on her deathbed, she smirks.
All posts in poetry
admiration for anis mojgani’s beard
Mister Mojgani, I don’t believe you speak poetry at all. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t! It is your hair that does it. That beard of yours. It knows not of daily trimmings and so speaks of daily trimmings. Courage found away from the knife. It knows much of daily trimmings. It knows the hard caress of soft fists made in thought, and so speaks said fists. All you’ve done is closed your mouth and let your hair fight. See! It flees the tyranny of your head, the wastelands of thought. See! It collects at your chin, near the heart; I’ve seen farmers pick land. I’ve seen refugees pick arms. I’ve seen them learn a new language. That beard knows how to shout. How to demand, food. Its slow descent towards your chest speaks of desire, labour, of almost there. Like the hand that shifts through the day’s wages and comes up short. I wonder, have you actually ever opened your mouth? How do you eat?
busy hands don’t hold razors, busy hands don’t hold razors, busy hands don’t
sometimes i get this urge to just sit down and write this screenplay about this melancholy filled boy who sits in a room with umpteen inspirational posters that read busy hands dont hold razors in umpteen different ways that were put up by his own hands that he looks at every day to remind himself that the knives he holds to remind himself hes alive might not be the answer but every once in a while i remember that this whole thing is bullshit and i take mightier swords to posters till they read scared hands don’t hold razors and the last thing he told himself hed be is scared and he wishes someone would just tell himself in a not inspi but rational manner thatd convince why he has to be happy why he absolutely has to be alive without alluding to all the overscreenplayed things hed miss like the miss kiss bliss because he abhors the dull routines of existence but do he does and then i remember bullshit like this doesnt sell but the boys in the room wondering if hes the only one with these posters these cold grey sharp truths these bullshit thoughts about this bullshit place cognizant of it all but most times i keep myself busy
about norma jeane (whom i wrongly judged), mostly about my m.ysterious m.adam
john waters was rightly quoted as saying we need to make books cool again
if you go home with somebody and they don’t have books, don’t fuck ’em! Continue Reading →
aquaphobia
i can sit and stare
at the ocean all day. do
n’t ask me to swim!
fuck you
fuck you! fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. right now someone’s blasting mozart’s adagio and fugue. it’s three a.m., in the projects, it’s hailing, and i’m outside half-dressed listening to it. i’m probably, definitely, gonna be sick tomorrow, but you know what – fuck it! fuck you, fuck me, fuck all of us, and our hopelessness. this moment is beautiful.