I HAVE MORE DEMANDS by zoey-greenwald

I HAVE MORE DEMANDS

ZG XU, FALL ‘21

WHAT

BEARABLE

WHAT IS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF PAIN WE CAN BEAR BEFORE DEATH MAKES SENSE WHAT IS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF MONEY WE CAN SPEND BEFORE INSURANCE TAKES THE HOUSE WHAT IS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF DAYS I CAN TAKE OFF SCHOOL TO GO TO CALIFORNIA WHAT IS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF HOURS MY FATHER CAN STAY AWAKE WHAT IS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF SUPPORT ANYBODY CAN GIVE ME WHAT IS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF TIME I CAN LIFT MY RIGHT FOOT OFF THE GROUND BEFORE SHIFTING MY WEIGHT TO THE LEFT WHAT

THE

HELL

ASYMPTOTE

HOW

YOU

APPROACH

ZERO

WHAT SHAPE CAN HOLD THE BEST GRIEF WHAT SHAPE IS PROPER FOR THE RITUAL OF

LIVING

WITHOUT

ANY

MOTHER

WHERE DID

COULD WAS

KNOW

YOU

THAT

THINK YOU THERE

FUCK

DURATION

YOU ME EVER

HEY SICK IS

WHAT

THE

UTILITY

WERE

YOU

BEGINNING

COMES

COULD

YOU

FROM

HOLD

EVEN

ANY

THE

THIS I

FALL

WORLD

LATIN FOR

“DURO” ME

ASLEEP LEFT

GIRL

DOING THIS

FOR

REAL RIGHT FOR

WHAT’S LITTLE

THIS

“PAIN” QUICK NOW US THAT

WITH

THAT

SHOVEL LOVE,

NOW THAT THE FIRST LOVE HAS FINALLY DIED WHERE THERE WERE NO IMPOSSIBILITIES?

WHAT IS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF DAYS I CAN TAKE OFF SCHOOL TO GO TO CALIFORNIA WHAT IS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF HOURS MY FATHER CAN STAY AWAKE WHAT IS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF SUPPORT ANYBODY CAN GIVE ME WHAT IS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF TIME I CAN LIFT MY RIGHT FOOT OFF THE GROUND BEFORE SHIFTING MY WEIGHT TO THE LEFT WHAT

THE

HELL

ASYMPTOTE

HOW

YOU

APPROACH

ZERO

WHAT SHAPE CAN HOLD THE BEST GRIEF WHAT SHAPE IS PROPER FOR THE RITUAL WHAT OF LIVING WITHOUT ANY MOTHER OR ISBEGINNING WHAT IS THE UTILITY BEARABLE OF THIS WHAT IS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF PAIN WE CAN BEAR BEFORE DEATH MAKES SENSE WHAT IS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF MONEY WE CAN SPEND BEFORE INSURANCE TAKES THE HOUSE WHERE WERE YOU WHAT IS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF DAYS I CAN TAKE OFF SCHOOL TO GO TO CALIFORNIA WHAT IS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF HOURS MY FATHER CAN STAY AWAKE WHAT IS THE DID YOU KNOW THAT DURATION COMES FROM THE LATIN “DURO” FOR “PAIN” GREATEST AMOUNT OF SUPPORT ANYBODY CAN GIVE ME WHAT IS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF DO YOU THINK YOU COULD HOLD THIS FOR ME REAL QUICK TIME I CAN LIFT MY RIGHT FOOT OFF THE GROUND BEFORE SHIFTING MY WEIGHT TO THE LEFT COULD YOU FUCK ME EVEN IS IF I FALL ASLEEP RIGHT NOW WHAT WHAT THE HELL IS AN ASYMPTOTE HOW DO YOU APPROACHBEARABLE ZERO

