“Looking Back”

All of a sudden—or maybe, even, not so suddenly—I was Clark Kent—or whatever Superman's name was. I had been without contacts or glasses for quite some time, and had quite explicitly in one of my many letters to God—or really any holy power in a realm which might have received my charred requests—all the things I needed, and some of the things I very badly wanted—tightly bundled and wax-sealed with intention for nothing besides that of the greater good, or course, for myself or anyone else—set ablaze in the unforgiving streets of New York City, in secrecy at odd hours of the night; it hadn't been my actual intent to have to practice any magic at all, especially under the circumstances, and it seemed that someone nearly unmentionable at all, had hexed a nasty attack on my psyche—a satanic, demonic possession of the weak and feeble bodies around me, and unable to isolate in completion, I had become vulnerable to such a wicked curse that it had altered my psychic morality—as one does not practition a counter-curse or attack, in my own medicinal expertise, without first being provoked—as one military typically mustn't bomb another, or even it's own enemy without being first considerably attacked—and it was, at this point, indeed a terrible holy war.

I had at the very least been able to return to regular gym sessions, though still not training as thoroughly as before; I had allowed myself to gain quite a bit of weight over the period of just a couple weeks, eating for the most part what I wanted out of comfort, especially having nearly starved and defaulted into severe malnutrition after eating nothing but bananas for a period which lasted something like three weeks—and without adequate protein intake, I had l lost quite a bit of muscle, not that, for the most part, the muscles that I had been building weren't there—in fact, I found myself, at least as of late, looking like any retired or untrained athlete that had let themselves gain atop the muscle they had built—fat now sitting on top of my larger muscles and making the weight gain look and feel even more hideous, and after several days of at least regular lifting and sauna, I still didn't feel like running, which would alleviate most of the gain more rapidly. I was still somewhat sort of depressed—my new roommate having obviously been possessed, constantly bringing up things I didn't want to think about or remember—mostly things from my terribly abusive marriage, and of course grinding her teeth, moaning and mumbling all through the night, always specifically having some kind of problem when I seemed to be making any progress at all in music; My miserable, fat, and drunken ex had after all wanted to be a musician, and I considered him probably to be the soul proprietor of the cruel attacks, and though I had forgiven him, at least for the cheating and for the most part for beating my face in—at least as much as I could, it seemed that simply having become an actual working and professional musician myself angered him greatly, making him bitter enough to the point that he would sit and ruminate on my imminent failure enough that I could sense this—not that it mattered, as by now I had gone too far and worked too hard to do anything else—and though he was well aware of Sunnï Blū by now, I was certain he hadn't the slightest clue that Sunni was just a fictional character. I had started creating music under a number of different aliases, which I learned to be common amongst musicians—but I felt it rather to be nessececary, especially sense whatever satanic and demonic force continued to urge me to kill myself (not entirely out of the question, but still the furthest thing from my mind), as in his care our poor little boy had become morbidly obese, which also ate a hole in my heart and my soul; it wasn't fair that through our separation his body had become so grotesque

and unsightly—but now, it was out of my control.

This Clark Kent was not a mother—I never spoke of my failed marriage or about my son to anyone; I was simply a single woman, business minded and for the most part no-nonsense. I secretly sent care packages to my some 150- pound 6 year old in hopes that he would somehow understand my love for him; I often made mixtapes with him in mind—he loved Daft Punk. I wasn't interested in dating or even socializing beyond the neasesaey network connections, which were far and few between in the area I had been settled in, but not quite comfortable. Black men in the music scene never wanted to collaborate or or facilitate promotions without some gesture of romantic or sexual connection—in an area, music—which I considered now strictly business, and for the most part, had been talking myself down from the fantastical wet-dreamy world of fandom which might have anything to do with seeing myself with anyone in such a realm as to have crafted for themselves a career in the world of music at all—in fact, I had become unmovable from my cellibacy—though the sexual beast that dwelled on the base of my spine flamboyantly crept up into my loins and even sometimes up into my heart, I had learned to swallow it down; there was no man that I wanted or needed so much as the ones I had, and would now rather suffer alone than to struggle to try to find someone that I actually could see as a partner—Creative and emotional intelligence aside, by now I just preferred being alone, and it seemed that even those I had cared for had started to become like my ex husband—probably also overtaken by demons—and so I felt it safe and more valuable to be alone, thinking perhaps having given birth to three of his children, that my body, mind, and soul was ruined—but I'd rather go it alone myself than go back to him, or worse—end up with someone so much like him that I ended up dead, homeless, or a combination of the two—which I already had, not that I saw it as an immovable fate.

