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slow realization that the world is not for me, and that for whatever reason, I will never be happy and honest and the same time. brimming, always producing and hoarding more and more love inside but there is no release. table, ivory elephant charm, rainbow, onion, hairdo, mollusk, violence, cuticle, melodrama, ditch, honey doily… none of it moves me

{everything is illuminated, by jonathan safran foer}


I want you to see the hole in my shirt where your
heart went through like a Colt 45, and opened
a dream at the back of the neck. Here, let me unbutton it for you.
Notice the ribs, those sweet things you loved, notice the insides,
the parchment lampshades, the books, the furniture. Notice yourself
sitting, holding my hand on a winter night, notice the look in
my eyes, now close it all up and walk away.

Stumble, pretend you’re dead. Just for me, pretend you can be
hurt by something so simple as a failed emotion. Pretend you have seen
loss. For god’s sake what was I holding when you said good morning.

Pier Giorgio di Cicco

by Yosano Akiko

you come to the fire and die.
you come to the fire and die.
stupid bug instinct.
the same trial by fire.
for how many tens of thousands of years
do you plan to repeat it?
moths – and human women.

…but no one is around to hear it, does it still make a sound?
In my mind? Of course it does. In the mind of the other? No. Definitely not. Is that the fundamental difference between us? One sees things and considers what has occured, while the other closes their ears and eyes to all but what is deemed acceptable?

As I lie in bed listening to the laughter that only ever becomes raucous when I’m gone I think about how much (or how little) we smile together. I smile. You smile. We smile whilst in the same vicinity, but not necessarily together. I think about those hairs along your hairline, finer and fairer than the rest. So fine and fair that they’re almost see-through. I think about how we used to dance. I think about being pinned against the wall with your hand in my hair and on my cheek and about my neck, being kissed as if I was the only thing that mattered. I shuffle in my bed, both comforted by the memory and disheartened by the fact that it feels like so long ago. Even by the fact that I think I might have imagined it. I roll over and smell your breath on the pillow. I breathe it in, willing the door to open and close again, to hear the clang of the gate as it shuts behind them, locking them out; us in. These stolen moments, after everyone has gone, when the day draws to a close and it’s just us; in my head these moments are perfect: laughter, kitchen antics, lengthy articulations of why we’re so good together. In reality they serve only to remind me that there can never be an us without them. They have become the glue that holds us together; their repetitive jokes and unnecessary volume distracting me from the hard truth: that when you look at me you see nothing that inspires any effort.

{txt by arcadianwench23}
I got a picture of the way I looked
When I was three
I came out laughing screaming dancing
I used to be free spirited
Now I’m just free of sleep

i will create a new category
on my instant messenger buddy list

i will call it
people i like who don’t like me back

and i will move your screen name into that group
and i will invite you to my house and show you

and you will say, ‘if i didn’t like you why did i come over’
and you will look at my face
and i will have an honest answer for your question
i will tell you that you came over to be polite

and after a while you will go home
and you won’t call
and i won’t either
and after awhile i won’t like you anymore
and after awhile we’ll forget each other
and after awhile you will be beautiful and alone inside of your coffin
and i’ll be cold and alone inside of my coffin

– tao lin

the car we sat in rolled on.
we shared headphones. our heads against each others, everything was still. we smiled and used each other for support.

that night was so beautiful.
yet we both know our love will never be.


sometimes, as i fall asleep
i imagine my bed as a painting,
or a sketch, a simple portrait posed
with precision- one hand carefully placed
beneath the pillow and my body stretched
out across the sheets in the
shape of a crescent. and sometimes,
when feeling particularly lonely, i have
been known to trace the slight curve
of your spine next to mine,
your arm drawn so that it rests almost
carelessly, across my chest. i take care
to angle you so that the lines of your hair
spill across my neck and your lips,
a simple stroke of the pen, or brush,
blend into my back, moving the way
they did the first time we slept,
all tangled and careless,
and you kissed me awake.
and at such times, when i find myself
waxing poetic, i try to remember that
no picture, no thousand words,
could capture the scratch of your
beard or the gray of your eyes or
the grace with which you touch.


Have you ever had one of those days when all the questions stink so you just move on and the day gets long and sad and you wish you had just faked the answers to the questions before but you figure, “hey, there’s really no time like the present” and all the people you see seem to be so much more about what you’re trying to be about and you really don’t think there’s a point to all that life has become? don’t you wish things were like the fifties again and you could go out to the roller skating waitressed burgerbars to get a chocolate malt and a side of chilly cheesed french fries and when the roller skating waitress comes out with your food she could lean inside the car with her mini-skirting long legs and say, “hey charley, maybe we could go to the movie house sometime and catch a flick” and you could say, “well sure peggy sue, that sounds like a swell night” and then you could turn on the engine of your 1957 cherry-blue chevy and it would say, “vroom!”?


girl from a tropical paradise living in a cold but beautiful little island between england and the normandy.

and that's her life in almost daily irrelevant photographs and stolen poetry.



May 2019
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