Friday, May 7, 2021

American Psycho feeds the flies

 American Psycho feeds the flies


You reminded me of the creepy guy at the picnic


Oh no! A groper.


You closed in.

You called her a bucking bronco.

I didn’t understand yet, you

Like to manhandle women.


I confronted you later

About the horror.

Pinned: my arms, my legs, pinned.

I called you an abuser, which angered you.

So you assaulted me.

So any night, at 2, at 3, i might remember such things.

I could write poems about it, all my days.


I even fell in love again, as death ate my dear.

You see, i won’t be outdone

By your ugliness or cruelty.


I’d take, everything which is mine:

My happiness, my joy.

All you get, are the fragments of the girl you tried to crush.


Your little homies, skyler and darren, can

Illegalize talking about your violent attack.


Darren with the stretched out ears, can say, no personal attacks.

He can make it a safe place for predators, 

Not a safe place to report predators.


And i wonder, how it went with kim.

Did you assault her again?

By the time police and adult protection and sheriff were

Circling you like flies,

Did you assault her ever again?


Now truly amy granite, wanted to sort it out.

Then covid did.

You got to hide behind that mask, with a plastic bag.

Kari asked about your herpes.


She walked in shuddering horror, for years.

She was not the same.

One day i showed her your lawyer’s atrocity.

A pile of paperwork, on the floor.

And i like a child, 20 years younger.


This is what the man who 

Sexually assaulted me 

Did. he hired this lawyer to harass me.

She stormed off, exasperated.


Maybe, you could find another town, 

To torture next time.

Newport. Tillamook.

I heard lincoln city is nice.


You were ugly, but you got uglier.

As you tried to grope me, i felt puke surging up my throat.

I wondered if you were trying to wait out my no, then rape me in my sleep.

Would you rape my corpse.

You threw me down with 

The force to break my neck.


Was that throw down move, the 

Way you knock a woman out, prior to raping.

Your robotic choreography, was so practiced and formulaic,

I was sure you were the 

College rapist.

You tried to call it a date rape, to make it seem more legit.

But you backed out,

After grinding your

Herpes dick on my left thigh, as you bruised 

My right arm with your left claw, and pinned


My legs as i struggled to kick you in the testicles.

And now you work with the elderly.

Which is surprising.

I figured you’d rather defend your name

Than sell your soul for a dollar.

But i was wrong.


I shielded my face from your assault

With my forearms blocking you, 

Like you were a tornado.

That would not last.


You ripped my arms away from 

That protective pose, so you could force your sweaty grimace in my face

As your bald head

Profusely leaked your sweat

On my hands as i tried to block you

As you attacked me.


My Neck! That’s hurts! Why would you hurt my neck?

Snapping me down.


Jane Says, she’s leaving sergio, he treats her like a ragdoll!

But i wasn’t with you.

I was just going to work at Meals on Wheels!

I thought you were safe.

BUT I TRUST YOU, i exclaimed, after breaking free from your attack.


You had your post-attempted rape

Post-forcible touching

Post-molestation

Post-attempted nonconsensual crotch grabbing

Post---forcible boob grabbing face on.

GUILTY as fuck.


This is a poem, not a trial.

The DISTRICT ATTORNEY decided you were innocent.

As a lamb.

A violent lamb.

He said if you get any more complaints, he is KEEPING MY FILE 

For background.

Get it?

That means, no more attempted rapes, gropes, grabs.


Trump was so access hollywood and so were you!

Michigan Democrat my ass. More like Rape-publican.

I learned quickly, the epstein thing.

You see, i never trusted you a bit, to be so ugly

And push brenda to the brink..

It was her problem, having a crush on you.

You’re not my type.

Which i told you.

I’d much rather a woman, i told you.

George, i told you.

Grandpa, i told you.


I said NOTHING IS TO HAPPEN, as you pushed your way in for tea.

That was the first promise you broke.

LIAR!

Meals on Wheels, Feels on WHeels.

Now i see clearly, a poverty pimp,

Is just a sexual predator with a fig leaf.

And your day job hustle, 

Is the way you

Cloak, your ugliness and lack of manners.

You tried to brutally victim blame me, for finding you ugly and repulsive.

I found you ugly,

Before you assaulted me.

Imagine how i feel now.


I gotta say my second rapist 

Was a beautiful man.

Are you confused?


Yes you were reminding me of him, rapey.

But not in beauty.

My second rapist was extremely beautiful.