WHAT IS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF PAIN WE CAN BEAR BEFORE DEATH MAKES SENSE WHAT WAS THEREAMOUNTEVER ANYCAN SPEND WORLD LEFT FORTHE HOUSE US IS THE GREATEST OF MONEY WE BEFORE INSURANCE TAKES WHAT SHAPE CAN HOLD THE BEST GRIEF WHAT SHAPE IS PROPER FOR THE RITUAL WHAT IS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF DAYS I CAN TAKE OFF SCHOOL TO GO TO CALIFORNIA OF LIVING WITHOUT ANY MOTHER OR BEGINNING WHAT IS THE UTILITY OF THIS WHAT IS THE GREATEST AMOUNT OF HOURS MY FATHER CAN STAY AWAKE WHAT ISTHAT THE HEY WHAT’S GREATEST AMOUNT CAN GIVE ME WHAT AMOUNT OF SICK LITTLE OF SUPPORT GIRLANYBODY DOING WITH IS THE GREATEST THAT SHOVEL WHERE WERE YOU TIME I CAN LIFT MY RIGHT FOOT OFF THE GROUND BEFORE SHIFTING MY WEIGHT TO THE LEFT WHAT THE HELL IS AN ASYMPTOTE HOW DO YOU APPROACH ZERO IS THIS LOVE, DID YOU KNOW THAT DURATION COMES FROM THE LATIN “DURO” FOR “PAIN” NOW THAT THE FIRST LOVE HAS FINALLY DIED WHERE THERE WERE NO IMPOSSIBILITIES? DO YOU THINK YOU COULD HOLD THIS FOR ME REAL QUICK WHAT SHAPE CAN HOLD THE BEST GRIEF WHAT SHAPE IS PROPER FOR THE RITUAL COULD FUCKANY ME EVEN IF I FALL RIGHT OF NOW OF LIVING YOU WITHOUT MOTHER OR BEGINNING WHAT ISASLEEP THE UTILITY THIS WAS WHERE

THERE

EVER

ANY

WERE WORLD

LEFT

FOR

US YOU

HEY WHAT’S FROM THE LATIN “DURO” FOR “PAIN” THAT DID YOU KNOW THAT DURATION COMES SICK GIRL COULD DOING WITH FOR THAT REAL SHOVEL DO YOU LITTLE THINK YOU HOLD THIS ME QUICK COULD IS

YOU

FUCK

EVEN

IF THIS

FALL

ASLEEP

RIGHT

NOW LOVE,

NOW THATTHERE THE FIRST LOVE WERE NO IMPOSSIBILITIES? WAS EVER HAS FINALLY ANY DIED WHERE WORLD THERE LEFT FOR US HEY SICK IS

WHAT’S LITTLE

GIRL

DOING THIS

THAT WITH

THAT

SHOVEL LOVE,

NOW THAT THE FIRST LOVE HAS FINALLY DIED WHERE THERE WERE NO IMPOSSIBILITIES?

Hello? Who’s there?

Can we take some time together now that we have finally reached the scariest part (the near end) and there’s still tea, warm on the table where you poured it every morning ?

I have never had any white healthy mother in this America were it’s freak eat freak eat freak eat freak eat freak eat freak eat freak eat freak eat freak eat shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhit I forgot to grow into a good woman. You envy my life just the having of it and I envy your phallus (just the having of it) it’s a— shhhhhhh— (secret) “I worked hard for it” you say and I know I didn't. “I’m going to unearth you,” I say, “and take it”. And someone else (our third) says “hey what’s that sick little girl doing with that Shovel? Eat Shit Eat

freak eat freak eat freak eat freak eat freak eat freak eat at all the knowing she has and any knowing she could have had knowing to eat poor female-bitch eat female slut-scum eat at the owning of her knowing her freak-cunt eat freak-cunt eat freak eat freak eat freak of knowing and owning her eat her eat freak knowing who’s owning the shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhip

Listen—

I know we both have always wanted to be pirates but I’ve got to leave this graveyard Quick.

and, running fast my body begins to ache:

my body says (shhhhh. It should say “stop” or “softer” or “slow down” but it says shhhhh, and I’ve walked right into a poem where I am thinking again oh shit—

remembering when that man told me shhhh and did he might’ve held his hand over my mouth

and might’ve

and

memory is sticky and shhhhhhhhhhh it,

and I’ve walked right into a rape poem.

my body says shhhhh. Even though I am in love now and safe which is not

safe

safe in this room my body but is just a warm room where my love is holding my body

which says shhhhh.) shhhh shhhh shhhhhhhhhhhhit where in running did I lose my shovel

Am I doomed to become him? (oedipal father) If I am to become a Great Man

must I become Myth ? Or eat

freak eat freak eat freak eat freak eat freak eat me quick cause the cops are coming and never having any healthy white mother I never grew up