This new and most astonishing Clark Kent kept to herself, and was quiet; she was observant, and critical, but not too critical—kind, but also not too kind; In New York City of all places, a sucker is a sucker—kindness is considered as weakness, and no good deed does in fact go unpunished.

The prescription was perfect, and I could see sharply and clearly now; the world was color coded with shades of dark green and royal blue, with tinges of bright yellow l as if hinting that the wishes I made upon the candles I had burned would come true—and I hoped that they would, though I had done most of my spell work for protection and binding—not to collect such terrible karma for the injustice done, but to dissuade whatever had been following me—attaching its nasty energy into my world and in my realm and urging me to kill myself; everything was evil blue eyes and perfect bodied women, my music unheard and unliked and no notable achievements made.

I dreamt of a world where my evil and estranged husband would reproduce with someone else—that all the hatred and darkness and energy of our shared past that he was constantly sending towards me would become a distant memory, his attention set on his new wife and child; I wanted only really to become a non-factor, left alone and loveless, albeit never unhinged or undone by love or in the hands of a man again—at least in that matter. I ran my tongue over the inside of my bottom lip where my teeth had punctured through, all the way to the other side—amazed that even years later the scar was raised, which always made me wonder how bad it really was; I couldn't have known then, even with the remarkable and obvious damage that he had done to my face, how bad it really was—and here, still, six years later, I wondered how I had survived such a gruesome assault—not that about I would have admitted it, as it seemed Hollywood itself even had been overrun with the never ending infinite saga of the he-said-she-said Battle of The Sexes, even my own pitiful self having to side with the men.

“I must have deserved that.”

I only see your shadow;

For you, I kindly waited—

My eyes are very open,

But my heart is very hated

LOOK AT IT.

I—

JUST-LOOK AT IT.

I want to die and

I don't know why

I want to die and

I don't know why

I want to die and

I don't know why.

Why lie about it I

Feel like dying

I look past everything—

Even what I should see

I feel like dying

I'm constantly out of alignment

With my design

Don't mind me,

I was just l

Light at the end of the

Nightmare, or just a dream

I keep on waking up

Crying myself to sleep

I want to die and

I don't know why

I want to die and

I don't know why

I want to die and

I don't know why.

Why lie about it I

Feel like dying

—

I love the way your body looks—

Please, hold me tight and don't let go

I love the way your body looks—

Please hold me tight and don't let go

Come take a glance

At my mammary glands

No arms, no hands

No legs, no chance

Something bout those camouflage pants

I

Yeah, I'm just a fan,

I promise

I'm Stan

It's that bad

It's that bad

I run 15 miles an hour down a mountain

What you think about that?

I forgot a pen and a pad,

But look, I found one on the ground—

Aren't you proud of me?

I turn a mound into a man—

I promise,

I'm a fan

It's that bad

It's that bad

I'm a fountain

Look, I found you

Proud family fountaine

Yeah, I'm just a black

Campaign magnet manager

Yeah

Everything the prophet Jon said was a code,

And yet

I was nowhere to be found at all

I was

Probably still drowning in blood, after all of it

Writing my name on the wall

Or deposit slips

Slitting my wrists at the catacombs,

Woah

Slow down

This is all so uncalled for

So much the overachiever

And leaver of lovers,

The teacher

“I loved him so

Much”

Stockholm,

Stockholder

Stop go,

Stop go

red rover,

Red rover

Send someone right over

Cause

911!

