22.3.12

soorpanakha

lakshmana,
don't cut off my nose just yet:

let me dream about what you see
with your brown, unsleeping eyes.

let me look at your quivering lips
while you lick them in anger

let me fantasize being held
by those taut muscles in your arms

let me smell your musk and sweat
for a few seconds longer.

don't cut off my nose just yet,
lakshmana.

**

i actually wrote this a couple of months ago. still not sure if i like it.
also, just because i'm posting lots doesn't mean i have time to breathe. i just make these posts up while swimming. because swimming is boring more physically exhaustive than mentally.

i need the darkness someone please cut the lights

this city's getting bigger. lights are thrown into the skies, stars are losing their shine and fireflies are dying, very slowly. there are cars moving inch by inch on the roads outside. people are flipping each other off at every intersection. they're losing their lives to advertisements on the radio by the minute, while their children fill their childhood with crappy cartoons in strange languages. nightclubs get numerous, louder and darker, forcing you to leave conversations at their doorsteps.

you and i, we're getting smaller too. soon we'll lose our shine and die out like the stars in the sky. we'll fill our emptiness with these radio shows too, and flip each other off at intersections. we'll stop talking, and fill ourselves with the urban night where the lights are plenty, but light is dim.


**

title from sprawl ii, arcade fire.

21.3.12

tonight

may i run away, because this night is too long?
which way is day, because this night is too long?
let the stars fade away, because this night is too long.
i don't need to stay awake, this night is too long.

16.3.12

don't

fill me up with regret
i have nowhere else to go
there's nothing left to hope for
but the last of the cold winds
and beer by the sea.

summer's nearly here
stifling strangling stale stop
it from drying me up, don't
fill me up with regret
i have nowhere else to go

**

Because S sent me this and made me cry.

Antilamentation
by Dorianne Laux

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don’t regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering
any of it. Let’s stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

4.3.12

tattooed all i am

sixty three stretch marks
rise from the bottom of my stomach
moving upwards
like tongues of flame
across my body

three black lines
black like paint black like kohl
moving downwards
like cracks on a wall
by the side of my thighs

once everyday
these scars remind me
of how i abandoned
all the secret promises
i once made
to myself.

**

title from pearl jam's black.

3.3.12

how to be pretentious and cross-eyed

My posts have minds of their own.

Some of them are snippets from real conversations in imaginary worlds: you may call them stories, you may call them poetry, you may call them dreams; some of them are imaginary conversations with real people, snippets from arguments, fillers during lunch, observations while rambling. Some of them lean forward, twirl hair around their index finger and blink at you flirtatiously; some, quiet, ambling, nostalgic, laugh at themselves when nobody's watching; some, just looking for a quick fuck, no frills. Many are jarring, raw, wounded. Most are Saturday afternoons that can turn into either wild, vodka-filled nights or cool, whiskey filled evenings, but only hoping for an early night's sleep. (Some are hungover Sunday mornings, spent in bed with a book and a newspaper).

So you're right, there actually are some posts which don't want to talk to you - they say their piece and have their comments disabled, because that's how they like 'em. Look closely, and you'll see these. There's some that are quite sure nobody's going to talk to them, simply because they're so closed up, even I wouldn't dare to say anything further. They're pretentious little bastards, cross-eyed and sexy, quite sure of what they really are. You think I'm quirky and strange? Ha, I'm quite plain, I assure you. It's these posts that confuse you. They confuse me, just as well.

**

from an email i wrote to someone today (not) about why comments are disabled on my blog.

also because "on good writing days, nothing else matters."
:)

2.3.12

dear bottom of my stomach,

i get it. shut up.

thanks,
me.