Epitaph or Epigraph depending on it you read this backwards, if you read this at all or if anyone ever dies: Hey, death! (Death doesn't answer.) Goddamn you answer me even if I am a woman! What do you want, you lousy brat? I want to know why a man doesn't love me and why my life's such a miserable shit-pit and why suffering exists I'm not your gaoler. Only living humans are gaolers. You're the biggest and best rebel who is. Why don't you teach me how to rebel better? Your pride in yourself as a criminal, whore, and piece of scum is causing your suffering. So what. Do you want me to tell you what death's like? No. When I'm dead, I'll find out.

Patent boot, yank so hard Silicon, squeeze so hard Ponytail, yank so hard Do I make you proud? I try so hard Rubber doll, bang so hard PVC, I get so hard Latex gloves smack so hard Platform shoes In the club party so hard I'm so hard Rubber doll Latex gloves smack so hard PVC, I get so hard Platform shoes kick so hard But it's just so hard

SOPHIE

It’s so hard living in this world already I can’t believe I have to live in it as a woman, too. I can’t believe it. I don't wanna run my errands unless I get a friend. I don’t wanna do my work unless I get a treat. I don’t wanna go to sleep unless I get a dream and a good one. I don’t wanna wake up in a body unless I get a cool outfit to put it in. I don’t wanna go home unless I get a little kiss. These are my demands and they are never ever met so I can’t go on. Give me a kiss give me a cool outfit give me some dream give me so many treats give me a friend, God, what the hell, God, don’t you want me to do any of the good poems and praising at all? If I can’t I won’t go on and you’ll lose one of your best poets and nobody will praise you like this ever again so you’ll be no God anyway. Why would you make one of your greatest poets a woman and then a world where women don’t even have language. I know you’ll never give me language but I can get by with treats and dreams and kisses and friends and cool outfits. And orgasms! No prophet can profess without orgasms… Anyway I have more demands. I want a lemon tree. I want long hair in a braid with wisteria. I want rest. I want liquor. I want a horse (white, oriental, ornamental). I want a horse (brown, western, thoroughbred). I want good food from the earth. I want kind fathers for everyone. I want the destruction of capitalism. I want boyhood. I want even more fruits. I want fruits everywhere. I want the health of mothers and sisters. I cannot go on (write) until these demands are met. I see you did not meet the demands of the other female poets. I see you did not meet the demands of the other homosexual poets. These poets did not go on. I mourn I mourn and so I do not revere. I’d spit on you if I could. You will meet my demands. If I must go on, which of course I must. I must go on if you are to be any God and to go on I must write and to write my demands must be met. Don't you know you are no God unless you are written? Meet my demands, my God, and free me and yourself for restful love joy peace and auspicion…

On my laptop I’m looking at the website for the Motion Picture and Television Fund Retirement Home and I’m reading about something called Palliative Care. Efforts are toward enhancing quality of life by managing pain and stress as well as helping patients face the risks and burdens of their illness and treatment choices. This happens on the Motion Picture and Television Fund’s “campus” on Mulholland drive. (Was I on Mulholland drive in my dream last night? The one my professor psychoanalyzed saying, it’s completely oedipal: you were driving the car and you were trying to find your father but you couldn’t because you had, in fact, taken the driver’s seat). “Suffering!” shouts my professor. He is saying something about Rousseau. Our Palliative Care clients are visited by our team in designated skilled nursing facilities, in their homes on the Wasserman campus and, in collaboration with UCLA, in the outpatient clinic setting. “This turn, for Rousseau, means considering a social explanation for suffering rather than a natural one. Turning from a premodern consideration of something like nature or let’s say God towards a Modern consideration of larger systems; dynamics within something like the State Apparatus". Palliative care is often confused with hospice. As opposed to hospice care, which comes at the end of life, palliative care can come into play at any stage of an illness, with a team of specially trained physicians, nurses, social workers, chaplains and other professionals offering care, comfort, and support to patients and their families. “The mind boggles when you think about all the suffering, and I hope I’m giving you some sense of the cognitive depth, of how deep these conceptual commitments we have are when we consider a qualitative response to the state apparatus. The depth of this shift is enormous”. I receive an email from student health services. Thank you for providing this information. Based on your needs and preferences, I'm including a list of providers who are in-network with the New School Student Health Insurance. “Suffering!” Anyone grappling with a serious illness deserves palliative care. Please let me know if you have any difficulty in reaching providers or if you would like additional referrals. I’m on Mulholland drive… “But it’s deeper than that: it’s the difference between qualitative and quantitative thinking. It’s about turning what looks like an uncountable infinite into a map. I mean, can you imagine looking at the pacific ocean and thinking, ‘I’m going to count that’”? I’m on Mulholland drive. I’m driving off Mulholland drive. Softly in the other lecture hall there is an orchestra playing. Swelling. It could be a movie score. I’m driving onto the beach. I’m driving into the ocean…

