june dandelion paintbitch

@paintbitch.bsky.social

307 Followers 242 Following

|🌷🌸💕🌺| 18+ | art and words | im the Hillary Clinton of my own life. if i were you, id click the media tab june.gay

part 1 of a poem called "clubby", the font is reminiscent of a typewriter and the image has a background of halftone grey dots. it reads: clubby i used to be full enough of innocence and wonder to see a shine in your bastard grey fur and a comfort in your inbred eyes. when i brought you scraps uneaten and unauthorized, i felt like a member of the red cross. i got to see you turn from wild kitten to less-wild club-footed friend. staring up from the back porch concrete like you knew me, like i was important. which maybe i was, it could be that your dumb gaze taught me something i carried close to my heart. maybe you found a club footed wife, got kitten married. and a thousand sepia yowls trot behind you now, like ducklings.
poem entitled "doll model" on a pastel pink background. the poem reads: doll model (the title, bolded) i am, to my own profound misfortune, noticeable. i am noticeable in the way you notice a spike in your heart rate, by urgency and clarify of purpose. i am noticeable in the way that historians notice the little ice age, by deaths and renaissance. i am noticeable in the way that you notice you’re in love for the first time, by a silly and overbearing inclination for fiction. and when i am averaged, they will find in my bits no method of graphing genders. when i am averaged, they will not be able to discern my function or form. girl, when i am averaged, they will see nothing but an ecstasy singing clear as day in my columns and rows. a thousand dolls straddling the median, like to me but different, carried out the zeitgeist on the backs of crows, and each of us will have had a name.
drawing of a large scratchy figure on a monotone background text that reads "nobody you ever fuck is going to be me"
poem that reads: trimmings drops of me congeal on the floor like blood plasma my choices vaporize and float up the sky i dont think Issac Newton understood emptiness when sobbing, historians have noted i look positively cisgender– fishy, even! contrary to the architect’s wishes, i am becoming schematic despite what the engineer said, i see my wireframe in the dirty mirror. i am being optimized into nothing– when would you like that by? i would honestly love a future to run away from i would honestly love a tallboy i would honestly love if nothing left i would honestly love if everything stopped you look like you fucked a ghost
poem which reads: wallowing in the ruins of my local library looking for a final act and exit, i found instead a sacred recipe. a crumbling tabloid of Divine Truth called out to be torn lock in key my brain paired it alongside Universal Law Brought into Focus by Unlikely Man [sic.] i stitched the answer into being shred by shred with a thorny crown and a gluestick. looking down it felt like Moroni kissed my cheek. God Whispered Sweet Nothings on the wind and my burdens fell from me like skin from a Leper. i will slather This Gospel on anything that reads. To Process Grief wash and dry produce hold Everything that Hurts and never stops, slice crosswise into half moons. in a large pan render down feelings to buttery ash. blend old phone numbers until smooth. wrap the First Time You Felt Love in plastic. you will be left with a bath of acid. coat 18x24 Copper Plate From Michaels: Arts and Crafts with all the Cum that ever dried on your sheets. wait until Nothing Shines Anymore and You Are Completely Alone etch the contour of your College Lesbian Phase draw last the dream that Left a Taste in Your Mouth and carve the wailing of The First Animal you ever had to Kill. drown your copper soul until her breath no longer bubbles up the vat coat in Non-Abrasive Printing Ink 8oz Bottle Peat Black. hang it somewhere no one can ever go. in the end if you have done everything just right, all your pain will swing on a wall in your stead and You Will Never Have to Feel Again.
both images are of a poem that reads: water damage i’m laughing like a song weeping such a killing wringing hydraulic cracks into the colossal stone face of a dead monotheism humming a dirge to a march beat. on a jumbotron (anchored like god above two billion adoring fans) i make the monument into a slow motion archive of its own ending. by my hand it crumbles oil smooth frame on lazy frame one second per minute. melting into mud the victim steals an elegy from the short space between now and never again. look for me bird of fire at the end of everything when the sun eats the earth i will be the beauty singed into the pan. like you, i trust the burned dust within me will one day fly again. dance with me soft oblivion like you, i am over before i started.
poem that reads sunset moon i catch the last bright entrails of the sunshine dragging crosswise and topping the misty transparency of the city. unprompted, i think of your lips. but, cause i contain multitudes, i think both of what they’re doing, and what they could be doing. we could have a house there if someone figures out how to wring a living from realities tactile or heat between heart beating bodies, spoons, cat scratches, love without warning streams of splitting vessels surfaced by open mouths the glow hidden by an ended smile spit drizzled on you and me on hands and knees or the fading sleepy hours of the morning.
girl takes a bathroom mirror selfie in a black sleeveless crop top and black capris with ribbons on them, she has stud earrings and glasses, and is very pretty
it says "blow job brothers"
a lone girl trudges through the brooding, colorful swamps of arkansas. the water, multicolored and abstracted, is made of long horizontal strokes which contrast the dragging, bleeding vertical strokes of the trees
an abstract, two dimensional, and brutalized figure lays helplessly on a field of blood red. above it is the shadow of a counter, covered in copy pasted images of hot pocket containers. in the top left there is a dictionary definition for "injure" which has had various letters taken out of it in the top right is a bright yellow clock, the right side of which bleeds up and off the paper
a collage of messy ink featuring a shutterstock cartoon emoji face splattered with a vibrant pink, which bleeds at the top left into a series of circles beneath it at the bottom left are flowers, drawn in blue crayon, on top of which sit the words "pussy, cunt" written over and over again, duplicating the s of the former and the n of the latter to draw out the words on the right side a diagram is pasted of two bouquets, from the book "how to do the flowers"
the formatted text of this poem is split into two images, the background of the page resembles the toned color of old books. the poem reads drag us now i know you do hungrily long to be motheaten burned and pored over boring, by the w i d e eyed nobody of tomorrow's library, but tragically like a one floor house you lack story. what pray tell did you hear h,u,m,m,e,d from your house mother or jot down with your hands tangled skin on skin bound tight behind your back? your wrists red grooves sing, doll. besides your adam's apple and eve's peach shine ugly like molten plastic not to mention, that caustic fashion on your tits' patterns whirlwind like a Heironymus. so tell me verbatim why my lofty leafless doorstep should skip shrugging off an agent that ive been telling everyone i know, (on facebook and at sunday bingo, ) is sworn to satan? like other gone things wearing thongs, your epic lacks chronology. and even if I, ME, I am the one who reaps gladly the RANCID smoke of your once great generation upon tranny generation-passed tale of trans transgression, from your diamond hide i make a good part of my money. it's impolite to crush beneath the gears of the state an entire ‘people’, whatever shade of gay. luckily for me, despite the hard-fought years your siblings down each and every street PULL, nobody stops me when i say you're really just an ideology.