Hate Me

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and eleven

skip me, shun me

never touch me,

don't give in to my rushed lusting

bend me, break me

just forsake me,

leave me to my wild chasings

lose me, leave me

don't believe me,

when I say you'd get me screaming

haunt me, flaunt me

mock and taunt me,

tell the world you'll never want me

grab me, stab me

never have me,

tell me how you cannot stand me

fry me, tie me

crucify me,

leave me cuffed up; hang and dry me

beat me, bruise me

over-use me,

screw, abuse and tear into me

throw me, blow me

get below me,

show me how you'll never stroke me

rip me, rape me

tongue and take me,

come inside and rearrange me

cut me, gut me

shame and smut me,

rip my heart out while you fuck me

kick me, ditch me

pull-unstitch me,

spread my limbs and leave me twitching

tie me, lye-formaldehyde me,

out of sight and out of mind me,

live your life while I am dying,

pray no one will ever find me.

Reckless Mess

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and ten

Reckless Mess

Let the lightning strike me down

I'm leaving my man and skipping this town,

I'd rather go out in a flash than drown

I'd rather walk lone than march in a crowd.

Here I come and here I go,

hear me rattle down the road,

ain't got no silver

ain't got no gold

but I got my youth and I got my code;

Onwards and Upwards; never plateau

nowhere to be and all-where to go,

I'm chasing the sun

and racing the snow.

Leave me be baby

let lie your woe.

Sleep and you'll dream,

I'll dream while you sleep,

I'll dream in the ocean

I'll dream in the street

I'll dream while the city can't rest it's head,

I'll dream of the day I've earned to be dead.

For the wicked don't rest

and the restful are tricky,

They want what I've got;

but what I've got I ain't givin'.

It's called freedom, high strung,

a quick trigger finger,

Lungs nice and young

and a refuse to linger.

I've got powder for guns,

and frustrations to light it,

a rocket for one 

bad reasons ignite it.

Here I come here I go

while the night is still young,

and the air is still hot with the blood of the sun.

Not one silver or gold

to weigh down my steps,

I'm leaving this town

I'm placing my bets.

Call on my mind

and raise on my body,

I'm deaf and I'm blind

but far from done talking.

Because I'm still blessed with the ire yet fresh,

from my twenty-year-flesh.

Ain't no room to digest 

and reach peace or rest.

I am war, I am leather,

I am risky endeavor.

I am servant and king,

I'm my own everything.

Hear me come, hear me go,

running down open road.

Call me fool, call me lame

call me dumb and insane,

Call me cheap, call me broke

call me lowly and choked,

Call me loud as you can

for already I'm gone, to wherever I ran,

And as loud as you scream,

You're destined to be, just an echo of me.

So leave me be baby

let lie your woe,

You can sleep while you dream

and I'll dream while I go.

Screw The "Divine Feminine"

Be forewarned. I am about to address something that many will see as belittling women. In everything that I say, I do not mean to claim that men and women are the exact same, I simply want to point out some issues that I have with the “divine feminine” myth, in that women are more sacred or holy than men. What I will say requires you to believe in a soul, and who doesn’t hope they are made of more than a few expiring elements combined? I want to talk about a theory I have that souls do not have a sex, but the way our physical bodies influence our souls through chemical reactions that induce certain emotions and thoughts make us believe we are inherently gendered.

Open your mind and let my theories appall or enthrall you.

Yours recklessly,

Lillith Foxx

If women are the "divine feminine" then how come most major spiritual figures are men?

That’s not to say that men are more divine either, I’m simply pointing out that the evidence doesn’t allow for women to be held in a higher regard. You may think; but women can give the gift of life! They carry children inside them and give birth to humans that weren’t there before. Tiny little people walk right out of them. Women are like imperfect cloning machines.

My argument is this; when you give a man enough estrogen, he starts to act and react like a woman. No, his body may not be able to carry a child, but he feels as though he could. The maternal instinct is not in us as women, but in us as humans that have a certain hormonal influence. Just like if you gave a woman enough testosterone she would become irrationally territorial and competitive. Acting as if she were a man.

