Happy Heart Day! <3
featuring special guest, Nymphish!
Hello Lovers! How are you? I have missed you! I am currently typing this with my new set of pink and red heart nails as I am sucking on a heart shaped lollipop in heart print pajamas*. This morning I ate my breakfast from a heart shaped bowl (vegan yogurt, homemade granola, and 3 tbsps. of psyllium husks for my tummy issues). Why am I telling all this after being MIA for months? Well, because Valentine’s day is my favorite holiday, ofc. Now, I don’t live for the commodification of affection and/or the traditional notions of romantic relationships as a marker of, well, anything really. But, just as goth girlies love Halloween, us certified lover girlies live for the lovely pink + red of it all. I am a sucker for heart shaped anything, have so many heart tattoos, and take this opportunity to stock up on home décor which aligns with my Venus in Cancer proclivities. With that being said, PTK is still on hiatus but I couldn’t let this pinkest of days go uncelebrated! To help me I have invited long time friend of the sub Nymphish to be our collective Valentine! They said yes so now I am so happy to let them shower y’all with their love language of poetry and art!
♥️ love u
PUT ME IN THE HEART LOCKET
i should absolutely be galavanting through this life-- where i stay nested in this suburban bedroom. the weighted blanket has become self aware in the way i stay buried beneath myself. i should be spending real money on neopets dot com; on a virtual bird in my phone, reminding me to brush my teeth drink water switch the laundry. time isn’t real & so am i! i should join that arcosanti cult! cast molten metal into bell-like shapes, in the stillness of desert days. re-imagine this social anxiety as repulsion for the outer world. i curl up in the brush behind the airbnb, in that all a palm springs prick would know of this valley is me. my matted hair, my feral woman hissing! i smell of dirt & the same marijuana smoked into roaches, then rerolled several times. my yellow kimono, burnt to a dried, mustard dust. yes! this is what all the newscasters meant, when they threw out the words: the new normal! i am convinced until the day i have the nerve to speak to myself about it. i should read more, measure the time listen to the silent space between utter & response, i should meet people in group settings, instead of 1-on-1. . . that way, i can tell whether their take on fuck, marry kill all three spidermans? was genuine or ironic, based on the reactions of our peers. . . then again, that desert commune had been a group setting, hadn’t it? perhaps i’m not as perceptive as i thought. that’s it! i’m done! put me in the heart locket! time isn’t real & so am i, yet, i forget how beautiful it is, to be somewhere that asks nothing more than your ease. time isn’t real & so am i, Arrietty is the first thing i see when i wake up, the last thing i see as i fall asleep. Coraline does small, sharp figure eight’s around my legs all day between. the moon has been one day fuller, the sun has never shined brighter. at night, a hot pink light pours out my windows, onto the street, & in a way, i am galavanting out there.
MY GRANDDAUGHTER PLAYS BJORK
FOR HER GRANDDAUGHTER
“The word nature and the word techno mean the same thing. It depends if you look at it from the past or the future. . . we must live with both. It is very important. We can’t be just nature or just techno” --Bjork
have you ever torn basil atop your egg in a pink frying pan, then felt your higher self, just out of reach? you smell her in the air on a solstice; the world has changed, but not enough that you see. . . you change your hair & book a trip, call it an era. in the year 2149, my granddaughter plays Bjork for her granddaughter. perhaps there is a memory, the way a feather landed softly on your cheek as you were cradled in the hammock, or watched the waves split against sharp rocks-- took your phone out & tapped record. your friends saw it once, a 30 second clip they’d never be so present in. you watch that same water over & over, while the algorithm drips small devotions. you get so stoned, you vent to the meta AI chatbot, what of me gets to survive? in the gardens that were never mine, the rocks organized by color then meditated to, (it’s not up to you) where is my alter now? (it never was)
I GET THE VILLIAN EDIT
they talk shit about me in that mansion / i sleep in a cabana outside after pinning myself a prude on night one, taking notes on her superstar era, stepped out in a long sleeve (but backless) hot pink gown, announced: This Barbie is Looking for More Than Just Ken! i woke up early & drank three espresso martinis wearing crocheted pants over my thongkini, then bitched for several hours about how the food is never vegan-- she’s not here for the right reasons. when we’re with her, we see a completely different side than what she’s showing to you. i want to be on tv / beneath waves of balayage, my baby bangs reap anglerfish on my forehead. visually, i am a sin in the eye of The Rose; the lens that captures me only as a silhouette looking slightly down, stage right towards Stacy as she professes to the harem that she is falling crying into Kylee’s wine / voice raised at the end of His name a question: who is He anyway? the strategy of His eyes panning us. . . He’s never been around this many woman before, but He is blonde in the way women wish their children to be, a pass worn in laurel gold. on a group date, the gynaeceum cracks eggs into a stainless steel skillet. Stacy desperately demands hers to be scrambled, to no prevail, she is positioned to battering french toast / i have whisked Him away to the espresso machine / while His shots are pulling i ask His choice of milk . . . He declares heavy cream. it is that moment i know: the thick substance screams, no alter! no children! though if Kylee already had the helicopter date, during which my tan was momentarily shaded by, there is still a chance i will be granted the shopping date & not, dear me, the horseback ride date, whereas i would have to divulge further into my veganism on national tv, then refuse. i cannot properly emulsify hot & heavy into the dead espresso, in that my latte art heart falls flat white in the glass mug. He inquires of me, what are you most passionate about in life? my own ability to endure / i will not find love on tv, though i may, after a drink, announce that i am falling, who will blame me? i very well could / given, that hometowns week He would be bestowed with viewing The Barbie Room, then at that time i would let Him hold & gaze upon Color Magic Barbie, but do not touch her hair because i’m not sure i could fix it, i would tell him. when The Rose covers its eye in soft tissue, turns downwards from me & my name is not called, i will know it is only because He forgot. Finally, when The Women Tell All, i rise to occasion of various Facebook mom sheriks! their daughters yield my face on a popsicle stick, then follow me on instagram! i am, afterall here to be on tv! when He asks me, what are you most passionate about? i respond: i really enjoy a chance to get out of the city / really like hiking.
About the Hot Poet: Nymphish (she/her) is a tulle dress pretending to be human. Her poetry has been featured in Orange Blush Zine, Emerge Literary Journal, Dust Poetry Mag, and Seiren Quarterly. She is currently working on her debut poetry collection, in which she continues to imagine herself differently, over & over, with pop music & movie cliches. You can find her on Instagram and Threads: @nymph_ish .
Thank you so much Nymphish! we LOVE YOU! 🩷 And see all of you soon (love u too!)
Brb, I pinky promise <3
xoxo,
Larissa
the 14th is now officially nymphish appreciation day!!
Thank you for the wonderful opportunity for a Valentines Day feature! 💝 Your hot poet, always 💐