KIDNAP THE VICE—KILL CULTURE FIRST I AM GOING TO WALK INTO THE OFFICES OF MARC JACOBS AND VOUGE AND BLEED MY DYKE BLOOD ON THEIR WHITE HOODIES. I AM GOING TO ASK HOW MUCH MONEY THEY THINK THEY CAN GET WITH IT. THERE IS SOLANAS AND WITTIG AND KATHLEEN HANNA IN THERE. THERE’S ZINES AND THE SMOKEY AIR OF A PUNK CLUB, THE STICKY BATHROOM FLOOR AND BAD BLOWJOBS. THERE’S THE CHEAPEST BOOZE AND COFFEE STICKING IN THE SICK, SINKING THICKNESS OF IT, SPILLING ALL OVER YOUR CLEAN. HOW MUCH WILL YOU SELL IT FOR, THIS MESS I DIE EVERY DAY PERSERVING? THERE IS YOUTH IN THERE, A THING YOU CAN’T KNOW LIKE KNOWING YOUTH IS SOMETHING SOMEONE DIES EVERY DAY THROUGH MESS BORN OF VIOLENCE AND RAGE AND THAT SOMEONE IS ME, HUNGRY. RAGE LIKE YOU HAVE NEVER

BEEN IN AN OFFICE LIKE THIS WITHOUT BLEEDING RAGE LIKE YOU ARE BOTH A FETISH AND A COMMODITY. VIOLENCE AND RAGE LIKE YOU CAN BLEED OUT AND DIE EVERY DAY BECAUSE YOUR BODY IS NOT PLUSH OR WHITE WITH A PRICE TAG (REAL). WHAT THE FUCK IS “YOUTH CULTURE” I AM YOUTH AND I AM SAYING KILL CULTURE, PLEASE, CULTURE HAS CUT ME AND I AM BLEEDING OUT ALL OVER YOUR NEW WHITE HOODIES. THEN I AM GOING TO TAKE A SMOKE BREAK. THEN I AM GOING TO KIDNAP THE VICE PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTER. I KNOW SHE CAN FABRICATE LIKE THERE IS NO PHOTOGRAPHER THERE SO I TELL HER THIS WILL BE GOOD FOR INSTAGRAM AND I AM RIGHT. I’M GOING TO FUCK HER PATTY HEARST HER SHE WILL END UP AT THE HOME OF JEFF BEZOS WITH A GUN, AND I WILL BE AT MOOD RING WITH ALL MY FRIENDS

BECAUSE EVERYBODY ELSE WILL BE BUSY BUYING A TEESHIRT OF THE PHOTOGRAPH OF THE MOMENT OF JEFF BEZOS’ DEATH. MARC!

FUCKING! JACOBS! IS ALL LIKE, WHY IS THERE BLOOD ON THE BEZOS SHIRTS AND I SAY, BABY, WHY DON’T YOU KIDNAP THE VICE, HANDING HIM ONE OF MY BAD CHEAP CIGARETTES, TAKING A BREAK FROM A POEM WHERE I’M GOING TO KILL CULTURE, WHICH IS THINGS LIKE CAPITAL AND STATES AND HANGING OVER-PRICED VINTAGE DRESSES ON RACKS WHILE SOME STRUNG-OUT DUDE BREAKS INTO YOUR HEATLESS APARTMENT TO POUND ON YOUR FRIENDS. I AM TAKING A BREAK BEACSUE I NEED ONE.

