Medusa’s Mirrored TV

Medusa’s Mirrored TV

Bluelight mainline background noise keeping me up like the fluorescence just above my head. May the cosmos be just above the ceiling or refracted through my retractable eyelids and/or of tract code file in the Tractatus-Logico centered in the gorgon’s pool. Forward in borrowed suits and polo shirts sitting six feet apart conscious of malefic particles, are they really so different from our progenic stardust, neither will converse only throw us down again and again.

All left to do but laugh, and scroll, and meme and laugh forever again. When we stare, it stares back but when we laugh, does it laugh at us, most likely not with us, we definitely don’t get the joke. Humor and rumoresque. Soft like rabbits fur and caught in the ocean as a little boat in a storm.


Poems for tomorrow subsumed in the tides of light addiction, served up on a platter for advertisers. Toil after the toll road and that unearthly computerized peal as the sound paints our portrait yet. The layered grey sky is a sprawl of every 90’s model computer or printer in mass graves piled atop one another, spilling water ink splashing street and car, smudging windshield, pull in, park, mask up.

His mother was strung up in the hospital like a playstation that only has the shittiest games spread across tiny screens running on fluid. Could I have written that sentence for drunk Dr. Headuphisass’ class, even if I could’ve I wouldn’t do it. You don’t just write something like that on assignment for someone you don’t respect, would you take out a tibia say, and lend it just to have some fuck say it was their tibia they’d given you through osmosis. Jones always hit after that hour. Pulled up by the Bongstraps. Corrupted to find interest, read beyond the bricks and lift straight up from that over-priced under-secured basement book racket. Occasionally appearing on radio. 


When light turns itself on you to a stream of expanding negativity. I had a dream about three jealous jesters spouting, jawing, and japing about the unread, blaming the replicated replaceable reorganized reeducated behind the screen bystander, while they themselves stood there while it happened with full pockets and atrocity burned in their retinas. Hence why they can not discuss literature. Never trust a reading, trapped in the dream of the Other, a deadly state of done-ness much as the journalistic Other’s reading of a work. Always disagreement. The reading made yourself trustworthy but malleable, open, becoming, being built and rebuilt ad infinitum. Ad astra. Ad Gaulia. Io Saturnalia. Ready to be torn apart and remade. 

Ultimately, under it all, after the fact ultimates or absolutes fail, mirrors disturb and it’s sardonically fun. Sensationally depraved correctly transgressive, and the problem is, that dark pool is reflective every time and everyone has a reflection, insular social circles, cliques, and cults included. The velvet trim or the lace front or even a new font that reads in the dark.

May The Femboy Cry (tears of ecstasy)

May mid rain, mid-may at midday,
thigh high in the revolution. Miles and
languages away carrying techni-colored 
techno-digital banners for each other. 
Please don’t block those posts please don’t 
zuck the sweetness of the timeline. Pink/black.
Pink and black, and red, heart on the cheek.
Crown of horns and an oracle in an online 
delta revealing what is unknown or known 
or a known unknown (unknown known) 
to ourselves. I get got all the time,
maybe we can take a flight to Tangier 
with some jordans and a spear on some
post-christian shit, post-prodigal nautical, 
ex tempore egg tempera shit.
Can you get stepped on 
from several continents away,
genuine feminine demonic feline of
tourmaline makes the media

Verbal walls, bricks made of:
“I can’t be with you if you’re gonna dress like a girl.”
“I can’t be with you if you’re gonna dress like a girl.”
“I can’t be with you if you’re gonna dress like a girl.”
“I can’t be with you if you’re gonna dress like a girl.”
“I can’t be with you if you’re gonna dress like a girl.”
transfigure and transmogrify into:
I CaN’t bE3 WiTh YuUo IFf YuUUo’ReE3 GonNa DR3esS LikE An gUrlLL
then are beset by sledgehammers 
wearing striped knee highs,
the wielders wearing makeup.
Digital destruction of trajectory
goes both ways (sometimes).
I will be becoming always, 
the reworked (recontextualized) sample.

This media social the last 
intravenous plug left in, 
the rest shadow spam
track marks. Brain type
stigmata (mindmata).
Weekly femboy friday 
highday, blunt kisser,
sock stitcher, big dipper,
toe ring wearer, picture taker,
art maker, thought weaver, 
Mask wearer. So I managed
to strike a vein of man’s femininity,
a gold-like non-physical substance,
in a digital mine of espionage.

… and a lime twist 
Libitina in lace
through a red filter.
Switchblade skill +10,
critical hit to the sexuality.
Blades of the dark moon 
Covenant. The patri/matriarchal 
feminaepueri lunae run this 7/11
Motherfucker, and you ain’t wearing a skirt.
Come back with a crop top 
and you can get your ciggies (uWu)…

John Leonard is a 25-year-old artist from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. He has a BA in music from Susquehanna University and he currently works in home health care. He artistically experiments in writing, music, and visual art. He is a lover of the feline and can often be heard around the area spouting off about Anderi Tarkovsky, Hanne Darboven, Chief Keef, or John Ashbery. Social media: @johnleonardiv (Instagram)

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