his investment.

I abide
So that
The bond

I fill my cheeks with stones,
And I sing squeaking,

Breaths when I can,
Spending as much time as I can
Aloof in thought,
Because the question posed
In those moments I am permitted to

Pause, and catch my breath,

I answer quickly, and never question myself:

Will I sing, or will I die?


It becomes commonplace to congratulate myself
On still being alive.

I grade, separate and create distinction between
The lesser
And the greater
Acts of valor. Acts of performance.

I sold a woman to a man,
Who received a man at the airport,
And never hurt me.

Because of how I carried my baggage.
Because of where I stood, waiting,
And the seemingly "idle" actions

I repeated for near on an hour

Waiting for him to see.

My contrition, my scatterbrainedness,
My vulnerability,
My weakness,
Everything that I broadcast

Was broadcast

Because he saw it walking into the room.
Seeing someone repeat these things for an hour,
You receive a different impression.
Like all the verses of this song I have written
Before I have sung,
I wrote it on risk
And swallowed the risk singing it.

If the hart ever knows
His partner manipulates him,
I don't know what the hart will do.
This is a risk I do not swallow.

The doe's song is only artful performance.
It is not technical.
It is the carefully-crafted performance
I must make constantly,
Under all scrutiny and
Possibility of scrutiny,
In order to create something of such



That no one ever knows. The knowing dies with me,
Whether I die or simply,
One day,
No longer am forced to sing this song.

The doe sings tomorrow into being,
When otherwise tomorrow is never guaranteed.

I cannot fight.
I cannot flee.
I cannot simply freeze,
And hope for the best;

For the best

Showing no duplicity but honest love
And singing, showing no spite or
Regret, singing, showing no disdain,
Singing, from the very first day
To whatever will be the very last

Because to the doe,
No tomorrow is ever guaranteed.

I am an artist and my song was more beautiful
Than any you ever heard,
Though you'll never hear it sung with honesty,
And you'll never understand the structure or
Content, and you'll never,
I hope, understand the need.

The doe sings tomorrow into being.
The rooster only picks up where she left off.

Something, though, bothers me about this.
It's a question of timing.

I silently recite, ofttimes,
A cite once sited on Wikipedia:
In the post-traumatic, the fight-or-flight response becomes
Fight, flight, freeze,
Or fawn.

This cite can't be right.
The reference text is making an astute observation, but it can't really be right,
Because these adaptations take place before we are ever
The trauma.
Because I survived the very first abuse.
And you can't say the trauma was over
Just because I had learned to cope.

Fawning, in the text,
Is wrongly attributed only to the survivors.
I know so many today,
Who still sing the doe's song,
That can only

That they were

Yo Check This Out / Re: Megatenda's Poems
« on: January 01, 2015, 01:44:53 PM »
I was born in a waiting room,
Slammed against the delivery table
By providence and
Neither I nor the world --
I cannot tell you --
Has ever stopped shaking.


I am the god of homeopathy and every terrible thing.
I am the heart of all meteorology,
The snake never-yet-observed
At the center of every hurricane
Caught in a wet dream,
Thrashing masturbatory and oversexed to
Drive the winds of the world,
Carelessly eroding away
Every solid edifice
To its constituents,
Every solid notion
To its irreducible parts.

I was born in a storm,
And I think the storm moved inside me.
I think the storm lives inside my head,
Siphoning off body heat,
To drive an engine,
Whipping the ganglia.
Lashing the optic nerve.
Howling from every pore the
Destructive, shearing
My tender gentleness
Repaid to the woman who birthed me --
That I never knew --
Because her face was an unknowable blur.
And for me, the world was never going to come into focus.

When my whole world is shaking,
It must mean I shake the whole world.
The circumstances and contexts
Of our meetings
When we meet.
The vibrations sink through skin,
Skeletal muscle,
Into the cells, into the DNA,
And ultimately into every atom,
Which will quake, forever-and-ever,
Until the end of all things.
That's really, how it is:
We've defined the end of all things
As the moment
When my influence on you,
My influence on everything,
Reaches the aptly-named
Absolute zero.

The vibrations of baby pandemonium
Linger on long after the touching's past --
After the storm, from your perspective,
But it is gangrenous.
I am the god of homeopathy because
I am the only homeopathic treatment that works.
And I am the god of homeopathy
Because you are all subject to my treatment.

