september 2021 to january 2022




The butcher boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife at the stall in the market, I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and breakdown.

clever magic and cagey laughter

I started wearing my glasses more often so I could recognize friends from farther away. Henry and I’s leg-shaking linking up

Sprinting into grand central past pigeons and the open arms of gold doors. foreign laughter on the train- is there such thing as foreign laughter?

Broke down laughing and screaming for more/But if this changed your life, did you have one before?

Call it blackstar, call it painstar
I’ll go it alone, but that’s just as well

You are going to hate everything so much more if you keep doing this

Reload

Odi odi odi odi odi

I could jump.
But I don’t.
You could kill me.
But you won’t.

I don’t want to be in love with you. That’s why I called the police.

I wouldn’t trade one stupid decision for another five years of life

I keep daring you

Saints protect her now
Come angels of the lord
Come angels of unknown

what I like about shows is that it narrows down your language to only touch

I like how my friends collect stories

maybe you could break my heart next summer

you’ll be feeling that weight for a long time

I’m fifteen years old and my parents’ only son
Like I barely survived a girls’ school education
Prettier now that you’ve grown your hair long

I shouldn’t be naked in a laboratory

Starting to think you’re starting a fight

As a kid I used to break hardware just to fix it.

Between my legs I was becoming a man, but it was quite possible that I would not live long enough to discover what life was about. And of course I didn’t know. And of course I didn’t believe what I was told, either in history classes, on the radio, or in the basement.

Because, some nights, it was you who stopped my heart from breaking

Hey, we’re not supposed to be here
(We’re not supposed to be here)
Now my blood is dirty water
Drain it, bleed it, wash it down the drain
Devil in the other, somebody else's mistake
I am dripping with sweat, my hands
I can’t hold anything in my hands
I’ve only made one mistake in my life
I’ve only made one mistake, I’m going

Achilles became a necrophiliac

55 leeroy st New York, NY 10014

God looks at you with his resurrecting mouth and says,

and I won’t always, need you like this

there’s something so fascinating about the wood-elves for me, something so rooted in folklore and myth that compels my imagination. the dark wood inhabited by the deathless.

I am an incurable and nothing else behaves like me

whether this is true or not, i’ve still killed you. my laughing poet king. my armored starlight.

photographer-provocateur

couple holding each other against a brick wall off Christopher st

fascinated by the muddy faded purple of a girl’s hair, her grunge green sweater and jeans

looking like death 10 times worse

it’s like waking up horny from a nightmare; it’s perfect.

the only thing i had planned for future was my death

The weapon beckons. Its heavy blade still sizzles as it is carried along to the drowner; orange-hot, born in a nest of embers. It is sharp as penance and twice as unkind.
The mercenary prince needs to raise only one arm to carve souls with it.

The Alternian anarchists bleed the hemospectrum dry.

Tell me do you really think you go to hell for having loved?
Tell me and not for thinking every thing you’ve done is good

That’s how a wound ought to look right

Like to keep
your skin white,
out of the daylight,
soft to the touch- whose touch is it you dream of
in those long afternoons, those dim back bedrooms?

from the Williamsburg bridge, the skyscrapers look like stalagmites growing the wrong way

white motorcycle helmet, vintage leather jacket, black pants, docs with one foot in pink laces

Does anyone want me here when it’s not an accident

Sweat it out, shut your mouth, free love on the streets, but in the alley it ain’t that cheap

Why is the mouth open, why is it grimacing, why is he in pain? Cause that’s what they know about now

I feel terrible! And anxious, and I’m afraid I’m going to lose my friends through circumstances beyond my control.

Who is the real subject of most love poems? Not the beloved. It is the hole. When I desire you, a part of me is gone: my want of you partakes of me. So reasons the lover at the edge of eros. The presence of want >awakens in him nostalgia for wholeness. His thoughts turn toward questions of personal identity: he must recover and reincorporate what is gone if he is to be a complete person. Most people find something disturbingly lucid and true in Aristophanes’ image of lovers as people cut in half. All desire is for a part of oneself gone missing, or so it feels to the person in love.