You go!..girl?

The only reason men and women are different is not because our “selves” or our “souls” have a gender, but the influence that our physical bodies (ie; hormones, genetics, periods) have on the way our mind operates. You’ve probably seen by now the scientific explanation of love, how it’s really just a chemical reaction influencing your emotions with the influx of dopamine and tempting pheromones when you look at someone with perfect symmetry and baby-makin’ features. Well that’s the same influence that hormones have on “spirituality”.

I argue that many have confused women’s open emotions with a knowledge of the ether. Females are so persuaded and often downright controlled by our emotions that we see pretty things and get happy, or see someone hurt and start crying because our bodies are telling us to. So that when we have children of our own we know to lay them on a bed of flowers rather than a ball of barbed wire. It’s that maternal instinct that basically rules our lives. Men on the other hand are looking for protection and strength to guard their families. This does not make them less spiritual, their instincts simply do not seem as gentle or peaceful as women's.

Her mom must have been wired wrong.

Women who themselves support the divine feminine ideal are supporting (probably unknowingly) a much larger issue that I won’t fully get into here, sexism.

Claiming that women are in any way more ‘special’ than men, (simply because we can carry babies-which we couldn’t do without men- and which we forget that we are not obligated  to do) totally negates every important stand that women have taken to demand equality.

We want the same pay! We want the same opportunities and treatment! We want to be seen as humans! Oh but we also want to be seen as more delicate, spiritual, intuitive beings than men. Do you see the insanity here?

I used to cringe at the word feminism, (which a friend recently pointed out simply means ‘the doctrine advocating social, political, and all other rights of women equal to those of men.’) because I was so used to the overly-righteous and sometimes straight up misandry from feminist activists that it was terrifying.

We’ve all seen the bitchy feminist character in movies who is usually pushed to the extreme of a man-hating, short-haired, soulless women who get’s cracked on a couple times and when she fails to jump on a dick within the first 30 minutes of the film she’s thenceforth referred to as a dyke. That is NOT equality. She is not your average woman and if our choices for cinematic representation are a dumb, likeable girl or a smart, hard-assed cunt, who do you think most women would choose?

Of course you are not the average woman (if you are indeed of the feminine persuasion), you are strong and independent and know how to download torrents all on your own so you demand a better representation than that. And I agree! But if you want society to give you the respect you deserve, you’ll have to let go of the petty ideals of being a woman. Yes you have boobs, yes you have a uterus, yes you can get dirty as hard as the men, no you may not expect special treatment or a reward for it.

Yes it’s usually tough women who make it in the industry (whichever one that may be) but it’s usually tough men as well. If you’re a pussy you’ll fail as either sex, so stop demanding a gentler hand to shake. This is not meant to be anti-feminine, this is simply anti-divine-feminine. This is for you to realize how unfair it is to rant and rant and rant about adequation, and still support the “uber female”. We, as beings, are born into infinitely different combinations of the exact same material. We naturally have access to all of the same knowledge, tools, powers that be, (or whatever you believe in) energy, feelings, attitudes and dispositions. They are not separated or divided unevenly at birth between the sexes, so why do we claim it to be so?

Obviously 'Mother Earth' is preggers. All the time. But still pretty right?

Think of this; we call her “Mother Earth”, Why? I doubt if there was a spirit of the earth that it would be in the shape of a human, let alone male or female. Do you really think there would be some sort of gender to something that powerful and whole? No. It would be some asexual spirit that gives and takes and keeps things in balance. If it were a mother, don’t you think there would be too many imbalances in the world?  As in no tree could ever die, because what mother would let her children pass away? No, it would need aspects of both genders to be a true god. But because the earth has “given birth” to so many things; animals and rivers and agriculture and such, we relate it to a woman. But there is competition and justice in nature as well. We have simply labelled it female because it’s easier for us to relate to.

