Fuck It

Transmitter wrote this terribly early in the morning:

My political views. The remix.

I know what you were thinking

Transmitter wrote this in the wee hours:

you were staring at your screen so intensley, through it, through my screen. Through my screen and in to me. Laser beams coming out of your eyes. Burning  me, but I’m staring intentsley, too. And, I push them back with my own laser beams. Red and blue colliding together inbetween us. I couldn’t do it anymore. I just had to look (up).

Come Inside

Transmitter wrote this in the wee hours:

It was days ago.
I smell her on me. Still.
She’s inside of me now,
Wafting out while I try to bury her scent under tobacco and incense.

I’m talking to my plant with my hands buried in the soil. We’re looking out the window together. We’re thirsty.

Moistened, a fine film of mold starts to grow over us. She wants to see me.

I want to breath in the earth. The record needs to be changed, but I’m rooted here. I ask the ficus to pick something nice out—

To wear to tomorrow’s party. Shhh… don’t wake the neighbors. We’re all smaller than our mothers. The ashtray is full. I’m going to bed. You can stay wherever you want. This ground doesn’t belong to me.