The god engine and the exile

arma angelus was not a good band in fact it was terrible

Elephant 6

Henry’s birthday Sunday

of starlight and firelight and milk colored moonlight and of all things white roses and aster blooms sing

RYAN TAYLOR PUTS A FOOT THROUGH A HOTEL WINDOW

let’s all go to hell in a fast car

the architect had a vision

You beautiful poetic human people

Travels with Charlie

It’s fucking beautiful is what it is (the way we can be ourselves after dark.)

Something that’s worth being appreciated regardless of when it came into being

I wonder if these flyers floating around could possibly be for the very same thing

This is how the Parthenon got to be a ruin in 1687

It’s like shopping in a second hand store and finding a jacket that seems like it was made just for you and when you take it home you see a patch under the collar and it says ”I love you Jimmy. Be warm. October, 1981”

They aspire to attain the impossible dream of being able to throw a TV or twoout of the window of an American hotel and have no one complain

Don’t you think you could be (ok)

If you could thrive in this little Petri dish of intense humanity, that deserved a bit of honor.

But Isak Dinesen, the Danish writer, has a wonderful saying that I think is true. She said any sorrow can be borne if it can be made into a story, or a story can be told about it. I’ll go to the consolation first, and then I’ll go to the despair. The consolation was, OK, Cain lives. He begs God to kill him, and God says, no, that would be too easy. That wouldn’t do the lesson. You’re going to live. And you’re going to live in shame and isolation and at the fringes of all human worlds. And I thought, well, that’s it. That’s what I’ll do- because I didn’t want to die, not at that point. I wanted to live, but you can’t live in a world without meaning. To be Cain is, obviously, also grandiose, but children are grandiose, aren’t they. They do think they’re at the center of some story, even if it’s a bad one.

Seriously dude just take your fucking meds

darting with rage through uniformity

Band name: art school shooter

The dharma bums

Weird nocturnal symphonies flung themselves into infinity

I stared into the red light camera’s opaque doe eye, condensation tears bubbling over the lips of its only organ.

Sullivan arrived at Keller’s house on March 5, 1887, a day Keller would forever remember as my soul’s birthday

American graffiti

If the winter doesn’t kill me, the thaw’ll stop my heart

it is what it is. I testify.

Vuong:
Right. We often tell our students, “The future’s in your hands.“ But I think the future is actually in your mouth. [laughter]
You have to articulate the world you want to live in, first. We pride ourselves, as a country that’s very technologically advanced- we have strong, good sciences; good schools; very advanced weaponry, for sure- but I think we’re still very primitive in the way we use language and speak, particularly in how we celebrate ourselves. “You’re killing it.“
Tippett:
You’re so acute about the violence of the American lexicon.

these are things I don’t need anyone to know

to shoot to distant shrines of light

“Ryan really showed their true colors tonight“

Sovereignty, loyalty, and solitude.

Strange things still happen

And besides, you wouldn’t know what to do with me.

someone in my hallway is playing great jazz music

brown haired brown eyed boy standing on the subway holding a box of baguettes

black firework (a)

nolo videt

oh it’s the last time, oh it’s the last time

no one wants to be better for you

it’s a monster- why is it a monster? it was obviously a monster

As a visual interpretation, it can only be conducted within certain kinds of lines and so within certain kinds of frames, unless, of course, the mandatory framing becomes part of the story, unless there is a way to photograph the frame itself. At that point the photograph that yields its frame to interpretation is one that opens the restrictions on interpreting reality to critical scrutiny. It exposes and thematizes the mechanism of restriction, and it constitutes a disobedient act of seeing.

I’ll take the best of your bad moods
And dress them up to make a better you

I felt uncool and hung out around the kitchen
I remember I kept thinking that I know you never would
And now I know I want to kill you like only a best friend could

Your blood sears white-hot. “Shut the fuck up.“

Be a human being

I have launched myself from tall places

Go to haifa and play soccer with the first boy you see on the street Emily jacir

“got ryan’s cd in the mail, listened to it while swinging through grindr or tinder, i don't remember, but i was a very distracted mess so no doubt i’m going to have to
play it again to understand what was going on.“

Boy on a white moped with a nosebleed

tries his hand at a gentler epilogue- like that. I want to show you what I can do now. muscle.

the crown prince catches your eye like a cut. his strangeness borders on untenable.

I recognize you.

dead sexy.

a life lived in fear is a life half-lived. ciao for now