jenfur

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beyond all this yellow
scratching under tube ending nights,
you see is at here odds,
towards souther niflheim and too
flightly were the words meanings
and construction
feel this all distincter with fiddling
of the well
placed you know where
the reasons to building
here add aught but
that old
rock

The Vision of the Child Prophet (a reworking of Blake’s “The Voice of the Ancient Bard”)

Depart aged Sorrow!
Lay in ruin before Night’s end,
Witness all Reason collapse with Your corpse.
See Hope crawl home through mad shrubs
Behind dragging Light caged and chained
Thru the swamp Hope blazes along upon her belly
Animating the ghosts of Life’s fancy:
Heads high her thralls glide through blasted obstacles
Caring only for their domain, knowing only service they fly
To we toiling in fields so harsh and crumbled
With Hope, dragging the Dawn into our maddening eyes.

jennifer can’t even write a decent sonnet

eat my brain snake buddy
                i’ll walk thru yr door w/o noise
                y’ll first only feel my voice on yr face
slurp me up, my elongated pal
i wanna feel your fangs tasting my thinks
                yr vision leaves u in one bite
                y’re spiraling out into fits
i’ll bloat your slender frame, hissy-boy!
Ooze into me, please, and twice
                                FEEL ME OUT
                                INTO ME OVER
again and squeeze.
O, timid ghost! rot my bone;
let me go and shy away.

The set is moving alone.

In the center of the stage she sits softly. There is a book on the corner of the bed. The bed is just left of her. She is dazed. Crawling. He looks down and there is a child in a mouse costume. Very little can be said of the fur’s color. He wakes up. Shuddering. He takes off her hat. Her face is inside out and the audience can no longer see. You wait. You are waiting outside the theatre and there is rain and pavement and the audience is looking behind you. She is covered in blue paint. She sticks out her tongue. The audience is made of mud and sticks to the top of his mouth. Gesturing lewdly at the book. Before she can speak he takes off her hat. Exits stage left.

fucking scorpions (a poem)

i bet carl sagan was a sex addict
i mean hex yeah i’m on the verge
myself

and if astroligy is a thing
w
e can put faith into
that guy’s got all that i have
ya kno the unaverse is a big playce and carl
knew this shit i mean idk
novebmer ninth, nintine-eigtey-nine could mean smmin to

i bust out ov my mom’s belly as mistur gorbachev
and erryone invited with hammering
tore down that wall and carl:
he turned fifty-five. he was probably out
on his ruuf looking at the stars ya know
and love, he maybe was fcuking under the stars
on his roufin that night he was fiddyfive and i was definitively alive
do we beleive in the stars?
do we kno there
aspects of cosmo-
logical magiqk?
gosh i think about my sexual insatialblity
is it my #scorplifestyle?

carl knew his shitte
everthing was beutiful to
him:
the dancing of the stars
he knew about the nucular fusion
of flesh beneath the starlite
it’s all fuckign
germany reunited, two
bodies become one fucking mass
eight pownds fhree ounces of half a blink

if whe’re all stadrust maybe:
the movements of the stars
the fucking of elemints
the lives of earthlings
it’s all just secx

i’m basically a monolithic obelisk radiating love in yr heart

i’m that esoterick

i’m a hexy ass witch and don’t you forget it
imagine the most esoterick thing you can think of and i am still more occult than that
i think i need a black pug and a dead rat to feel truly esoterick
4 notessatanicwitchcraftpugratdeathjenre poetry
as far as pokemon are concerned i’m probably dead
i like cigarettes cos i feel like a dragon or other magical creature like a fire giant or even a swamp witch and i do live a swamp lifestyle so i’m probably an alligator in disguise as a lady
i kind of feel like walking a few miles in the rain without shoes and then collapsing on some stranger muttering about the illuminati. they will most likely think i am french and kick me until i am dead. and then i’d be like laughing cos it was just a joke.

i am in love with today’s broken lifestyle
in bed sadness is totes clutching my tits
keeping me warm
jesus christ what the fuck even is today

it’s wednesday morning and i am not even asleep
my tongue is numb and i’m afraid of the sky
in my room my bed squeaks alone

i didn’t even need my alarm

i want it to be cold and for me to cry
alone with the windows open in the attic
when can i even die on my roof?

don’t let me rot in the sun
fucking bury me on my roof already
my body will curl away into you
i guess 

Self-Evaluations and Conclusions

     Okay, so I’ve vented a lot. I didn’t want this report to be dry, or trite. My term as RCHC President has been very difficult for me. While my experiences in the position provided many learning opportunities, I often felt unequal to the tasks that faced me. Many of the things I did were actually the responsibility of other positions, mainly Treasurer and Secretary. It’s been one hell of a year for the Collective and for me. Alot of progress has been made, alot of issues dealt with, and alot of problems solved. I’m leaving this position as a much different person then when I came in, assumably better. I feel that I have entered into a lifeway from which I will never leave. Although I accumulated quite a few Collective hours over the course of my term, it is difficult to explain in detail exactly what my duties were.

     After new officers are elected, I will be choosing to contribute to the Collective on a practical rather than a policy level by serving on the Maintenance Committee. I shall continue to be involved in the workings of RCHC.

     Overall, we need to challenge ourselves more, demand more of ourselves. I sense the attitudes of “this is the way in which it has always been done” and “this will do”. These attitudes are prevalent in our society. RCHC is in danger of just ceasing to be, due to lack of enthusiasm, interest and hard work. There’s no way to know how correct my vision of the Collective’s future is, but I am convinced we must grow soon or face a dead end and extinction. The quality of the membership is the quality of the coop. The Co-op movement attempts to break down selfishness and self-centeredness. As keepers of the faith, we must work towards these ends within ourselves and within our organization.

                    Do it,
                    Respectfully submitted,