Unlike you.

Don’t touch me, i’m catholic.

You see, my right to say NO, is bigger than your


Right to hire lawyers to punish me for saying no.


My No, is more important, than your sexual attack

When i called you an abuser!


My no, trumped everything.

My No is bigger than Skyler Archibald’s 6 million dollar boondoggle, or 

Darren Gooch’s threats to call the police on

The food bank

Methamphetamine apocalypse.


My No is bigger than that 20Million dollar defeat.

The election did not give you permission to rape me,

Even if you run “Meals on Wheels”

So you see,

St. Mary Hospital house of Horrors

Has a new ghost!


Christopher Guest Duffy 

Lives on a skyline hill.

ANd his landlady has been warned,

To steer clear of his sexual violence.


No one knows, why

He isn’t man enough,

To own up to his actions.

He thought he was educated,

But he lacked class enough


For ruth balsey’s great-grand-daughter.

She put his rakishness

Front page for years!

Alert! Alert!

Cad! Cad!

But it wasnt enough!

It was never enough!

There was never any justice

For the Grenfell tragedy!

The Kensington burn down was fresh

And all the haunted ladies

Stalking

And four dead in seven months, no thanks!


Fontana was in that airplane!

He did things he can’t tell his family!

Julie got a rash!

Allergic!

I had to slide, into that morass!

But the pain lingered!


I was sure Karma would get you.

But one day, i decided to be a part of that Karma.

It was embarrassing enough.

Your bromances, kicked in 

With enough patriarchy

To sooth your circumcision wounds.


It wasn’t my problem.

Your genital mutilation. Your feelings of inadequacy.

The risks, the rewards.


My angel’s there with me.

My Jesus.

And the National Guard, at court.

WHo would know, what reinforcement?

You can’t be too safe, with women

Dead in the forest, like that!


After the first kidnapping,

There is no other!

The moment of the pin-down was a forcible 

Wrongful imprisonment!

Chris Duffy, hostage taker!

Northwest Senior and Disability Services,

Let you call it a “wrestling and tussling”

Which is what rapists always say.

“I was just wrestling, your honor!”


“I like WRESTLING WOMEN, like andy kaufman.”


Nonconsensual wrestling and tussling.

Whatever you call it.

You know about that man who hanged himself behind, costco?

Things like that?

Or that girl that was strangled with his wallet chain?

Doreen?
Or that old man’s body dumped on highway thirty, wrapped in plastic?


Things like that.

This is not a perfect county.

And you are not a perfect person.


A better man, would have apologized immediately. Repaired the damage.

But you had to hide and play cat and mouse

Bullshit games for years.


Your cowardice was striking.

I found your violence effeminate.

As if you have no other notion of masculinity, than sudden brutality.

You were not calm or elegant like sady.


You were not good enough for me.

And that angered you.

You were rejected.

You were punishing me for rejecting you!

It’s too bad.


Clatsop means dried fish.

Will your heart give?

WHat drugs did you mean? you told me about trying to buy drugs, but getting denied

Due to looking like a cop.


What drugs?

Why do you call cops pigs?

Funny isn’t it?

Turns out you tried to turn Chris Palmer, but he turned on you, the last year before covid.

This is what you are doing to humanity

The last year before covid.

What were you doing 

The last year before covid?


Hiring a lawyer to stalk some girl who called you an abuser 

Years later.


Years later, you were still mad i called you an abuser to your face.

Mad you violently attacked me and didnt get to keep that a secret from Seaside, Oregon taxpayers, city council, and the astoria police.


So mad, even celia howes, would defend you when you got arrested. She would fix it. Clean it up.


You had to hire a lady lawyer 

Regarding your sexual attack.

Get it?

How feminist of you!


Charming or not,

Cindee Matyas played ball for a while.

Until she remembered on which side her bread is buttered.

I mean the patriarchy, has been so good, to us.

That side of covid.

But when i saw her last, she looked thin and shrivelled and sad

Frightened.

Disappearing.



Their little justice system

Was afraid of big cases.

So she decided to protect you, in the wings

Of mother goose.


Perhaps she wanted me to be Joan of Arc, some more.

Cindee’s got to get off the crack.

For Sarah Everard, if no one else.


Wirkala insists he shot

The sexual attacker.

I did no such thing, myself.

The worst, the best i did, was try to kick you in the testicles.

Which is why you had my legs pinned

For the grinding of your penis on me,

Nonconsensually.


