sweet little darling
pink toes, taut tummy, curious child-ling
sticky in the heat
born to be a wild thing
gurgles, gibberish, coo-ing, wailing
kick your tiny feet
clench your tiny fist
what could be so alarming?
sometimes i give you kind advice
axioms reiterated by fools and the wise;
i tell you i love you baby, once, twice, thrice
you may not comprehend, but
in time you’re sure to understand
i see the best of myself in your eyes
I don’t have a right (to grieve) -
I barely knew you
But you smiled for everyone -
I felt you smiled for me
I don’t have a right (to cry) -
Your friends have shed enough
But you sang for everyone -
You must have sung for me
Forgive these angry tears;
You’ve left before your years
Whilst my time’s ill been spent
I don’t have a right (to mourn) -
I am not your kin
When you won, you became my win
When you are a song, you’re mine to sing
sometimes someone, a complete stranger, articulates that which you have felt, observed or understood tacitly for a long time but have been unable to express. in a song, in verse, in prose, in symbols. in fiction, in academic jargon.
when sometimes happens, you discover that the feeling you had before was loneliness and that being understood is a human and social need.
it is marvelous that a man - someone i might never meet, whose work from decades ago that was written in czech, translated to french and then translated again to english - could make me feel a little less alone.
02:07 you: Do you hear the rain my love? Making the night seem both lonelier and livelier all at once? It isolates and envelopes your world while making pretty pattering promises.
02:10 you: Somedays my thoughts feel like the endless drumming of rainfall. Restive and reiterant.
02:13 me: let your thoughts nourish the flat bed of silence; the chasm between each drip-splat a universe of mindful echoes
02:15 you: Maybe that’s how the dead talk to us. Wet whispers of bygone souls.
02:18 me: or perhaps it’s all those unspoken sentiments, saturated into existence. beating hard on deaf asphalt.
02:22 you: Unspoken. Yes. Looking at your old photos now while listening to music. No words needed. You look so pretty.
02:25 me: i’m taking a break from rehearsing. feel a little alive, a little foolish, a little a lattle a lot of in love with you.
indie was about being independent. it’s the charm of not being subjected to profit-driven label directives. an indie label is an oxymoron really.
i much prefer the word “autonomy”. i have often used this in description of my position as an unsigned artiste. someone possessing the freedom of will or action.
i look forward to the day when i can be managed by someone whom i can trust. when i have the resources to complete the many projects that exist as blueprints in my mind. when i don’t have to deal with paperwork or People. but unless i feel like i can take my autonomy with me, this is where i’m happy to be.
too many words on my wall
the social catch-all
unending social calls paid
genuine convenient concern
posts pokes poets
love is a barter good.
peculiar because in its most coveted form, it is traded in exchange for itself.
i’m certain that i’ve loved before and this, this isn’t love.
this, must be happiness.
爱, 我体会过 -
爱, 我尝试过 -