FEE6DA

STAR WARS: Still Breathing (WIP)

"I mean, they say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time."

-Banksy

I

The planet Skiisen. A planet of lost dreams of the force. Astral projections of a giant long dead, its head floating in space. It is a fossil, the force filled with an endless sky of plant matter. Twisting vines slither like fingers up bedsheets.

She loves you.

She has guided your starship here, an ancient relic, a T-65B X-wing Starfighter.

This is your last checkpoint of the day. Lost deep inside this gaseous planet is an old Star Destroyer, converted into a home by mystics. Its a popular destination for explorers in the outer rim in an otherwise deadzone between more populated solar systems. Your hoping to meet one of them to learn more about the local inhabitants and creatures that dwell here...

"...Soulakite yeah. Their a uh sort of kudzu being. They are said to be very spirtual beings by the people here. I think they would have been driven out by now otherwise. Supposedly the do have a conciousness much like any other intelligent being. The thing is they take years and years to do even the simplest things. Days to speak a single sentence."

"Days?"

"Yeah. Maybe its just how they function. Personally I never stuck around to listen to them. But that's what you were reminding me of talking about "the force". So maybe if you were patient enough to listen to them you might learn something about it."

Me trying to wrestle an intrusive thought out

Like a dog that has something in its mouth

Its not supposed to.

"Let go, let go, LET IT GO! OPEN!"

Waiting

Boredom is a drum

I hum

Trum trum trum

Boredom is a clock

I tick

Tik tik tik

Boredom is an air vent

Breathing belabored

Under my own weight

Under the weight of air

Looking down at my phone

My view obscured by hair

Where where where

Am I?

Realms of Fantasy

I often lie awake wondering about the time spent escaping. Embodying views of another mind as my life is consumed in fiction. I inevitably wonder whether I am real at all, surrounding my supposedly real life in fantasy and feeling more connected to the dream...maybe I'd prefer things not be real? Even the reality of carnal instinct is intertwined with fetishes bordering on dreams...furry ferocity only emboldened inside my own heart.

I toil and toll, i till my soul until the words come out as such. In this lost lullaby of words I feel more real then reality. Though I have the desire to break free, like many like me I am too socially anxious, disabled, perhaps both, to properly propel my truest self. Besides poetry I am behind...I yearn for a behind worthy of carnal worship...a gaze of its own, like eyes of its own, undressing me as I undress it.

I've been a furry officially for about 10 years now, but the pieces, as unnamable and esoteric as they may be, have always been there. Even something as simple as yearning for a childhood bear, before memories were formed.

(This is a planned opening exerpt for my furry zine "Zoomies". I'm still in the process of looking for local writers and artists but when I have something solid ill post images)

Transistince

Transistence is the resistence

Against the resistence to be trans

From outside and in my head

"Where the psychological

Becomes social"

As an old English professor used to say...

Are my layers just cake?

Vaccous calories of air and sugar?

Why do I yearn

To be a tasty pink cloud?

Dissappearing onto the horizon

Where a sunset masks the line between sky

And mountain

Psychological sky

And societal mountains

Buildings conceal the clouds

Light drowns out the stars

In total darkness

Analysis:

The first few lines about science and untroubled silence puts me in the headspace of the learned astronomer. I appreciate how small of a moment this poem tries to capture, and how that is emcapsulated by the subject of the poem a snowflake (though the word is unused in the poem). Perhaps the exclusion of the word snowflake or any such name for the object of focus has some relation to the final line, which deals in form as a "...perfect individual shape is lost".

A perfect individual shape being lost in the mass of complexity, which on the surface appears simple as snow often does. Thats whats so perplexing about nature, makes me want to stare at it for long periods of time.

Its somewhat melancholic that something as perfectly indivual as a snowflake is lost in frost, yet still when one looks at fresh frost it is beautiful. This touches my gothic sensibilities as someone whose come to see beautiful in the misery of a quiet untroubled life (perhaps thats hard to explain to most people but maybe poets will understand that).

A perfect individual shape being lost in its collective also put me in mind of platonic forms (ie what is a chair?) Perhaps something as seemingly simple as snow is really quite inexplicable when you view it in its totality of snowflakes, such is humanity in the context of humans. I find such truths overwhelming and depressing particularly in cold winter months.

Snow is suffocating with this reminder yet it is also an escape, as it is profound.

(Reblogged with permission from author)

They crystallize in untroubled silence In this early pause, it's a quiet science When you look up Standing so perfectly still No movement but your Breath billowing up towards the sky One catches your eye Before weaving slowly to the ground Before joining the others in the frost You don't make a sound As its perfect, individual shape is lost

-All dogs are good dogs

Yes this is true

-All cops are bastards

Most definitley

-Police dogs?

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

No please I beg you...

Come back...

I love you furry with a basic ass fursona because its what you love, fr.

Love Wind

I'm so afraid. I can hardly stand. My legs shiver, like im gonna pee blood. But nothing comes out, not even anything. The meds are surpressing what they are supposed to, i am not doing okay but im doing fine.

Im free.

Free to the world and to the winds of love, I fucking hate wearing underwear when i wear a dress. I fucking hate adult clothes, id rather have a blanket or a robe. I'd rather you just not look at me at all if you dont like me. I want you to worship me, and in turn ill give you everything i have left. Id kiss you but my mouth is so dry, spironolactone. Im spirling, i want to be null, i want you to act like you cant live without me and take me without me having to ask.

Id tell you I love you but im tone deaf, I cant hear my own thoughts over the depression and sadness. Just fuck it out of me. Make me regret taking you in my mouth. Make me atone for my sins and I'll call you daddy, because your my only daddy problem.

A Lesbian never born

So much for my love, i was cut off into

He cant be the she he wants to be

Estrogen gave him breasts, but not her

Chests full of milk and love soft soft All he wanted was to forget he was ever

Never a woman. He cries because he cant

Tell you all his male secrets. He loves

Every wave of femininity, that idea of

Sapphic love is fleeting sand he

Causes himself so much pain, he is so

Angry at what he was born to be, his

P**** envies the idea of being she, but

Eventually she might come through