It’s simpler to put things into black and white, male and female, hard and soft. The truth of the matter is, life is a kaleidoscope of colours and truths, and we are constantly changing and combining to form certain patterns and words and beings at one time or another, then separating again to become distinct personalities and shapes.

You are a man and I am a woman, if you pull back, we are both humans, pull back again, we are both mammals; farther, creatures of earth, members of our solar system, the milky way. Equal beings who are small samples of the bigger picture. But I am not more human than you, more spiritual, divine; only our physical bodies separate us, together we are yin & yang, but separate, we are whole.

This Heat

365 Days of Creativity

one hundred and nine

It's those summer days you've been aching for since the first snow fall. Where it's too hot to move and there's nothing to do, so you sit, trying to prevent your body parts from touching each other. God forbid you make physical contact with another live human and your skin vacuum-seals together like warm glad wrap. I say live human because I actually imagine touching a corpse would be weirdly refreshing. Nice and cold. Stiff too, unlike everything else which gets insanely pliable in the heat. 

You've woken up late because you stayed up later. Relishing the few cool hours before the sun starts rising again. That determined bastard. Just give it a rest for a day, wouldya? Any rain is a blessing in this desert. But the ground seems to show off with how fast it can suck itself dry. Dirty bitch. 

Your skin is tight from mosquito bites and a sun-scorch from the one day you dared venture out.

It was supposed to be fun by the water, but the lake seems a pitiful puddle in this heat. It's a heavy temperature, flaccid and draining. If you could, you'd do a rain dance or a cloud dance or a someone-bring-me-a-cold-beer dance. On second thought dancing would take energy and what little you have is reserved for collecting enough food that day to carry you to the next.

Your days are filled with movie theaters, shopping malls and anything with chilly walls and bottled water. If you're a girl you wonder why you put up with such long hair and if you're a guy you wish shaven bodies weren't so heavily mocked. You watch tv when you're bored though you can't stand it most of the time. Visions of Marineland and Ice Caps and the new Baskin-Robbins flavours dance in your head. Those childhood sugar plums are now dead.

Remembering that childhood, this season never seemed so hot. Why could your tiny body put up with it back then, but your supposed "mature self" is crying out of every pour? Salty, sticky tears. Your entire body like a skittle held in a child's hand for too long. Sweating out your colour and leaving part of yourself behind every time you touch a surface. 

Without air-conditioning, your best friend is your oscillating fan. Every time the boiling air above you is stirred, you smile (inwardly of course, outward emotions are hard) before another layer of hot cotton settles down from an infinite source. 

Fresh out of your forth icy shower you don't even bother with a towel, trying to keep the water on you for as long as possible. Your neighbour makes eye contact with your naked self through the window, but you can't even bring yourself to be ashamed, so you shrug awkwardly and walk away. You live in the thinnest, smallest clothes you own, sometimes opting to simply wear your bed sheet as your wardrobe.

When you do wear clothes, you pour more water in your t-shirt than your mouth and when your friend calls to say "how's it going?" you just laugh weakly. A series of dares challenging each other to cross the outdoor furnace to come visit ensues, knowing perfectly well neither of you will live up to it.

It's like this for days, weeks, months. Until one day a leaf turns yellow then red and falls to the ground and before long it's covered with snow and the air is so cold it hurts to breathe and all you want is a hot summer day with long hours full of short sitcoms and sweat and so much sun you fear the world's going to melt.

This is the season of heat. This is summer.

World War Z; Hell Yes, A POSITIVE Review

If you didn't enjoy World War Z, you should probably leave now. Really. Just go and be alone with your very angry, unsatisfied opinions. Because I just came out of it, and I fucking loved that movie.

Now from what I've been reading the general upset is about disloyalty to the book and lack of blood and gore, and the latter is the exact reason why I don't watch previews. The usual result from an advert is one of two things; a total reveal of the key events of the film, or a completely misleading three minute thrill-fest. Since I didn't see the preview, I wasn't expecting a uselessly action packed blood bomb. I also knew that Plan B was behind this, and they're not your average gore-boosting production company (excuse Kick Ass for a moment). In case you don't know, Brad Pitt is the sole owner of Plan B, and they put out such dramatic epics as The Assassination of Jesse James and Tree of Life.