DO I HAVE A BED DO I HAVE A HOME DO I HAVE A MOTHER AND HOW LONG BEFORE THE BEAUTIFUL PIECES OF ME FALL AWAY AND THERE IS A MAD LIGHTHOUSE OBSERVER WITHOUT ANY POETRY OR WARM WOMEN IN THIS BODY

DO I HAVE A BED DO I HAVE A HOME DO I HAVE A MOTH AND HOW LONG BEFORE THE BEAUT PIECES OF ME FALL AWAY AND THERE IS A MAD LIGHTHOUSE OBSERVER WITHOU ANY POETRY OR WARM WOMEN IN THIS BODY

E HER

TIFUL

DO I HAVE A BED DO I HAVE A HOME DO I HAVE A MOTHER AND HOW LONG BEFORE THE BEAUTIFUL PIECES OF ME FALL AWAY AND THERE IS A MAD LIGHTHOUSE OBSERVER WITHOUT ANY POETRY OR WARM WOMEN IN THIS BODY

I want to sleep like this— Peering into some morning sun which reaches you before it reaches me and smelling leaves on our bodies somewhere where I am not yet a woman or a Man, just the leaves which touch and scent your fair skin and when you are away bathes gold and feeds on this light. This is what a fantasy is like: to be tough and nimble and to push in while opening out. To be innocent: to lose form. In my most my fantasies of you I am innocent of a female body unless of course invoked. There are islands of me where I touch you. There are islands of you where you touch me. Name it: polymorphous. Name it: love. I’ll try to name it, later, try and fail, in diaries, when I remember a female body and language and the other things of the world of Men which I have yet to master. Alone in a dusty study I sit my tight bony ass on a stack of seven dictionaries and lift a spectacle up to a ray of light coming in through a crack in the ceiling. Dust dust dust. Dead skin. There’s somebody’s skull in the study but it’s ancient so it’s dead dust dust dust. It looks at me without its fleshy eyeballs. Dust dust dust. Halloween grapes. The piano’s dead, too, just an ugly old stand for written music that someone saved for later. It’s nice to save things for later. Dust dust dust dead skin. Not spectacle— kaleidoscope actually and I don’t even have a skin ‘cuz I’m on acid. I love America. I love Marlon Brando in Streetcar I love going to In-N-Out I love when women wear tight little pants I love to eat I love communism and secrets I love lipstick I love making out with girls in cars I love dancing I love tiny little books about miserable men I love porno mags where people have to write in I love chocolate egg cremes I love revolvers just the look of em I love the color red I love terrible things except sickness and war I just like crime and car wrecks and the gaudiness of rock stars Where I was across the table at a seedy diner with another skinny poet feeling the holes in our coats and seeing the dumbness on eachother’s faces performing our petty flirtation and me at least thinking, he’s so young. I’m a lesbian. It’s absurd. It’s disgusting. I love America. I only ever order grilled cheese on rye with mustard. Where I was sitting on the carpet in somebody’s apartment poorly playing guitar and found two quarters so could buy a pack of cigarettes but was thinking just about poems and girls so went to park just to watch nothing for a few hours. Still feeling incense in my nose from the apartment. Where I was cold and so walked into the library, read poems. Poems about girls being hot. Rock songs. Where I pronounced poem “po-em” and had a beard and listened to crooning jazz in my spare time. Where I was broke but a Man. Where I was staring down the barrel of a gun at 33 Union Square West not sure whether I was dead or an American Artist. Where I was in a beret in a bank in San Francisco. Where I was telling poems in a church. Where I was telling jokes in a taxicab. Where I was telling you this but you listened. Where I was wearing boots. Real ones. Where I was in a brawl in a bar and old and awful. Where I put on my hat and walked away, split lip and all to another dark bar and wrote bad poems on the napkins there. Where I didn't talk to anyone all day. Where I rode on a train to a new little town. Where I was a fisherman. Where I was a fisherman who didn't say anything. Where before drowning I did sail. any after. Gold’s no creature and you are many.

