anniversarie

[we mistook them for tigers]
your carefully curated collection of dying things lay atop the embroidered tablecloth. some cake. a key. a bar of soap, parceled in its flawless paper. the objects seemed estranged, seemed to stand at attention, all arbitrary and ceremonial. with a singularly vacuous disposition they each exuded a macabre sheen. the scene sang of unattainable fields. of newly extinguished growth. of church bells knelling and overcast eyes. of thyme. a scent of exquisite soap and fine deterioration

[wildflower]
she possessed a gorgeous sense of ruin about her -- a distraught, endangered way of being beautiful -- a savage misery in her laugh that made her untouchable and altogether irresistible. she was a masterpiece, a goddess cobbled together from bones and teeth

[sincere forms of flattery]
lay them out. spread them wide. freeze them, frame them and paint their cheeks. pin them down, oh lick their bones. stand back. behold your breathless lover -- we shared a passion for still life and wild, wounded things -- a talent for counterfeit, you majored in being phony; graduated with a fake degree -- you suffer a predilection for moonlit walks, angel wings, aestheticism and anatomy

[mutandis]
"everything," she explained, "is a form of self-preservation." her crafts came to life and nibbled her away, but she didn't mind. she considered herself a living sacrifice and everything else a potential offering. another addition to her collection. another stab at eternity. another carved out heart to dissect and display

[fossil figures]
you only admire those dead people that make you laugh; poets, painters in paper graves. you dig them up and play their sighs. their inventions adorn your fingers -- invitations, lustering of the mind. the flowers glisten with some sacred sheen as the lilies listened to us slow dancing to a silly tune. our bodies shifted slowly, my hand attending your back like a funeral -- like some dismal, desolate tea party

[postpartum]
hotels and hospitals reek of impermanence; no matter how grand or comfortable, no one ever stays. our apartment is a cross with no one waiting to be rescued, no one to save. disasters used to be so rare. now each day is an earthquake, a tidal wave trembling in our skin. we framed ourselves in glass and pinned us to a wall, but it didn't help. we didn't last. it didn't help at all

[holocene]
the moon exalted its long, dim, flawful face. its gray, stately glow seemed almost magnetic -- metallic somehow. the strange sky mesmerized us with its inscrutable hue; a hoarse, unflappable shade of ice and fog. the weeds and gravel choreographed themselves into an arid, barren tableau. and i thought of you. the blank looks and bleak stares. a page, a polaroid and butterfly wings. bits of your language that i now speak. your pallid obsessions are constant reminders; no, nothing ever stays

sea sick

haven't been myself in weeks

i need some baptism or cataclysm 

or something 

to eat -- maybe a song 

that i can take twice a day 

and be alright -- 

and be complete

it's all wrong, it's alright

my strings keep going out of tune

one of those crazy girls

Be moderate, be moderate.
Why tell you me of moderation?
The grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste,
And violenteth in a sense as strong
As that which causeth it: how can I moderate it?

---

Aristotle advised moderation in all things - but what good is a life that avoids all extremes - a life that offers no desolation, no despair, no revelation or translucent underwear, no crying shames or surprise birthdays, no tantrums or earthquakes, no heartbreak, no resurrection, no snow-capped peaks, no tsunamis, no lurid speech, no movements, no monuments, no novels, no scripts, no meltdowns or showdowns or love-bitten lips, no gossamer glints of morning sorrow, no secret pinings for the morrow, no souls or sadness - just sensations, no poets' madness just machinations, no sweethearts or soulmates or best friends, just idle individuals with time to spend - life so plain seems of little worth to me - excessive in its simplicity. surely, virtue is more than just mediocrity. surely it has to be

---

This only grant me, that my means may lie
Too low for envy, for contempt too high.

personal, sloths

things ryan gosling and jason segel have in common:
1. both of their last names sound like a kind of bird
2. they both want to make spooky monster love songs with a theatrical twist
3. they should both collaborate with each other
4. they are actors

ode to moon

artists i must learn to love:
hundred waters
four tet
björk
bon iver

a poet will never profess his love plainly
or if he does it is obligatory

---

never fall in love with your hypothesis 
- Peter Medawar

---

who needs blinds when you've got
impervious eyes and a face, naked
and tattooed with craters; caressed
by Mars, love-bitten by
meteorites; markings
that, from afar, look like some kind of smile
and, up close, a sigh snuck softly
into every dotted i

how do you wrestle all that beauty
into one person, and keep your skin
from catching fire when
you're stealing, drinking
sunlight, raining rays down
like argent hail - such heavy light
(maybe now we'll stop falling
into wells at night) but not on purpose
of course; it seeps from your fingertips
and leaks through every pore

there was a time, long ago, when you
were famous - received accolades,
got called such lovely sobriquets -
when men fought to ink in your orbits,
to decipher your depths and plant
their flags, which they did and you grew
fat, and then lean and then
leaner still

you held your breath till you
turned blue, the seas stopped turning
and no one knew when you had vanished
the quiet, the calm - the silence devastated you
with readings that were too hasty, too shallow -
obsessed with their reflections, the whites
of their lies, and you let them
believe that they were right
you were and always have been
the girl they never knew

---

I don't really want to make it big. I just want to meet people and mean something

malaysian nomad

"Loneliness and big cities kinda go hand in hand, don't you think."

---

Is this what travelling is about then, you ghosting through other people's lives, only trying one flavour of ice cream at a time?

--- 

Discovered a girl with the most beautiful face today. This time she was a sales assistant at some stark, sleek-looking department store, enshrined within one of those grand shopping emporiums on Oxford Street. The store itself was quite inconspicuous, tucked away in a corner and largely unnoticed by the tourists and holidaymakers. I had stepped inside momentarily, partly out of curiosity, mostly to escape the cold when her simple figure, lovely amid the clamour of gold and silver, caught my eye - I watched her for a while from across the busy vestibule. She wore a matte black skirt and a plain white shirt, sleeves folded up to her elbows. Her hair stopped just short of her shoulders - Indian ink against the soft cream of her skin. Her head was slightly bent, intent on her chores while her hands worked quietly and efficiently, arranging articles of clothing and cutlery. It was strangely calming, the way her hands moved - her actions so sure and serene.

"Hello sir, can I help you with anything?" beamed a lady in smart business dress, her friendly face guarded by fiercely angular features. I turned round to face her and smiled back politely. I told her thanks, but it was okay. She raised her eyebrows but kept smiling. "Just looking," I said.

awful satisfaction

is it possible to portray anything well without properly understanding it

---

I wonder if poetry is anything but turning music into words

---

language is an animal - language is a beast. each noun its growl, each howl a verb. the people who have a way with language are the ones who wait and listen, instead of plying their hooks and ropes, clutching and clawing at words to support them

---

the great thing about the London overground is that it doesn't listen to you. it doesn't come when you want it to - doesn't depart at your convenience. the sun is the same; you can never predict how hard or how soft it will shine on any given day, but that's what makes its rays - and all the objects it gilds - precious. the only things in this world that are truly priceless are the ones you might never see again