UPDATE: I have now taken a minute to watch the preview and honestly there weren't any blood splatters in there, so that was just your own personal wish for violence. I do admit that it's been a sort of guarantee for zombie movies, but I don't think that WWZ needed it as we have had plenty of that for years.

To address the upset fans who wanted to see a loyal rendition of the novel, I sincerely apologize. If I had read the book, I'm sure I would be on your side. Getting mad about the faults of book-to-film adaptations is one of my guilty pleasures, but this time around I'm on the naïve side. For you people, maybe taking this review as an examination of the film as a stand alone product is the only way to see my side. If you don't want to do that I completely understand and fully support your anger. BRAD PITT YOU SUCK. That's for you guys.

For the rest of you who haven't read the book, read on.

Why I enjoyed WWZ so damn much;

There were a lot of scenes that were left out, and unexplained. And that was awesome.

How did the zombies suddenly overwhelm New York? Why was the guy holding up Brad in the pharmacy? Why did we need to see them in the grocery store at all? Why did the RV not start on the highway? What happened to the little boy's parents? Why did they let the people sing so god damn loud in Jerusalem? Why why why?!

Because it was fucking realistic, that's why.

The guy to the right has his priorities straight.

As viewers we were very closely tied to the pov's of Brad Pitt and his family. For the first half of the movie we saw everything this family would see. Maybe the city of New York would have been on alert before everyone went to work that morning, but maybe not. Maybe it had escalated in just a few hours and the family had been in their own nice little family world not paying attention to the radio because they were busy being so cute and lovely.

The guy in the pharmacy and the RV not starting are simply examples that little shit still goes wrong in an apocalypse. To see how fast the frail structure of society unravels when true disaster hits. This is very clearly demonstrated by the two guys trying to rape Brad's wife like ten minutes after shit goes down. Everyone wants to watch the world burn.

What happened to the little boy's parents?

They got eaten by zombies, stupid. Probably sacrificed themselves to get the kid out because they were good people. Or they pushed him out the door to get eaten first and he survived because they were dicks, you pick.

Ok, I agree that people singing at the top of their lungs in Jerusalem was dumb, but apparently they hadn't learned that zombies are attracted to sound. A bit of a reach, and I hate to say that something had to happen to get them out of the city, but that's probably what it came down to.

"Staaaaaahhhhp.... siiiingiiiiiing"

I also loved how from thousands of miles away the love interest still managed to fuck up the day. As in when Brad's wife called him on the satellite phone to tell him to grab some eggs on his way home AND ATTRACTED ALL THE FUCKING ZOMBIES IN THE KOREAN CAMP RIGHT TO HIM AND KILLED LIKE SIX MEN. Women, am I right?

"Little busy, Honey."

But overall the small gaps in timeline were easily filled in by a bit of imagination, and I don't think as intelligent viewers that we need every plot point to be spoon fed to us.

The original twists on the classic zombies. Great. Superb. Probably should be credited to Max Brooks though I'm not positive. You may be pissed off about the "weakness" of the zombies, but I thought it was brilliant. Not too farfetched or gimmicky, but just weird enough to be believable. In fact the whole reason why it was believable was that the zombie's ambition was not for brains, but to spread the infection. Sort of like that parasite Toxoplasma Gondii that infects rats and makes them run around like crazy so that cats will see them and the parasite can move to reproduce inside the cat when the rat gets eaten. It's like the zombie virus is a monster on its own that wants to conquer the world by controlling and infecting humans. Way cooler than dead guys who just want to eat brains in my opinion.

"EAT ME"

BONUS; They actually acknowledge that they are zombies. Stop the presses, the word is really said, multiple times. At last.

