g-stringed by wisteria
hello biblically accurate angels,
i wanna welcome some long time callers first time listeners from my FloDesk mail list <3 WELCOME! i am doing a slow transition from FloDesk/Patreon to substack! thanks for riding so hard for me, my people, and my creative pursuits.
i write to you after an eventful month long excursion away from LA. i closed out my travels with coporeal writing’s Sitka. Self. Seed retreat. during that time i read some work from my forthcoming book waling waling palpitations which will drop Sept 2025. stay tuned!
some rad things are that i got accepted to ArtistAndAnd retreat, this time outside of amerikka, in the beauty of canada. i got a scholarship to dock off $400, but i am fundraising $400 to secure my deposit to fill my spot! will you support me by
a) paid subscribing to my substack (if five of you did a year long subscription i’d meet my goal!)
b) booking an erotic oracle reading with me (if three of you paid top end for your reading i’d make my goal!) calend.ly/moonyeka —> choose aswang enchantment
c) venmo: @moonyeka <3
p.s. 'I WAS NEVER THE SIREN' is screening at Cadence Video Poetry Festival. Tix are HYBRID. April 25 at 7pm | their love defies: nwfilmforum.org/films/cadenc...
come get into video literature as a genre <3
so much more news… but i wanna get into this animistic freaq out of a fleurotic STORY! let’s go.
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i came back to LA to be greeted by a chokehold of wisteria. the up and down stroke of purple had me mistaken the pine as a flowering tree. it couldn’t be a jaracanda…
i pulled a few blossoms from the cement wall that barricades high way 101 from my home parking lot. i remembered i stuck a singular one in a vase before my excursions and coming back they’ve populated by the hundreds.
the buds fall off so easy. their body hangs and i honestly don’t know how to arrange the flowers besides very delicately — lest all the blossoms sky dive before it gets there, existing then only as a hardy vine.
my dog oso takes a shit in a corner of dried wisteria blosoms — a pile of poo in a secret garden. a blessed shit.
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the wall is flush with these pretties and they threaten me with a good time. fun is the ultimate tenderizer.
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later that evening i had been struggling with the desire to be touched. i wanna be touched but if you touch me then maybe i’ll emerge with every betrayal and flaunt it with a repel of a yell, a twitch & a demand in seeing the poison stuck in by IBS ooze out.
for one,
anyone who’s close to me knows that i have trouble staying present while making out, kissing! i find it more vulnerable then fucking.
when i was younger i was very grandiose in my make out sessions. i’d saddle up on a lap, press into a mouth and luxuriate in a squirm. or, i thought myself the most powerful when my wisteria sounds made my kissing mate spill over into a ribbon of want. yes, a pillowing power bottom can topple anything!
as i grew older i avoided it because i thought that my making out meant a pathway to being assaulted. if i liked making out now it means i liked being assaulted for all the times ive been assaulted.
survivor logic is putrid and sad.
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the safer i feel with someone the longer it might take me to settle into the possibility of pleasure.
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ive been processing all the homing and unhoming in my life. jusging my desire to flutter and stay rooted
i wondered, if home is where the heart is, then where is home if my heart is smattered across vast distances?
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wisteria followed me into my room. pushed me to do the small n scary intimacies with my lover: taking a shower together, asking to just peer into eachothers eyes, asking for sensory deprivation to tune up my skin awareness, to rest from wracking my brain at everything.
i laid back pooled on the bed. eyes, forehead, brows tied up with a bandana.
then, a hawk wing descended from my loves hand, bound with bone.
bone by blossom by bodied clouds, my lover swept the front of my body and wisteria disintegrated the jaw breakers at each of my channels. each meridian. each center. it takes 17,000 years on average to lick these down to the gum. my lover swept the inches of ruin, tower fall, lightning strike, people power, no sleep, wired fray.
my body fights by laughing. maniacally. into tears. because it only took seventeen milliseconds to remember my desires are thick and deserve to grow on every self made border, to take them down with utter, overwhelming glamor.
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their abdomen is where i’ll dig myself a pothole of seeds. purple will pop their left hip back in as long as four fingers are diligent in shoving rhythms that escape out as starshot yes. yes, to the never before seen, yes, to the poison of a hundred years disintegrating unfit fathers, yes to being chosen, celebrated, yes to the awe i see in the world, yes to awe channeling through me.
stroke me
into my g-string’d
wisteria, poison
disintegrates borderline
fantasies, my own dreams
possess me.