The harshness with which
I crash into you,
The speed at which my derricho strikes,
Infects the random nature of
Brownian Motion,
But I'm not saying Brownian Motion isn't right.
I am just an omitted coefficient.

The harshness with which
You crash into me,
The angle at which the shear strikes,
Dithers or empowers
The calculable nature of
The storm,
But I'm not saying that storms aren't calculable.
I am just the omitted firmament.

A human hurricane lives or dies
On the warmth it receives
Through human channels.
I inherit the tenderness of
'Exogenous thrashing,'
That grew baby pandemonium
At an alarming rate.

The way you touched me,
Mother, will outlive both our lives.
The way you touched me,
Mother, feeds the sum --
Informing the vector --
Describing the interaction
When I touch anything else.
Mother, your tenderness
Impresses its tenderness
Upon every impression
I will ever make,
Because as I have said, so many times,
The vector never forgets the summands.
The baby never forgets the mother,
Even if she, having been parasitized by
A god and a storm and inescapable quaking,
Never knew her mother.

My spiraling arms spin out into
Daughter hurricanes,
Because you didn't give me a womb;
I instead have a writhing ghetto:
A noisy, windswept city block
Whose eroded edifices
Cannot keep the wind out,
And through the cheap windowpanes
My influence
Creeps in, turning other
Families, children,
Into storm.
Into pandemonium.

I am the god of homeopathy because
My influence on everyone in the world
Persists beyond any physical evidence of me.
My destruction, fostered by your
Will outlive the cell line.
When this vessel dies,
Its vibrations will simply become disincorporate.

Earth will swallow the storm.

The dirt, the water, and the clay,
Will be gravely unsettled.
The bacteria
Will not have the capacity to feel
But they will be unsettled too.

Pandemonium will spread,
Like the far-less-interesting
Grey goos of sci-fi postulate.
Sometimes back into the food chain
And into the mothers and the daughters;
Sometimes deeper into the earth,
Slowly, cumulatively poisoning
The planet that was forced to
Swallow the storm
Because, by providence,
A woman had given birth to one.

The only emptiness I feel as pandemonium
Is that for the bulk of the history of the universe,
Nothing will have the same intellectual capacity
To be hurt like I was by your influence
Despite suffering, through me, both your and my influence.
The only envy I feel as pandemonium
Is that after this race and this planet
Is destroyed by me,
There won't be anything left to appreciate
The gentle, gentle


Of all the gentle touching

That helped me grow into the storm,
I can only suppose, natural law
I would be.

I feel like I've tried to apologize,
But there's no way the words came out right.
I'm sorry that because of what I was born,
I caused so much tumult
And unhappiness.
I'm sorry that, because of what I was born,
I ended up finding so much happiness
For myself
In spite of that.

The Earth has always spun.
The Earth spun while
Baby pandemonium grew up,
And tender hands passed
Over her,
From her,
Simultaneous origin and epicenter and
Patient zero
For a deleterious shaking
I was part and parcel to,
But mom,
That I won't ever forget
You raised.
The best you could.

The Earth will spin,
After I'm gone,
But pandemonium will never go away.
At the best, after all of us who
Suffer, and perpetuate, it,
Are gone,
It will seem pandemonium has passed away.

But even when there's no observer,
Until the vector arrives at absolute zero,
There will always be a vector:
And the vector
The summands.

The last tender quake of an atom
In all the universe
Will carry the meagerest contribution
From all of us,
Because pandemonium came and passed.
I just wonder,

And I don't know whether I wonder
Or ruefully,
Or bitterly,
Or indifferently,

Whether that tender quake
Will be tender like my mother was to me --
Pandemonium's sarcastic poetism --
Or if the sum, after all,
Will be tender
The way I never knew,

And thus, of course,
Could not honestly
Have written

I am pandemonium,
And I am so sorry that I was born this way,
And I am so sorry that I was raised this way,
And I am so sorry that I will die this way,
Describing in grandiose terms
And an elaborated metaphor about homeopathy
Just how fucking cruel the world has been to me
Because I can write that, honestly,

But I am pandemonium,
And I just can't yet write honestly about
The kind of tenderness I never knew.

Maybe if I had,
I wouldn't believe any of this.

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