I liked seeing the more dramatic side of an apocalypse, (which is why I prefer 28 Days Later to Dawn of the Dead) and Brad Pitt is just a bonus. I say that because he didn't do anything very Pittish, actually none of the roles seemed extremely demanding, but more seemed to take a backseat to the large-scale events that happened. And I was very much okay with that. Basically World War Z took everything that you want to happen in a zombie movie (screaming bitches get their guts eaten, headshots and cheesy one-liners) and did the exact opposite.

OH DEAR GOD, THANK YOU. Finally someone changes the genre enough that it pisses some people off. The big-budget zombie brand has been way too one sided and consistently predictable, and I welcome the change. No, it's not perfect, yes it is still a Hollywood film, but if you can stop over-analyzing for a couple of hours and remember to give yourself to the benefit of belief, you might actually enjoy something for once. And really, you should just be happy that Warm Bodies wasn't the only zombie movie that came out this year.

The Lemon Lady

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and eight

There is a lady like a crayon and she's melting in the rain
She's moldy yellow, streaked and mellow,
drifting down the drain.

But as her fattened thigh hits tide,
she pulls up from the gutter
Out she gets a cigarette,
and a lighter that just sputters.

Standing sadly, dank and dreary,
she flicks her bic again,
a yellow candle without flame,
a waxy tower of chins.

With luck a tiny fire sprite
wakes up to light her smoke,
and there the crayon lady stands
like slimy, shaky yolk.

She covers up her cigarette and forgets about herself,
Her thin hair runs in gross grey lines
down her bosomed shelf.

Like a lemon with grey mold on top
she teeters to and fro,
disgusting people passing by,
with her extra citron growth.

But the lady takes no notice for
She's got a game to play;
to finish off her cigarette
before she melts away.

The Spark; Part Two

This is part two of my first venture into science fiction, if you care to indulge, you can read part one here (it's pretty bad ass).

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and seven

Inter-dimensional travel isn't any easier the second time around. If anything it's worse, because you think you know what to expect so you build up your body for the sensation, and when you're thrown off it's even more disconcerting. This must be what a kalaidescope feels like. 

Back on Earth my feet sunk deep into the sands of Indonesia. The swell was sweet that day, and I was momentarily distracted. Surfers cruised through the ocean pipes behind Mystery, their feet planted on the newest glowing Invisiboards. When they were first released they were great for out of this world visuals, surfers standing on nothing while cutting up and down the waves, but they were terrible to find if your ankle leash came off. Version 2.0's have customizable LED options. Neon flashes, veins fully pulsing, rainbow edges, the night sky, anything you can imagine. It created a whole new market for advertising in the professional sport. Surfers locking into barrels while McDonald's burgers sizzle beneath their feet. Everything is a tv now. All surfaces can be bought by companies convincing you that you need thirty ounces of espresso and milk poured in alternating levels, vertically stripped by pure cocoa and sugar and wrapped up with a caramel ribbon topped by a fucking pink cloud stabbed full of sparklers and cocaine. Which if you buy ten of you get a one free, so you gain six dollars AND diabetes. 

 I came back to Mystery standing in front of me. "Hi I'm Mystery, welcome to Earth." He grinned and stuck out his hand. 

I brushed off his joke. "I was just thinking." 

 "About?" He raised an eyebrow, (which was quite an overwhelming gesture as his thick brows were double the size of a normal one. I suspect his facial hair alone could kill a man). 

"How much I love coffee." Deadpan.

"Ah, how- unimportant." But he smiled, "Well, you're home now, you can go get all the coffee you want." 

"That's it?" I was surprised, I mean, travel to the middle of space with someone you expect at least a cell number. "Isn't there something else we should do?" 

"Like what?" 

"I don't know! You just gave me magical powers. You're Hagrid telling me I'm a wizard, aren't you supposed to take me shopping now or something?" 

He laughed. "I am not your guide. I'm not going to Merlin you so you can fulfill some prophecy. I've given you a small gift and you can choose to use it, or return to your booth," he gestured to the steroid stand in the distance, "and look back sometimes and think, 'That was nice'." 

