Animal's House of Muse

Vibes to Feed the Hasty Soul with the States of All that Matters

And that’s how One Lies in Bed

As days pass over into weeks, rest passes over into sloth. For how much longer must I heal? Well, until once again I’m real. Fake it ‘till you make it, hon. At such answers my conscience shudders. It wills movement and my body listens, as my opportune imagination, silently alert, disguises itself as progressive thoughts while its prey fleshes itself out in proportions of governance to governed mimicking perfection, itself. Who wouldn’t stalk such earnest? This wholesome task, juicy with fluid iron, fresh with green insight into self-overcoming shall get nowhere fast. A dream emerges from a thicket of overgrown promise, as if determined directly into the air alongside particulates and vapors by the lone fact of my feeling its presence. Every time a fool follows, a fool follows what it knows. Paralyzed I gaze agape at my ceiling – modal possibility constricting modes of lived givenness as a great snake hungry for the sake of hunger, alone; in keeping with the circular patterns of passivity I’ve kept in a heap atop this memory foam for a set time, ill-measured on account of a deep-seeded disregard for strict standards residing in some dark crevice of my psyche . . . I blame television.

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Shame on Me

I am not enveloped by nothingness
I am enveloped by self-destruction
Within this whole, I hide



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And how would You like Your World Egg this Morning? Scrambled, Please, with Cheese.

Sudden change
Time remains
Beyond it
Never counters
Tonal range
Sight obtains
Its object
Never counters
Self estranged
Logic wanes
Its purview
Never counters

Falling fast through darkness
Quick steps shall never be
Without a sense, just carcass
Heart incarnate lost, it bleeds
Between all worlds, a harshness
Movement marked with stops unseen

Mind deranged
Modes ordain
A cycle
Never counters



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Despair: The Patron Saint of February

the nature of despair is such that the particular longings it inspires may hardly be traced back to their causal source, for under its state is sanctioned longing, unrestrained; as would an abysmal shroud of disinterestedness cover over passions protesting their purpose, blighting all it touches. beyond the rule of worldly measure lie the true depths of despair; its domain marked by apparitions, transcendental, as infinite possibilities howl through determinate cracks persisting in the grounds dividing what’s now and what’s no longer; gasping with all their might for a breath of final ends. despair brings to its pitiful knees any amounting mass of corporeally engaged insurgence, the pain of such trifles no longer felt in the reign of its awakening. the senses overcome, the body lain prostrate, psychosis brought to the brink of its power; despair unfolds itself over the whole of its condition. however, if one serves the furious storm of sublime re-collection it brings, serves the nauseous waves coming to rhythmic terms with without, there emerges on the horizon a faint glimmer of hope that one may discover resettlement in sublating the time kept between despair and its original counter, reception. without waiver, then, i believe that we all ought to succumb to despair; so that it may spare us blissful ignorance over the bounds of our extension, what gives absolute worth to our little world of objective affect, holding for hostage our release.

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If Hegel Only Knew

I bore the brunt of Love’s negation
Sublime to touch
As Reason lied
My senses led to pure sublation
Against my will
A shame I’d hide
Contained in Abstract, exhalation
Processed World
To Self divide
Each passing day I loathed duration
Forever trapped
Unceasing Time

So Now is wrought
With tangled measure
Feeding on its product, by
The strength of movement
Great ecstasis
Hope disturbs
In haste such ties

Endings caution Thrice causation . . .
Fool me Once
My Soul abides

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Yet Another Shameless Promotion

Finally found a camera that properly picks up loud sounds 😛 here’s the result of my recent practice. I hope to keep pushing it, so stay tuned!




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Miss Animal’s (Mis) Adventures in Philly, A Diary: Entry 3

friday, january thirteen, two thousand seventeen

early (ish) this morning i awoke with an urgent need to pee. so i pranced my way down the hall and into the bathroom, sat on the commode, and relieved myself of the pressures the night had pressed. i felt a drip from above. oh dear! a leak! i called the landlord who called the handyman, who promptly arrived five minutes later. yay! it’s nice to see some promptness! he had his assistant watch the leak as he flushed the toilet of the apartment above mine. he watched as a cascade of poopy water fell with rhythmic grace from the ceiling, each splatter accentuating precise quantum subdivisions inspired by the pure patternings of earth’s gravity upon the toilet; upon the walls; upon the floor. luckily i had thoroughly cleaned the bathroom last night, so that the poopy water met its canvas in clear contrast. art imitated life, which imitated art, which imitated imitating itself! such profound truths found in base banality! the handyman’s assistant wanted to ensure that i owned a mop, because i was about to need one. how kind of him. the handyman recommended, however, that i await the plumber’s work, else i may end up mopping all day long. how wise of him. oh gracious lord! if this be just the start of my live long day, what spectacular wonders, what sublime aesthetic levitation awaits your humble servant when she shall take leave of her apartment? let me toss aside this diary and partake of the bounties that life has to offer in this sacred harvest preceding the darkness of february, forthwith! here, time is not mine to waste . . . its waste possesses me!

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Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let Down Your . . . Tail?

Once upon A Time, there was a Young Lady who was bamboozled by an Ugly Ass Witch, whilst minding her own business; innocently frolicking about The Fairy Forrest (you know The One, it’s about a mile south of The Walmart next to The Interstate Exit) partaking of Beauties revealed by means of the Gracious Summer Sun, alone. The Young Lady was naively lured into the Ugly Ass Witch’s trap by an enchanting display of Beauties False, and she was snatched up and locked away in the Ugly Ass Witch’s highest tower, deep in heart of the forrest; dense and dark . . .

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Through the Crooked Teeth of Fables

Let the darkness be your sun
And you’ll solve the plea of freedom
You won’t see where to run
And you won’t see what you flee from
Nowhere’s not so fun
And it will trap you if you eat of
Nature’s rot
Upon the lot
Where trees grow into seed-dom




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Insufficient Reason

Given my distinct heavenly nature, clearly,
My unprincipled body is at odds with its own movement:
Should it determine itself through resistance
And aim its actions against its gravitational center
Towards the unknown expanse of things,
So that it abstracts itself from any commitment
To the seductive substance causing
Tempestuous revelations over its absolute condition,
It will never reach its object,
As such an end is ever-disclosing,
And such an attempt at escape will
Forever be marked by its initial impetus;
However, should it succumb
To the pressures of immanence
And buckle under the weight
Of covenanted cosmic culmination
With consensual content,
It will plummet into endless fires
Of fusion and fission,
Fusion and fission,
Cycling so until eternity collapses in on itself-
So that my common sense resolves,
Under the incorrigible pretext of such confusion,
To contract a constitutional eclipse
Over the value of my corporeal position
In order to absolve my conscience of
The immobile nature of my imprisonment;
So that I may continue to revolve around my origins,
Repeating my abiding, run-on sentence
With only the appearance of semicolons
To provide me momentary, cadential release
Through sanctioned sequential addenda,
Punctuating some creative purpose in my recurring for naught . . .

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