set the scene: girl, realizingquickly inside the lights that the boywill not tellher everything. how can i say —without mocking — that youthat you exist within smallsnake lines; train stationin august alsoseptember; the lines lookdifferent inside rain lightsstation lights, people with ezra pound faces, petals and bulbouseyes. the girl realizingthe boy is leaving, he is… Continue reading poem: save ur tears
Tag: poet
poem: that man
winter is invariably winter; people are different people when they wake up in the morning. he stayed lateinside the night 90s computer eyes, 90s animeboy. blink twice it's probablythe matrix; summer is invariablysummer he will walk awaythrough the heat, but nowhe stayed late on the couch lateinto the morning. white snow morningspuffy thin air, animeeyes.… Continue reading poem: that man
poem: anime & broken hearts watchlist
i watched Death Note, Welcome to the NHK, the first season of Psycho-Pass — I had neverwatched anime before, i was alreadyunpopular in highschool and did not wantto be that girl. i watched A SilentVoice in my pink summer sheets and i cried, i later watched Himizu and alsocried. i did not finishPerfect Blue, i… Continue reading poem: anime & broken hearts watchlist
poem: your reflection in the black phone screen
i wish i was instagram aestheticmulti-block primary color. advertise around my face: kpop album, mini EPfive plastic boys and finger heartssold last yearfor five million dollars. i wish i was happy the girlhanging by her neck in a fridge future countries ironically safer, if you find the rightangle the filter she looksalmost dead maybe foreignbig… Continue reading poem: your reflection in the black phone screen
poem: ‘now’
when i was young, i overanalysed, gave moments great epochs: that fall that summer, the size and emotionof the wind, the tree-shadow on the gable and kawaii music orold literature and cats. the boys all becomingsoulmates, over-explained but neverread. the people now are like the year: twenty-twenty, riots riots riots. she stilldoesn't know if this… Continue reading poem: ‘now’
poem: blonde highlights
the mystery, the murders; you sound likeforeign words or fitzgerald writing alone in rose colored wine; you text like an AI chatbot but i take the blame mostly. listening to reginaspektor in the car: do you love me do youlove me, says my sister my motherthe general throng. how do i explain, i wantairplane ecstasy… Continue reading poem: blonde highlights
poem: the battle of
again again again and howin muddy, half-trudged stepsregains the hold, the menfall— down— and i cannot complain. i have instead disorder, mindhell sparks, all orange-pillcontained. once, theydied in droves and now i die alone, on the upstairsbed my face againstthe shrills. you must know:he is not returning: heis not worth attention,deflection, call it crush— in… Continue reading poem: the battle of
poem: the queen’s gambit
midnight in the sixties, girl comesalive: narcotic smile between cigarette smoke and are you finished yet? oh, that is what it's supposedto feel like, don't stop. she is tight, squares, cocaine. madness in my blood like a mother,the psychosis hangingand fucking, dressed to drink,conquer, la femme fatale. the usual themes: what ami? what is family?… Continue reading poem: the queen’s gambit
poem: the critical reading of innocents
the rising, falling, rollicking –what is american, what is americanliterature: they sit on stools,with feet tucked, crossedat the ankles, girls with milkshakesmiles, whipped-cream eyes –they are the Far and Away, gloryfalling like boys in foreign fields, writing homewriting mothers – i miss youi love you, i will be back.the people reading the bookshave missed it… Continue reading poem: the critical reading of innocents
poem: september mental illness
is it fall? —outside the madhouse windows?i have not showeredin three days, but i would liketo let the air cut me, the trees loose — danse —the new and old risingtogether: foreign dramasin dead worlds, patchinggardens, spirits in oldbooks, old spells —the split apple on my lip,wet like sex,dark and strange like innocence. i would like —to wash myself… Continue reading poem: september mental illness
the last pavilion 