Posted: July 1st, 2009 | Author: adriane | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: anxiety, death, Depression, dreams, Drugs, Fables, Fear, Glitter, Hope, michael jackson, Perversion, pus, sex, Spirit, zits | 22 Comments »
If ya’ could squeeze the Earth, and eek out its most concentrated, undiluted, human essence; a volcanic , erupted, inflamed, scabby pore hole of a mountain would spew a hot blood, pus filled flesh glitter gob of all of humankind called Michael Jackson.
If the aliens needed just one perfect scrape of DNA to epitomize the result of our evolution, it would be this baby man woman.
Who was black and white.
Who mothered fatherless children.
Who’s heart exploded pills all over us..
He was us. All of us. Modern, globally us. Pilly, weird, depressed, sensitive, neon, greasy, lonely, awesome us.
If Santa Claus goes blind and doesn’t know who to buy for…
If God needs spell checked…
If you need a one word answer for ” WHY? ”
or ” HOW?”
If you use smegma to glue the valentines…
If the totem pole needs a more suitable head…
If the preacher needs to Febreze the pulpit…
and the Krishna’s need turn up the jamz…
If you’ve been in prison for the last 40 years and your illiterate, def and need a quick reference for whats been going down all this time…
If staring at the shit in the toilet bowl is like visiting Hell’s aquarium…
If you want to know why your heart feels broken even when your outfit is cute…
If you use menstrual blood for your minstrel show and your breath smells like VHS tapes…
The answer is Michael Jackson.
Why fame will taste metallic and like slaughter blood on your tongue…
Why masturbation is starting to feel like a relationship…
Why the call waiting beep lives like a deer tick in your ear…
Why babies smile at Pepsi cans…
Why we apply acid to our face…
Why the shaudenfruede tastes like hummus…
Why penis smells like RadioShack…
and the vag is disappearing…
and there are too many tearful free blow jobs
and gay uncles in asylums…
and Beanie Babies are still hanging in there…
and Biore strips induce synaethesiatic delirium.


Posted: April 24th, 2009 | Author: adriane | Filed under: Uncategorized | 185 Comments »
i am in love
i am stressy
I am in the tone
of neglected pussy
I am single
I am designed
I am parallel
to fine.
when i wake up , my throat bursts
Im screaming neggies
when I tote cups
of medicine
I fear a residency
I love and dont
pont
instead of po-TENT
drenched
drenched hole
men go in
then go out
we bathe their dreams
we bathe their very same skin
we bathe, we squeeze, we harbor, we toil
we duck, we bend, we pen
the orchestral score
of screams lit with laughter
to tame a beast, an infant
for love, for love for him
does he see how we our skins
make rain
bow
Posted: April 20th, 2009 | Author: adriane | Filed under: aliens, anxiety, art, cant sleep, comedy, death, empathy, erotica, horror, nervous hospital, photography, poetry, religion, sex | Tags: dreams, fantasy, heartbreak, internet, lonely, romance, sex | 7 Comments »
Peace pipe now a heavy glass of wine. I sigh!
Be drag queens all the time!
Mascara and lipstick
makes your face a tryptic
makes eyes and lips awake
But, now my third eye is now forehead cake
sweet and spongey wanting soaked
I swallowed my lover and still feel choked.
Maybe, to him, I was either pancakes or eggs
breakfast face instead.
My lover’s true
darling is dinner sauces,
spoiled linens, slow time, forgotten faucets
tongues dripping, temperature, timing, trickling,
limbs cooked, coiled and simmering
innuendo boiling in the pot, dirty talk
fingering fortune tellings, peppering the stewing stock.
A whole year, passing notes
via emails, and my space posts
she , coded beautiful sculpture, an html
lovely lovely witchy profile, mademoiselle.
These profiles are poetry
These profiles are plots
These profiles lead us into holes or dreams
These profiles are NOT.
These profiles finally made fantasy
Made fantasy real living life.
Posted: April 15th, 2009 | Author: adriane | Filed under: Uncategorized, aliens, anxiety, art, cant sleep, death, empathy, horror, michael jackson, nervous hospital, photography, poetry, pus | Tags: aliens, angels, anxiety, art, awake, death, horror, michael jackson, nervous, pimples, poetry, pus, teeth, veins, zits | 19 Comments »
Zits are infant angels sent to nap and tantrum inside bassinet pours.
Empathy comes with blood, and a bit of pus-crusty phenomenons.
Veins harvest pain energy and slash into aura’s silk.
Only one angel will survive, if it infects the vein that is fed with hot scum.

Posted: April 3rd, 2009 | Author: adriane | Filed under: art, comedy, erotica, photography, sex | 21 Comments »

Your tits can be as funny looking as wearing Groucho glasses. There seem to be Groucho faces everywhere lately, funny faces cure all pain.