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
Tag: the last pavilion
poem: i’m thinking of starting things
sports presents: december sunday,winter light, the men first-downfirst-down. i am undecided,grad school or travelteach abroad, live love sex& kisses with strangers,his hand on my neckin the little house, jeju islandrennes then paris, toykotoyko beijjing. sports continues: why don't you crowd the line of scrimmage, says the commentator;the aloe plant next to the christmastree next to… Continue reading poem: i’m thinking of starting things
poem: for/against
to what degree are the romantics, the pin-addled girls in black/white deconstructedjumpsuit-jail-cell-dresses now allowedto take fruit, wine, a little foreign cheese— like the system,it is only half molded, they sayplayfully/carefully— out to the dregsof connecting countries:the border, very political, a greatgreen country best fitfor running hounds and sittingin tweed, reading, watching. you can smellit on… Continue reading poem: for/against
poem: the winter girl and the sunset boy
the winter has me wishingthat you and iwere still something; do you remember two years ago(two centuries of yesterday) i was desperate and drowningin idealism, in pacifiedanxiety, andglowing newintellectualism at midnight and dawnand also love poems, written for youmainly on the coffee datewe almost had:the old me, studying hard,too-hot latte in hot handscaffeine sparking slow… Continue reading poem: the winter girl and the sunset boy
poem: all madness, no genius, pt. 1
two thousand 17;the aesthetic of this,it is like spring, the old suicide days, when the poemsdripped — no punctuation.music stuck spiral-likein my throat, the pulsing pulsingwonder: my chemical shitin the bathroom (before class)the animalism of no-onemeeting your eyes — I cannotwrite like thatanymore. The downsidesof friends, of making it. two thousand 19/20;remember the chemical swings,the… Continue reading poem: all madness, no genius, pt. 1
poem: autumn / catch me i’m falling
highschool-me listened to far awaymusicals, the rx a foreign and edgy thing, everything sex, men smilingand cum dripping out; now the normalis redone and i watch – ravens land on old buildings,the turrets gothic, lined against the fall;nothing is magic – not the rawcoming in calendars, the daysfalling into vampire schedules, five a.m. blinking, late… Continue reading poem: autumn / catch me i’m falling
poem: strangers far away and very close
girl looking out a windowdo you remember Rennes—where the stars— almost bloomed?where men cut themselvesfor eternal random truth;saying: i miss the dysfunction,the late, exploding nightsyour hand in my mouththe spiraling, the fights;girl looking out a windowis he caught in your head?—the boy over the ocean, his hands pulled into squareslet the riot fall— and find… Continue reading poem: strangers far away and very close
poem: there is always a lost generation
she is sitting with her face in the window watching the country blur into Monet and his outcast friends— she is always afraid, if she blinks she will miss the important moment when the universe pauses and catches her breath. the country falls louder and longer when when she picks up culture and tries it,… Continue reading poem: there is always a lost generation
poem: friends
the earth was spinning down into sunset and I put on—welcome to the black parade. you said you knew it maybe, you hummed to the chorus, to the rise and fall of one thousand suicides, one thousand children deciding—not tonight. we are the same people, we are split into different bodies. I could tell you… Continue reading poem: friends
poem: boring afternoon depression
some questions for today: when did my image consume my soul? and how the fuck did i end up the 'good girl'? can we return to the before—when he was still a mystery, when i did not make hell into a casual routine; crying in your room alone to my chemical romance is so seventeen;… Continue reading poem: boring afternoon depression
the last pavilion 