1. What’s your favorite way to spend a lazy Sunday?
2. Who do you look up to? Do you have any role models?
3. What inspires you?
4. When you get creative, what do you create?
5. Do you have any unique talents?
6. If you could pick one person to rule the world, who would it be?
7. Let’s say…
i’m mad as hell
this is a panic attack
and i’m not letting it
i’m swinging my fists
i’m saying “no”
i am foaming at the mouth with life
my hands are broken and full
they are tingling with fuel
i am rainbows and rainbows and fire and the
sound of god clearing her throat
i am mad as hell
Drinking Merlot and watching Les Mis (the 2012 film).
Fantine just died. Ouch my hearttttt~.
Not sure if crying because of all my emotions or because Russell Crowe’s voice is actually the definition of shithouse.
(And here it is, and it is a thing.)
I am a few followers away from 100, at long last, and I thought I’d make a deal with you tumblr.
Whoever is the hundredth person to follow me gets to command my writing powers and request a poem/prose/thing on whatever they like.
That’s write, a whole thing!
So, um, please love me and I shall love you back? :D
Oh, and if y’all feel like pimping me out to your friends to facilitate this celebratory offer, that would be lovely.
Drinking Lipton iced green tea with citrus (this series doesn’t have to focus solely on my ascension to “drunkard” status), and switching between making yet another attempt at my media studies readings and writing up another piece to go in my ‘travels’ series—I’m kind of happy with it so far, I might consider submitting it for something. I just went for a walk to my second favourite park within walking distance of my house.
Soundtrack is Patrick Wolf’s Sundark and Riverlight album and someone mowing their lawn.
ALDI shiraz (not as bad as it sounds) and a not intolerable Marlborough cab sav to accompany a debate with my family on the language of oppression.
Soundtrack is my musicals playlist (and before that was Hey Ya! by Outkast).
Reading was meant to be MeCo readings on “mathematical theories of comunication” but, alas, no such luck…
Drinking Red Dot & Feather 2012 pinot grigio, reading fan fiction (because I’m too tired to attempt anything more literary tonight), and attempting to edit poem drafts.
Soundtrack is the cast recording of “The Last Five Years”.
[Living breathing house, filled with antique and decorative, but
warm with candlelight and affection, warmer with bodies inside
—bursting with the heavy sighing pastiche of youthful nostalgia
the arrogant longing for times we never had to live through—
I pass a mask on the wall on the way in, watch its smooth white
face and empty eyes, painted brightly but without soul,
a grown up china doll beheaded for daring difference:
I look at it and see myself, nod in secret silent recognition,
solidarity in a disappearing identity. I smile. I always smile.]
There is a swaying in the air
—not that we ourselves sway,
but that the nothingness sways
around us, the world turning
on and on, more like reckless
car rides in unknown territories
than the slow work of physics,
and we, powerless and hungry,
angry starry eyed marionettes,
are moved by it—
There is a taste to the night
on the rooves of mouths, the
tips of tongues searching out
the skin of others, a taste of
newness in ancient ritual,
of Renewal fucking Nostalgia
in the full moon (the older
gasping into the earth on filthy
elbows, sobbing his pleasure
into Mother Nature even older,
while the younger buries long
young fingers in sweaty hair
scrapes his teeth almost tender
against ancestral neck)
the two howling together
in sad ecstasy and paradox,
not waiting or wishing for
tomorrow, not impatient or
reluctant—because, for them,
tomorrow need never come
—my jaw works overtime, stiff
from too much mangled speech
and I gulp down the children
of old and new on every breath—
There is a peace in cacophony
A stillness in frenetic laziness
A constant wakeful sharpness
in drunken death slumber
(for we might be immortal
if only we do not ever sleep)
This room will not sleep, I think
This time we will be forever.
I thought and thought until the insides of my eyelids were green and the world around too too blue. I thought and thought in circles and jagged patters, closing my eyes to the rush of image and sound and light and screaming silence and blackblackblack. I chased fractures of burning, stark white light around the walls of my skull, felt light bounce and bend around each one of my fears, elongated shadows making them appear strange and small—felt them crack and shatter and disintegrate with every blow. I let it happen and happen until my head felt empty, light, so light it wobbled on my brittle neck and fell with hollow echoing thud on the floor; until the dust and debris and residue dripped warm from my ears down my neck staining my clothes staining the sofa cushions burning dirty yellow holes in fabric in skin; until the breeze smoothed my features away like wind on sand and I saw nothing heard nothing felt nothing but churn and pond of thought. I thought and I thought until thought consumed me, hours bled into days and years until I was nothing but thought in purest form, free of doubt and unknown and broken, nothing at all but the flow of thought, and it was the bare early morning glow and I was immortal in mind.
The imminence of loss has a gravity
it is why we ground ourselves to these
mad nights, these mad ones whose
lips form silent screams of laughter
in pictures and in memories forever
it is why we fight the wretched dawn
or the droop of our traitor eyelids
it is why we continue on and on
and on long into the morning and
try our best to never make it home
There is messiness in the way we fight
and fuck and laugh and breathe
cry shout sing spit run dance howl
and fall and drink in hot liquid death
—we wage war with chaos our weapon
of choice, against the neatness of
ending, conclusion, destruction, death.
(which is why I cannot sleep, IF
we are to say that sleep means ending,
means finity means death of the night
means one step closer to “home” not “here”
—I delay and I blur the lines so that all
might be asleep and awake, that, if I might not
live forever, will turn tonight into eternity…)
The room is dead.
(The room sleeping, but silence tastes like just like death if your ears are still ringing—the stretching shadows are gloating in their victory, slipping out the windows like thieves and murderers—morning wins, night ends, everybody moves on and dies—so it does not go.)
There are piles in the corners that should not resemble people
piles of people who resemble the dead
piles of the doubt and anxiety I carried with me here left embarrassingly bare, garishly proud around the room (I want to take them back but dare not)
piles greater still of the masks and disguises and selves and delusions we have shed to attend our chemical-fuelled Masquerade Ball of Selves Past tonight (we have become ourselves, if only because we are dressed as anyone else), the ones we must put back on over our costmes to leave here with any semblance of safety, to leave here with pride and courage intact, to leave here at all …
The mask on the wall becomes a face, a body
the body becomes a beautiful woman
holds out her hands to me and
Asks to hold
the weight of the globe slung across my shoulders
she holds it easily and
spins it in one palm and
with a voice that defies any description of cadence
or constriction by time and space and
She tells me
words gleaming in speech far more
than I ever could have written them
“stop leaving all the broken parts
“Dragon Heart, how like you this? How like you
How like you your soul drunken light and
”This is where you are happy”
and so pen in hand feeling like
I own it for the first time in weeks
sunset heart holding back night
with the scratch of ink on paper
ink on skin and skin on paper
with brandy warmth on a tongue
dry enough to feel the annals of
history against my teeth lips that
feel more like pages yet unwritten
than marked and marred flesh
I forget about Sleep and Thought
about Renewal and Nostalgia
still tight entangled in the corner
I throw my shoulder to the ending
with words and not insomnia
and I enjoy——