Missy Jubilee. A poem for my Stalker

The full background writing for the upcoming film “Stalkr’

A film about The United League of Sexual Stereotypes

A personal exploration of threat
as a consequence of creating erotic films

‘Poetry is the outlet to say in public
what is hidden in private’
-Allen Ginsburg. American Beat Poet

A poem for my stalker of three years

Happy anniversary

Hi

How you doing?

You don’t know me
But you think you do

How am I?

I am good,
I am fine
but I was trained well

It’s ingrained in my mind
to always lay claim
to this state of mind

But truthfully? How do I feel?

If crystallized into a theme……..I would say ‘inverted’

As you know,
I have a situation where
desire is displacing what is known as right
and
faulty thinking
has been magnified by a visceral sexual obsession
causing someone
(you)
to spiral into a
dangerous singularity of invasive curiosity
that consumes
my safe space in the world

This has created
a certain tension in me

A tension resulting from the awareness
of what is possible
of what is unknown
and what is threatened

A distraction worthy plethora of variables
bursting under pressure of fear

cataclysm/noun
-any violent upheaval

If I was
paralyzed by such an otherworldly puppetmaster
bent on violent privacy rape,
I would ask myself two questions

What is wanted?

And what must be?

For me
there is only one answer

Values

Old fashioned values like
your distorted reality being controlled from within
and respectfully
held the fuck in check

And then I would ask a follow-up question

What is the difference between
a saint and a stalker?

Impulse control

Because there is no such thing as a mistake

There is what you do
And there is what you don’t do

There is nothing else

‘One of the fundamental hallmarks of dangerous sexual stalking behavior is continued engagement in compulsive sexual provocation due to impulse control disorders – despite the negative consequences created by these activities’ -Understanding and Managing Compulsive Sexual Behaviors, Timothy W. Fong

The Art of Gesticulation

I am not waving

I am not drowning

I am signaling

To you

While wondering
just how much
Is too much?

Do you ever wonder that?

I ask
because
everyone I meet
either leaves me
guessing,
inspired
or immune

Is too much immunity from toxicity
ever truly enough?

Questions of the Kinky Fuckery kind

I hope my inquiries
don’t reduce you to feeling like a goldfish
in a bowl

Or that you are an ultraviolet study of behavioral theatrics
put under the microscope

I ask them only
as an opportunity
to create self-awareness
of toxic patterns

Because
the depth of your intrusion
warns me
that one day
I may have to turn
art
into artillery

I wish I could say there is no darkness inside of me
but my mind can not express
what I don’t have the intellectual capacity to understand

The risks you are taking,
I do not not understand

You can not write away consequences

Not even if you have the ability
to type enough words to make an exhibition of the madness

‘To every thing there is a season, a time to kill’
-Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 King James Version

How the fuck do I get out of this alive?

Stalking is just another form of art

It’s like painting or drawing or sculpting. Except instead of paint, stalkers use fear as their medium

Yearning for security in this situation
would be admitting
on the my deepest level
that I was weak

Instead

Me,
the girl,
could give up trying to escape from you
and let the flailing stop
because I finally realise
home is not where I live

Home is where all my attempts to escape cease

Home is where I fight back against the sound and fury
of your resentment that my reality is not your reality

Living in an Illusion: A Users Guide

As I am an unwillingly sightseer into this delusional & distorted behavior,
I feel uniquely qualified
to share some thoughts
on the subject of delusion

I think delusion is……

-not a negotiation

-not an obligation

-not a truth

-not a fetish

-and not an excuse for any infatuation

But seeing
and acknowledging the truth of your own delusion could be the most liberating release from ritualized self-deception
you ever experience

The real catastrophe could be….

After you find the truth, I imagine the lie becomes hard to live with

It was for me

ataraxia\noun
-a state of freedom from emotional disturbance and anxiety; tranquillity

Distress Signals

I am raising the flag of NO

You can cross the line
and tear it down

But before you do,
let me ask another question

Are you aware of the notion
that the bastards of this world
could somehow pay a debt
in eternity?

I imagine eternity as
a person
falling towards
a quietness

a quietness so complete

a quietness so full of nothing

a quietness so unpalatable

a quietness so crushing

that it steals every thought you ever had

Except the bad ones

The raw, uncooked, undigestable, seemingly unforgettable bad ones

You get to keep those

So you can stalk yourself

The Madness of Denial

In that quiet moment
before you see the dark underside of
your true self
maybe you finally become aware of
the relationship between memory
and identity

Maybe in that moment before
the quiet transition into eternity
there could also be
the opportunity for one last
pattern altering awareness

of right & wrong
of lines crossed
of boundaries broken

Or it could be all of the above

I don’t think they are mutually exclusive

Tags: , , , ,

Categories: Sex

One Comment on “Missy Jubilee. A poem for my Stalker”

  1. Dirk_gently
    October 27, 2017 at 7:14 am #

    Do you think in the future people will evolve an ‘unsubscribe’ button?

    The worst of humanity and the best of humanity is represented here on the web.

    But there are plenty of others who never venture into the pixelated world of ones and noughts. They would never have their analogue worlds digitised into protocol streams, and be horrified at the thought of exposure of feelings on a global scale.

    So I am left wondering if this is a digital or analogue stalkr… And if you mean followers of the cult of Jubilee, do you mean all of us?

    *rapidly decends into flight mode, hides in the corner and covers entire body with a blanket*

Talk to me baby

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