Posted by WordslutAdvocate on Feb 4th, 2014 in Head Dust | 0 comments
Fuck this shit. Who’s got my squeaky? I am sure I left it around it around here somewhere. Did I drink too much toilet water again? Did I leave it outside in the rain? I mean, I know it no longer squeaks, and its a bit chewed up but I miss it. Have I lost it under the sofa? If you have it, please give it back. I am lost without it, and you don’t understand what it means to me. The animals in the park were fun for while but playtime is over now. They got bored when I rolled over and played dead. They didn’t like my new game.
Now I just want my squeaky back.
Do you have...
Posted by WordslutAdvocate on Jan 25th, 2014 in Head Dust | 0 comments
The latest Googlisms from the term “Wordslut”
My sides hurt. Seriously.
wordslut is inherently indivisible from the madonna/whore binary opposition and thus (yes? please continue?)
wordslut is entirely a personal decision (you bet!)
wordslut is a psychological weapon of mass destruction (you best believe!)
wordslut is thrown around more carelessly than ever these days ( )
wordslut has cut women off because they have an energy around their sexual desires and we are still so (so…sooo…cute?)
wordslut doesn’t distinguish between motivation (why...
Posted by paleforest on Jan 20th, 2014 in Guest Entries | 0 comments
Her roots and grasses fade in the summer droughts of tears
The frail and black of her fingers as she leaves what is lovely
Her soul hidden underneath the floors
Pale and pushed down…
Her hair as Dark as Hazel
Scarlet In the warmth of the sun…
She surcomes herself in the newest moon
The mislay beyond her despair
What was sore and dainted
smoked and salted
nevermore and faded
Now amongst the clovers of the field
Posted by WordslutAdvocate on Dec 18th, 2013 in The Dope Opera | 0 comments
Say hello to the dogs. My life, my being, my crush. Lead me above these material senses, into the sweet cold in fleeting, pawing, stealth. This is it, my brethren litter! I am going back in. To the scrap! I am tired of coercing faerie trees, however crisp, green and posthumously inviting! Ahead ’tis bones….tingling in the meadows of this greedy harlot grass. I am going to crush this figurative wine with my stolen, lecherous heart.
Some say I own a disfigured soul, yet I hold the depths of their opinion like a priest in half. One part contempt. One part Drinkwater. Frozen in a...
Posted by WordslutAdvocate on Dec 11th, 2013 in The Dope Opera | 0 comments
There was no fear there, only a painful well of thought. A reasoned joke in which she refused her years so slowly and unintelligently, her only choice being to seek the truth. She saw nothing of the lurking acceptance, only the black life, decided for her from the rise of his trauma.
His thick aspect could not support his own sighs, nor his featured hidden smile, snapped by a contagiously deep despair, terrifying in its ability to stand tall amongst the giants of his time. Her seemingly innocent stanzas broke every law that his penmanship could deter, her words waved, and he replied in some crazy...