911!

Hit the ground running,

Or duck and find cover

(Or better yet, find a revolver)

You're calling a four leaf clover

Art for the front cover

Ah, a world wonder

“I should probably call her…”

Enough

Sir, you remind me of someone

You left the door open

I probably won't close it

A loft, like the apartment I once

Grew up in

Or whatever my mind was,

In the moment

Why would someone smell this way

I'm just a machine, I'm

Irony, irony—

Ey!

Flock to the crossing,

I've never felt so dumb before

Just after

Loving one star

As hard as I could

And it all fell apart at the alter

Now I'm at the crossroads

Sell my soul, sure

For certain

But I never owned it

You'd better talk to my husband

He owns it

I'm better off drowning in sorrow

Than blood now

I'd better count all my arrows

And bloodhounds

Before the sun goes down

And before the hunt's getting started

A carver, for carving

But I couldn't quite catch the words,

I was starving

I couldn't quite make a song out of stardust

I'd better go

Just before the war starts up

“What did you call this?”

“A word,”

I said to my father

The world that I started, in ruins

So I stared it over

And over and over

So much for luxury—

I thought I wanted towel service and saunas

But turns out I love Eucapuptus

Whatever that does

Or something

I thought of being discharged

Or discarded

Like all of the common in poverty

Washed up

Like mau5 was

Before and after the comeback

“Commander…”

I never liked being captain

I warned you;

I only practice three out of the Ten Commandments

Serve condiments like mustard

And never ever wear condoms

I warned them,

Warranted

Now, let me show you where your cock goes

(In the ocean)

Cous-cous, or Caucasus

Persuasion, a caution

Caucasians

Dark, was the sun when I woke up

In all purple armor

Better to marry a fighter, prepared for the war that was coming

We all won

We're all in,

But undone

Rough,

I like a ruffian, I might add

But things never add up

I would love a muffin

Here goes a whole stream of conscious

(Or cous cous, or caucus or)

I lost the word for it

Watching the omnibus roll past

Fuck, now was was it

Some carbohydrate

(Quinoa)

You never know what you got

Till it's gone

I just lost a penny—

I'll pick up another one

Haven't you suffered enough for the moment?

I suffered once,

But it's still not over—

One for the floor and then

One just to follow

One for the floor, and then

One just to follow

I hate losing money, you know.

If I cut you off [Now]

⌨️️ ️

, you might lose your tolerance…

Hello, again

My dear old friend

I've missed you

How could you leave me

After all we've been through

That's just what I do now,

You know

I should have been more thorough

With all of my old stuff

I couldn't love you enough

In her body or another

Or all of us

INT. PLANET FITNESS. NIGHT

survivalism, deadmau5

Wonder, wonder

Would you, would you

Will I will I

Die tonight

Wonder wonder

If if if I

Stay up to the

Morning light

If I if I.

Could find

Your eyes again

Your eyes again

Your eyes again

Your eyes your eyes

Are mine

Thank you, kind stranger

No challenge, a charger

I was awfully awestruck,

But stood there just after

Standing on sutphin,

No love and no laughter

I'll see you tomorrow

Cause I'll be here after all

No wonder, no wonder

A wonderful somethin

No standing on sutphin

No love, and no laughter

There's no code of arms,

There's mo alarm, either

So unfit for love, so unfit the mother

Thank you, kind stranger

I couldn't care anymore, if I tried

Who loves me or not

I was what I was

Now I'm gone

And I'm off of it

I couldn't care for the cause

Cause it's all done

I couldn't care for a father or mother

Who loved me so much all at once

I was born from the stardust

To stories of Noah and Arks

(Or just one boat,)

But I stood on sutphin and archer

For nothing and no one

Here we are,

At the turn of the hour

Fear for a flower

A finder, a follower

Folley, you all are

The whole world, we're rolling

We're wrapping up capstones

And craping our pants

Just like pansies

And on we run

And on we are

And off we're not

—but we're off work when the party ends

And up at dark

And here we are, at once

So far

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.