I heard Johnny Depp has a new fragrance:

Nonconsensual.

I didnt know rape is just a category of porn, then.

I assumed you were a porn addict.

A possible child molestor.


I assumed you raped your fellow Hillary Clinton campaign volunteers, or at least put a huge gropey grabbing fit up, if you couldn’t kleptomania all the boobs your creepy

Octopus hands got.

Spiderman?

In my window?

F-you.


I’ll finish my earl grey now!

Content in our 100% mortality rate.

Humans, like fruit flies, with small meaningless lives.

This meaningless poem.

Like your meaningless assault.

Iike your meaningless job, like my meaningless blogs!


Ha!

But what a can to kick down the road, sometimes.

I figured, you’d be a friend, to chase away the ghost of Ben.

Ben was a neck snapper too! What’s with you big boys, always trying to snap my neck!?

Did you rape your sister?

I can only wonder!


So, the children, will have to get past the

Spikes in the road, the soap bubbles, and the ghosts mobilizing

To haunt your days.


You see that double chin, in addition to your horrifying butt chin,

Is uglier than i remembered, as you melted into your

Steaming mashed potatoes, one day.


You would not go to court, to save your skin, or your name.

You would slink away, until the guards are drugged.

G. kept saying epstein’s dead. Epstein’s dead. 8-10-19.


It wasn’t like a Disneyland trip.

Did your father beat you?

Were you molested by your Boy Scout Troop Leader?
Who f-ed you up?



I know i shouldn’t care. You are just some guy who attacked me.

Some scum.


But i wonder.

I hope i helped, open the closet, where you keep all the bats.

You seemed like the vacuum cleaner store salesman, who turns out to be Ted Bundy serial killer.

You have that Middle America secret psychopath look down.
I heard you listened to some Detroit Punk one day.

Could any fashion choice improve your dorky rapist fashion sense?

No. Probably not.

Glad we got that out of the way, early.

Leave it to me, to cut thru the BS.

I’m afraid of Americans. I’m afraid of the world. 


Make the coward pay, dust said.

You were picking on Julie’s mom one day.

ANd Sandra. Pushing her.

Men who hate women

On thin ice.

Employee of the Month, Rapist of the Year.


Skyler asked you to resign, remember? But you dug in like a parasite.

Like a tic, like a flea, like a blood sucking exoskeleton.


Ransom listened as i confronted him and Steve about the Salem Witch Trials.

So that was really unoriginal of you, to try to pull some misogynistic crap like that.

I could see through that when i was 10 years old.



7 May 2021


( American Psycho feeds the flies is written as i approach the fourth anniversary of being sexually assaulted by Chris Duffy in Clatsop County Oregon. Fortunately i was able to fight off the assault----and delay---and fight flight or freeze----it is so horrifying this county still allows him to have contact with vulnerable people, and i find his complicity network, extremely concerning. Chris Duffy is so ugly, i had to look away the first time i met him, for fear my disgust would be written on my face. i felt pressured to be socially graceful as he was attending my female friend. Hail Brittannia! Hail the Goddess! Hail Mary crushing satan under her feet-----)


Tuesday, April 5, 2011

the internet is a funeral in my brain

there was nothing below or above, beyond or hintern
what was said before love was not meaning anything
and what is said after love exists in an abyss
where every day contains many near death experiences
as i feel my heart almost forget to beat, multiple times a day
and certain thoughts give me pain in my chest
and i try to eat, but purchase food without feeling
and admire my pale hollow cheeks
and wonder at our robotic ways

when a friend, at the other side of this illusion in time, answered the phone
i was suddenly not alone

the funerary placement of objects as we do honor the dead
occurs on funerals of internets
the internet is a funerary affair
before which we lay remembrance of collateral murder
in prose and poem and film
the raoul wallenberg memorial in stockholm, of a secret exodus
contains lies of the wars of empire
as wallenberg family is now engaged in genocides
war industries

the internet is war industry
the internet is funeral
the internet has supplanted passivity with activity
readers become writers
with internet
but we are writing hollow lines for hollow men
on wallenberg global energy grid
while the war rages on robustly
and the guantanamo detainees will get no federal hearing
they will be coerced down the impossible futurity of the
monkey/military tribunal
USA is fired for war crimes

Friday, February 11, 2011

she is mentally unwell

the hurtful words to discredit all she says, before she is drowned in the witch trial.

