Muse

here is a broken fading
muse—
slow in constancy
syrupy in consistency

guilt intertwines with
spilled drinks, falling moonlight
stumbling into cracked
pavement, littered like uneven teeth

I’ll run my tongue over my lips
to the croon of uncalled songs
escape into reverie
once the party’s over

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Cocoa Butter Kisses

Chance the Rapper’s Acid Rap, new on Spotify, croons over the speakers. Cigarettes on cigarettes, my mama think I stank. And then a cloud of nostalgia envelops us both, summer hues of youth and stupidity. Me–I’m thinking of faces, cocoons, mixing purple, muggy sunsets, and cool friends (you were my cool friend). Him–probably a pop rocks memory type deal of bursting moments, but I don’t ask. It’s comforting to hear him sing to Chance. Their voices fill the car. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard Cocoa Butter Kisses, since it’s felt like anything.

ghost ships, grandmothers, icing on cake — erased narrative

tonight I felt briefly, for the first time, that poetry is dance. spoken word poetry. the expressiveness that is embodied in physicality, carefully emphatic bows of the arms, deliberate fingers drawing gliding shapes in the air, brushing the temple, cupping the ribs, curling into undulating waves against the precipitous cliffs on the coast of ireland.

and the voice is its own rhythm, lilts on her lips.

I’ve never felt for poetry the way I do for prose; too many teachers in stuffy classrooms prompting inane interpretations of line breaks and stressed consonants and the breath a phrase takes as the narrator’s brother rattles a last inhalation in his chest. too many rules drawing lines around the emotion, too many thematic analyses bleaching the colour out of the words, too many lists of technical jargon flattening the paper. but the spoken word sings.

via ghost ships, grandmothers, icing on cake — erased narrative

This was so beautiful, well-put and apt that I decided to share it (My first share! who knew you could repost on WordPress?)

Shout out to erased narrative, one of my favorite bloggers/writers here.

Warp

I often feel like the same exact person with the same exact tendencies and same exact thoughts and same exact desires and same exact confusions as I was years and years ago, just with different memories.

All those experiences imploded into themselves, became wisps of recollection. When I revisit them, they’re light and intangible. It’s the strangest f’ing thing, circling around constantly to who I was before.

As we ate ramen yesterday and I scrambled to find words, that expression rang true: it’s as if everything that happened in between condenses like nothing’s ever changed.

I feel myself sinking into the cushion, wondering how the mind warps time so well.

Summer Putty

IMG_0438

Lately, time’s been this weird amorphous blob. Putty melting and shifting. Sidewalk glob. The sun doesn’t set until eight each night. I’m tricked into thinking I have more time than I do. Then, before I know it, it’s dark and eleven.

So I’ve been toying with the putty of time, driving down winding roads with the windows down and radio up. I love when time takes on this kind of quality. She’s whizzing by, but in this languid mellow way, telling you not to worry about days passing by…

June 2018

Droning

we found a quiet hobbit nook the other day
a cozy woodish book-decked space
with rich spanish lattes
and oil paintings abound

(and I think I feel strange because I ate something strange
but regardless
I think that a bit of stream of consciousness
will make things better)

the rain is pouring
pouring pouring
oh! the thunder sounds like angry popcorn
crackling in the skies
and they are splitting
in half, drowning in their grief

(did anybody really go anywhere?
i don’t know. nor do i think so.
is it mostly a matter of show
or objectivity?
and does it behoove me
to be so mentally tied to it all?
after talking to my best friend
it seemed to dissipate–finally–
mud hardened by disgust
eventually hosed down by understanding

nowadays i am
too tired
to care)

i’ve been thinking of a wordpress i started in 2015
the summer of 2015, to be exact
it was a small, honest space
and even though i would add tags, it was relatively private
it felt more candid
more open
more cringey

i think i just miss word-vomiting with that sort of
lost careless sadness
when it felt like roads would extend forever
in that lazy summertime way
when time would stretch like
putty and i’d wrap
myself in it, contemplating nabokov
or whatever-his-name–
the metamorphosis guy, that one–
and i thought life couldn’t be more
paradoxical

what a luxury it was
the droning contemplation