I sailed to India for literature. For trade. We made the passage in one hundred and ninety four days and not everyone survived well. I remained in the ship’s study, staring down a skull without any eyeballs, and queasy, easily sat my ass down on a stack of seven english dictionaries. Held a spectacle up to a ray of light coming in from a crack in the ceiling. Dust dust dust. My skull-friend is ancient so no eyeballs dust dust dust. I must study the dusty runes to translate that unknowable thing into literature. I am sailing here for literature for the literature of Men which is writing the writing of Men which is language the language of Men which is all which is God. We all must be very brave, in the face of God. Oh, God, I’m coming down. Oh, God, the ship. God help us, oh, Lord, Lord God help us now, we all must be very brave. In the ocean I meet many creatures. Creatures overtake my senses there are creatures in my nostrils they are small salty bug-like creatures they are the creatures which are the beginning of all creatures there are creeping creatures very very small creatures and very very large creatures there is me, creature, humble like a whale I swallow the ocean like I did once in a dream. Ocean ocean ocean song says the moon is your mother now listen to moon listen to moon-mother go moonmother who is salt-spiced in your throat swallow spices sings ocean song spices in your stomach but ocean song is there gold in the West? Ocean song says forget gold let go your god, gold, or suffer death without any after. Gold’s no creature and you are many. Wet, we see marble bound in bales so we build something. We build because we are in love. We with our many eyes see you somewhere so we build we build a temple to a river god. Up goes the marble in columns and the floor is stamped down in ecstatic ritual dance. We wear robes of marigold-dyed silk we braid our long hair with jasmine we feel the sun in our leaves of hyacinth. We eat fruits all the way through we swallow seeds. We give you fruits, river god, we give you our hair when it is white. We bathe our body with clay then weave you cloths of sandalwood cannabis bougainvillea eucalyptus and we sing in our many voices many praises. When our body becomes weak we give it to you. We lay on the warm wooded ground of the temple adorned with dahlia jasmine orchid garlic orange clove cinnamon cardamom peppercorn. We melt into the heat of the earth, your earth, until your river overtakes us. I traverse the forest on the back of a great beast of a tiger. My cat is fast and I have a wood sword so I am like a king (respected). Me and my cat sweep slicing with our furs through the forest where there is a band of hunters. Their arrows are weak. Where there is a party of noblemen. Their carriage is slow. Where there is a lone adventurer. His feet are tired. Where there is an english riverboat. It is sinking. My cat ducks into the river to cool. I swim through an inlet towards the forest and find a small lotus pool there where the floating flowers are warm and smell sweetly. I come upon a nymph bathing and love, it is you! You, river god, who I find here as nymph, as girl whose gold hair is freshwater, whose fair skin is lotus petal, whose bright eyes are mossy stones. I am ecstatic!!!! Your brilliant form does not yet discover me— how am I to make myself known to you. How am I to hold you soft, to understand the gold and silk threads which comprise this picture. Me in my blue skin, here, monstrous… I don't knowwwwwww. In my dusty study I want to open the dictionaries I’m sitting on top of but they’re all wet. I wanna look it up. I’ve heard this one before. About the adventurer who comes upon the bathing nymph. Myth myth. Dust dust dust. I want to understand the gold and silk threads which comprise this picture. But the dictionaries are all wet. It’s not what you think, me sitting on top of these dictionaries with my bare ass. It’s just the entire ocean. It’s just my moon-mother.

This is what a fantasy is like: a myth you can’t know. Blue skin. Okay, skin. Something’s been sewn. Okay, mended. And I’m so sleepy I’m soooo sleepy I’m truly the sleepiest girl. I’m sleeping in the sun. I’m a housecat. I’m a teddy bear. I’m a maple leaf. I’m photosynthesizing!! I’m innocent of a body now there is just me and you all gooey when we are sleeping. I blink and see the morning sun which reaches you before it reaches me. Save me the day, love, save me the light, save me the nutrients for now. Save me the awake ecstasy of air and food and literatures like the body and writing and music. Save me all this, for now.

GUMBY TRIBUTE PAGE THIS ZINE WAS MADE POSSIBLE IN PART DUE TO @GumbyScreens ON TWITTER. BUT ZOEY HOW DID THE GUMBY SCREEN BOT HELP YOU WRITE POETRY. ITS EASY HERE’S HOW:

I FEEL LIKE THIS GUMBY WHEN I AM WRITING

I FEEL LIKE THIS GUMBY WHEN I HAVE WRITTEN

I FEEL LIKE THIS GUMBY SOME DAYS BUT LUCKILY NOT MOST ANYWAY THANK YOU FOR READING MY ZINE <3 ZG