she had been to hell and back
worked with animals for several years trying to restore her credit and sanity
there were tons of new friends to make over mocha
in her heart lived the ones she loved the most
the ones in hell
#katyamills
Showing posts with label hell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hell. Show all posts
Thursday, 3 August 2023
Tuesday, 31 May 2022
may
what you went through when you went through hell
and lived to tell. by your living force by your spirit by your kindness
they will know
#katyamills
Sunday, 12 November 2017
Thursday, 7 April 2016
the creature. single feature
I am the creature hanging from your ceiling.
I live off of Mars bars and yogurt-dipped fingers. I have a companion who plucks my eyebrows and I am not affected by gravity, as you see, my hair does not follow nor yield to such force. Do not be alarmed for you have no defense against me, nor will I harm you. So you may as well be relaxed and enjoy our time together. I would ask only for the porcelain-inflected buttons on your vest (every other one from the top down), 3 good-natured parakeets, the sparkly eye shadow your dead wife left behind (god rest her soul) and two pots of freshly ground Chilean coffee you may retrieve from the man in the backyard who is watching you. Please be kind to him and assist him in cracking his back, as he has only arrived a fortnight ago after a long and arduous descent from his home in the Andes Mountains.
We will share the coffee together, you and me, black through the depths of this dreary, dark night. My wings have quite a span so I will politely refrain from flapping in your domicile. There is a key which is lashed to my waist, which unlocks my heart for you. Just be sure to turn exactly 90 degrees counter clockwise, than a full 360 degrees clockwise then 2 degrees at a time counter, every 7 minutes for 4 hours, and rather than rounding you may complete the last click on the 4th strike of the final hour, upon the bell, as heard through the window you will leave open which looks out open the church several meters away in whose rafters I was conceived. Do not forget the coffee, upon your life, do not forget.
Monday, 15 July 2013
Profile: filter systemics, twenty thirteen
She was pretty cool...
before she became lead singer by her own self-election
within the band she formed of her own vainglorious self-promotion
after years on the trail of herself (like a bloodhound) and her own self-unfolding...
in deinterlaced leaves of cascading simplicities.
She was pretty cool by unfair prejudicial standards.
Like teenage mutant ganja standards in the lone star state. Or one of the many states that share its borders, despite vehement sworn disassociation. What made her cool, cooler, was the precision marching up of bands of heat. Such efforts of interstate hate would not go unnoticed. Unfortunately.
Her reputation bubbled up over bunsen burners, in the kinda legend-making labs only the usa could conjure. Some of the same labs that produced our torrential downpours of cultural insomnia and paranoia, within the context of widely consumed sheets of shards of glass. Ya. A greater misfortune could not have been told by the third of three eyes, in the great psychic trailer pantheon of the sky.
Outside, the lamentations of the past, present, and future loosely-affiliated yet heavily congregated fearful remnants of the war on drugs, were not enough to put out the fire. Perfectly phalanxed in picket line style, yet penetrable nonetheless. Penetrable as a whose-who of crackhead ho's short-on-crack and long on tar black.
Penetration was not even the word for it. Much more subtle, merci dieu. Like those black and white b-flick wannabe cowboys and draft dodgers and other escapades escape-e's wandering into some sunken like forest and high or low-stepping right into quicksand. Sucked into the earth. That kind of sucks. Kinda sux.
This was twenty thirteen. This was filter systemics. Filter politics. Filter engineering. The language obeyed its master. Penetration became Permeation. And permeation defied most laws of geometry. Thus rendering the phalanx useless. And linguistically defunct. Thus turning up the dial on the lamentations. Which only made what sucked, suck worse. The filtercone for swaths of glass had not yet been perfected, by the labs situated conveniently across the street. They were too busy shrinking the nuclear families of warheads for the current fear lobbyists of nuclear war, by government decree, and the tax of psychosocialspiritual stressors on such an endeavor was so high, the barrier of entry was one wrinkle short of a homeland security sanctioned fingerprint. So what sucked worse, only sucked some more.
Ya. She was pretty cool and out of touch-like, and going cold now. Heading toward hypothermia and frozen hysterics. She and her minions would need to purchase a really cool team of youthful fronting lawyers, by cagey corporate costly law school standards, to even gain a fraction of a chance of a snowball in hell with a colonoscopy-probe-probability following on the ass of a seldom struck facebook page. Open the fucking fan club vault, minnie mouse. It's gonna be a reach!
by Katya Mills @ kissilent.wordpress.com
July 2013
before she became lead singer by her own self-election
within the band she formed of her own vainglorious self-promotion
after years on the trail of herself (like a bloodhound) and her own self-unfolding...
in deinterlaced leaves of cascading simplicities.
She was pretty cool by unfair prejudicial standards.
Like teenage mutant ganja standards in the lone star state. Or one of the many states that share its borders, despite vehement sworn disassociation. What made her cool, cooler, was the precision marching up of bands of heat. Such efforts of interstate hate would not go unnoticed. Unfortunately.
Her reputation bubbled up over bunsen burners, in the kinda legend-making labs only the usa could conjure. Some of the same labs that produced our torrential downpours of cultural insomnia and paranoia, within the context of widely consumed sheets of shards of glass. Ya. A greater misfortune could not have been told by the third of three eyes, in the great psychic trailer pantheon of the sky.
Outside, the lamentations of the past, present, and future loosely-affiliated yet heavily congregated fearful remnants of the war on drugs, were not enough to put out the fire. Perfectly phalanxed in picket line style, yet penetrable nonetheless. Penetrable as a whose-who of crackhead ho's short-on-crack and long on tar black.
Penetration was not even the word for it. Much more subtle, merci dieu. Like those black and white b-flick wannabe cowboys and draft dodgers and other escapades escape-e's wandering into some sunken like forest and high or low-stepping right into quicksand. Sucked into the earth. That kind of sucks. Kinda sux.
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| firekiller by katya |
Ya. She was pretty cool and out of touch-like, and going cold now. Heading toward hypothermia and frozen hysterics. She and her minions would need to purchase a really cool team of youthful fronting lawyers, by cagey corporate costly law school standards, to even gain a fraction of a chance of a snowball in hell with a colonoscopy-probe-probability following on the ass of a seldom struck facebook page. Open the fucking fan club vault, minnie mouse. It's gonna be a reach!
by Katya Mills @ kissilent.wordpress.com
July 2013
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