they were drinking fast confetti wine pinktaffeta hands they say do you consideranything sacred fuck that i sayfuck that and the dawn meltscity lights bombs my brastrap caught call me a taxi waithe says the cocaine still flush waityou were such a slut foridealism flares of art eventually i say lighting the cigerette shaky brightface… Continue reading poem: party with the optimists
Tag: writing
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
writing: the holiday girl
not all of the following makes sense, really, but I'm publishing it anyway. call it "writing practice" and read at your own risk. "The meaning of literature" is something I think about often, especially after fucking, when my boyfriend has rolled away to stare at a book and I stare at the wall. I know… Continue reading writing: the holiday girl
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: crying after a fight with my mother, twenty-twenty
in the autumn far-awayi read a portrait of the artist as a young manunder the trees, under the universityand i was notthe drama, the failure. waitingoutside the daycare, an after-somethingjob for the boring, earbuds and trite tragicmusic wrapped around my skull. i stayed very latein cafes, no-whip-cafe-mochaand scholarship questions, dreaminghopelessly and i — droppedthe history… Continue reading poem: crying after a fight with my mother, twenty-twenty
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: berlin reparations (meditations in quarantine)
a before-i-die listfor the after:a faux jewish girlstanding in lattice shadow—the town-squarein café colors,un-expressed dims. because weare a dream, the Eiffel Toweris a historical shadowabove; the girlleans against. she is smoking—pivotally, the ash blurring upwards,the ash of other peoplenot her people; she cannot makechallah bread, the necessary prayers;her body is woundin riot history: her peopleare… Continue reading poem: berlin reparations (meditations in quarantine)
poem: my grandmother’s (mystical) first love
he was the type of boyi dreamed about saving —a pretty wraith, oddly colored:black hair, black eyes — a mad rememberingbetween us, when i satin the soft shitting yellowof his apartment, his facerewording, compressing—like a poem in the physical actof being written, movingquickly backwards, the meaningskittering over itselfwith braver, bolder attempts.he was the spirit hung… Continue reading poem: my grandmother’s (mystical) first love
writing: in these years, we just give up
When I woke up my teeth were sticky with plaque; this is the fourth or maybe the sixth time this week I have woken up and remembered that last night, I did not brush my teeth. Last night, I did not do anything, except lie on the floor and eat the chocolate taffy from Wisconsin… Continue reading writing: in these years, we just give up
the last pavilion 