I was dumbfounded, and also disgusted by the prospect of returning to the convention. "Well what the fuck do I do now?"

Mystery smiled, pulled a black object out of his pocket and handed it to me. "If you need me at any time, just turn this stone over three times and I'll be there."

I took the dark rock, it was cool from his body. "Really?" 

He smirked, "No, not really. Take care Mina." 

And then he walked away. 

There was no smoke, no fantastic disappearing or slipping into the sliver between dimensions. He just walked away, one foot in front of the other like any regular human, only a bit bigger and maybe not as sweaty. 

It was only later that night, as I was sitting on the dark shoreline that I realized I had never told him my name.

I had a tediously quiet week after that, doing nothing much but wave watching. Not being able bring myself to return to the restrictive booth, I sat on the shores trying to open my mind. If I had to call it something I suppose meditation would be closest. Only I'm terribly impatient and almost always frustrated by my own mind so it was sort of like punishing myself. I kept ending up in arguments with me, in which case we would both lose. Unsurprisingly there was minimal magic that occurred. Once, at the climax at one of my internal yelling battles (this one about whether or not I should have followed Mystery that day) I set a small patch of dry seaweed on fire, but this was more frightening than satisfying and I put it out right away. 

Often I thought about Mystery, and whether he had really given me a gift or if it was something for him to fill his time. None of that "why me" or "what makes me so special" went through my head because I don't think of shit like that. There's no point. Sometimes stuff just happens for no god damn reason and that is totally okay. The whole universe came from one little spark. One tiny blip in the black nothingness and all of a sudden there's dinosaurs and people and a million different universes all tangled up in a great big glowing web of life. How's that for fate?

So I never asked why Mystery chose me. But I should have.

One day I emerged from the storm-churned surf (I had an antique board, the kind made from a tree with wax greased over it) a long ways down shore from where I had entered the ocean, and completely lost my bearings. I could see nothing but white sands and palm trees, not such a terrible sight when you're sense of direction hasn't gone AWOL, but to me it was horrifying. I dragged my board under the cover of the jungle and took a deep breath. There's only so many times you can be spun around by the sea before your mental compass is scrambled. Vantage point. That's what I needed, a place of higher ground as to gather my surroundings. 

I headed down the beach, knowing my board would only hinder my steps, until I glimpsed a slope in the distance. Within twenty minutes I was atop a tall cliff, peering in to the distance. The only problem was the sky had been eaten up by clouds, and their hunger shortened my horizon. Salty air bit through to my flesh and clogged my senses. Everything was ocean up here. Ground; damp, breeze; cool. A great chill settled into my innards and my stomach churned as the water did. I should have eaten something that morning. 

Though my glaring at the sky wasn't helping, I couldn't resist giving it a good fist shake and yelling something blasphemes towards Zeus.

Great, now I'm a cartoon character. I huffed down into a sitting position, fuming. 

I absentmindedly tossed some rough sand in between my hands. And as absentminded things are oft to do, the action gave me an idea. I just need a direction. I settled into the hard cliff, scooped up more sand and cradled it in a bowl between my fingers. I closed my eyes and tried to open my mind as Mystery had taught me. There was a red glow behind my eyelids and I screwed them tight to gain complete blackness. Concentrating on my body first, I became completely aware of my surroundings. The wind in my knotted hair, the damp dirt beneath my legs and fingernails, the moist tropic air sticking to my bare arms. Each speck of earth that I was holding became vivid in my mind. I thought up, past myself, high into the clouds. I pushed up and up until I was part of the mist. I willed the sand to see above the storm and give me direction, urging it quietly and with great intention. It was then the sand fled from my fingertips and I came to just quick enough to watch the last of it fly away. In a straight line. A very, very straight line. And I knew which way to go. 

Back in my hotel room I grinned out at the downpour. My surfboard and I were both nestled in, warm and comfortable, with all the sense of direction in the world. Pregnant raindrops cratered the sand and thunder chased lightning around the sky.

"Go ahead Zeus, have your fun. I'm a fucking wizard now."