never will you know, do not forget, but never will you know, the permanent damage against the humanity of the subject, laid waste by the haters of mind, in their barbarities of language.  i write to you from prison

artaud was suicided by society, and so too will you be, if you pay attention to its raucous pompous brawl.  get to safety and do not listen to the barking of dogs, though they bring you meat, where the pigs squeal.

and when you get your way back to jainism and the lotus, never go back to the hells of hate speech and cruelty, not even in the crisp air on white snow, the blood runs thick under that snow, where humans are plowed under, in collateral murder, leave sweden.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

letters from isolation

Non-violence and letters from jail

      The open-ness of a question falls into our laps with infinities of possibility.  What will we scrawl into the open minds of children?  What mirror will they see?  Will our language teach them to create worlds, or accept false worlds?  What we put on the page, or the blog, or the book has the force of the Torah.  If we are so chosen by powers outside ourselves, so to communicate, in the glory of time, by vigil or morning, we too might be writing the disaster, or the letter from a jail. Writing is not to be taken lightly. Nor reading, nor speaking.
    Ahimsa, nonviolence, is threefold.  In thought, word, and deed might (non)violence occur.  Could we call anyone any which way, but petal, and dearest, saint, revered other?  Or liar, rapist, the damned? Could we say any way to justice? Can evil be spoken?  Is it banal? Is it, at all? Is there such a thing possible?  My defense attorney friend saw that there was no crime within the bounds of sanity.  We are all not guilty by reason of insanity.  For that moment of abrogation of human rights, is a moment of rupture from the good, the buddha-nature, the inner light contained within all beings.  So if in the moment of rupture: murder, hatred, violence, self-harm----a person could be caught, like a bird, fluttering and afraid, and calmed to a point of reason/peace, could we nonviolently transform????
    As i poured over thorazine’s curse, programming lessons with my brother, pondering exile, chemical straightjackets, coup d’etats, suicided film-makers, murdered film-makers, lobotomized journalists, braindamaged beaten fingerless bloggers, and meditated on an oral tradition of a digital hyperreality, it might be as in a dream the answer occurs.  The monk appears to say “everything will happen before you die.”  And this is no genocide studies class.  But to wake in the morning refreshed and hungry for wikipedia’s hidden genocides, herero namaqua, hungry for a human sound, like the muffled echo over time in the heating vent in the solitary cell, might then we allow the powers of speech beyond speech, the powers of mind. Or bones calligraphies koans to make.
    I feel them, the minds calling through the isolation chambers, the torture tanks.  I feel the boats at the coast, sent back to eternal diaspora. chernobyl, hiroshima.  I dream of the oil drenched birds.
    In Himsa theory, the harm in mind, enacts real molecular destruction on the silent prey.  Words uttered, written even, have power of sacred texts to transform nations, destroy spirits, stop hearts.  And then in sounds, sonorous sounds, come healing.  And time so quick, in a life ended at thirty seven, in the time of the assassins, to repeat: “MLK” as the only bright spot on a dreary morning, a hero as we pass the petrol highway, the infinite cruelties of forgetfulness . . . a spell, a hero, a mantra, to say and to utter a name like a prayer, a hero, of hoping . . . MLK . . to awake from malaise . . . of theo van gogh and submission . . .
    And in the Jain way, there will be no taking of life in the future.  As hunker we down to tiptoe the land for fear of the insect life, and harm, ahimsa will have new ways of being, like in the morning of august, a time when i felt understanding, in a neon sun haze, in a chemical lie, with st. john’s wort and friendship.  There will be fruits and nuts but no harm done to any animal and nonviolence will permeate every spoken word.  No words will main, divide, officiate the false binaries.  Every word will be spoken for human liberation and against death, death which is a virtue, to lay down and starve peacefully, hurting nothing, no one, maiming no one with words.
    So as up we rise from the perfection of repose, we will choose words more carefully, lest they inflict pain.  As life was suffering already without more pain.  And there will be liberators, doctors who take pain away.  And Eichmann in Jerusalem might be saved to speak the darkest secrets of the darkest realms, so we may know the depths of man’s inhumanity.  And as the rapist condemns his victim to life, so justice will condemn the living to life and the dead to dying, for pain will last afterlifes in the spiritbodies of our words and laws.
    So the letters from jail are all the letters of civilization, as existence gives itself to speech, and utterance, after the disaster.  To write in thrall, in slavery, was the servitude of scribomaniacs.  As Maurice Blanchot spoke of the writing imperative, it is with words to witness . . .