against a machine called me or i
It’s the knife that’s in her hand. But it’s not in her hand. It could be a razor blade or a pair of scissors; shard of glass, bottle top, or metal nail file. Sometimes it could be hot things, burn-y things, salt on an open wound things, digging under her nail things, pulling out a hair.
It’s a boy in her bed. But it’s not a boy and it’s not her bed. It could’ve been a drunk night or a drug night; it could have been both or none. She’s been with so many ghosts that just the mere flip or floating of a sheet surges energy below. The condom covers crinkle under her feet like candy wrappers. If only.
It’s a powder or a pill or a punch or a pilfer or a prick. It’s all those things and none. Despite the non-diary she keeps, she remembers nothing. When she studies her hands it’s as though they belong to this little girl that had once lived, once upon a time.
it’s all fun & mirrors until someone gets hurt or dies
we walk these halls of mirrors with books and pockets full of rocks and dirt to feel grounded so when the storm comes we don’t get mistaken for those fake humans pretending to be human who really have hate for a heart and who say eating animals isn’t bad, it’s natural, and what’s it to you, and it tastes good, and I’m not hurting anybody –they’re just animals, and we scurry around avoiding the energy closets that suck us in, a television portal dream catcher, a spider woven nightmare but it’s day so it’s a daymare that we’re all living but we carve a heart in the tree and say forever and don’t put initials because we are so beyond our earthly names anyways so much so that we’ve combined bits of hair and bone under our tongue and call it acid and as we trip a cloud turns itself into a cat that we just saw the other day crossing the road down the hill from a village that we made up in our minds and we want to go back there so we ask the cat for guidance and it mentions Saturn and we nod as if we understand while the cackling of any number of birds jars us into a jaded state or into a jade colored room in the basement of a club in Paris where we listen to a band called the dead rabbits and your beer tastes like potato soup that cures all colds and my beer tastes funny like a cat crawling backwards and we spiral into and away from the crowd because we are of them yet not of them and I want to touch that pinprick of your prick and light and mold a vagina from my own and sit on the top of a building and feel like suicidal twin teens who are have no clue what a real human is anyways so what’s the point of chasing after a concept that’s not been fully mapped out or has no true definition according to unscience and unlanguage and we fold a piece of paper and let it fly and it lands right where it should on this page in front of you
Jacklyn Janeksela is a wolf and a raven, a cluster of stars, & a direct descent of the divine feminine. She can be found @ Thought Catalog, Luna Magazine, Talking Book, Three Point Press, DumDum Magazine, Visceral Brooklyn, Anti-Heroin Chic, Public Pool, Reality Hands, Mannequin Haus, Velvet-Tail, Requited Journal, The Feminist Wire, Word For/Word, Literary Orphans, Lavender Review, & Pank. She is in a post-punk band called the velblouds. her baby @ femalefilet. more art @ artmugre & a clip. Her first book, fitting a witch//hexing the stitch, will be born in 2017 (The Operating System). She is an energy. Find her @ hermetic hare for herbal astrological readings.