bjork's "joga"

All that no-one sees
You see
What's inside of me
Every nerve that hurts you hear
Deep inside of me
You don't have to speak
I feel
Emotional landscapes
They puzzle me
Confuse

kim addonizzio's "fine"

You're lucky. It's always them and not you. The family trapped in the fire, the secretary slain in the parking lot holding her coffee and Egg McMuffin, the ones rushed to Emergency after the potluck. You're lucky you didn't touch the tuna casserole, and went for the baked chicken instead. Your friend with breast cancer that was detected too late, metastasized to the lymph nodes, the lungs, a few months to live, lucky there's no history in your family. Another friend's fiance, heart attack at forty-seven. You lie in bed at night, your head on your lover's chest, and you're grateful. Your teenaged daughter, unlike all her friends, hasn't become sullen or combative, addicted to cigarettes or booze. She's not in the bathroom with her finger down her throat to throw up dinner. You and your family are fine. You're happy. It's like you're in your own little boat, just you, sailing along, and the wind is up and nothing's leaking. All around you you can see other boats filling up, flipping over, sliding under. If you look into the water you can watch them for a while, going down slowly, getting colder and farther away. Soon, if nothing happens to you, if your luck holds, really holds, you'll end up completely alone.

antony and the johnson's "the cripple and the starfish"

Mr. Muscle forcing bursting
Stingy thingy into little me, me, me
But just "ripple" said the cripple
As my jaw dropped to the ground
Smile smile

It's true I always wanted love to be
Hurtful
And it's true I always wanted love to be
Filled with pain
And bruises

Yes, so Cripple-Pig was happy
Screamed " I just compeletely love you!
And there's no rhyme or reason
I'm changing like the seasons
Watch! I'll even cut off my finger
It will grow back like a Starfish!

robert hass' "poem about the body"

The young composer, working that summer at an artist's colony, had watched her for a week. She was Japanese, a painter, almost sixty, and he thought he was in love with her. He loved her work, and her work was like the way she moved her body, used her hands, looked at him directly when she made amused and considered answers to his questions. One night, walking back from a concert, they came to her door and she turned to him and said, "I think you would like to have me. I would like that too, but I must tell you that I have had a double mastectomy," and when he didn't understand, "I've lost both my breasts." The radiance that he had carried around in his belly and chest cavity -- like music -- withered very quickly, and he made himself look at her when he said, "I'm sorry. I don't think I could." He walked back to his own cabin through the pines, and in the morning he found a small blue bowl on the porch outside his door. It looked to be full of rose petals, but he found when he picked it up that the rose petals were on top; the rest of the bowl -- she must have swept them from the corners of her studio -- was full of dead bees.

excerpt from shane koyczan's "if"

Because if if had anything at all then I was not pushed and I did not fall, I jumped out of grace and I landed on my face because there was no safety net...

But don't draw a chalk outline around my body yet because if if had anything at all, if I was in hell I'd still give you a call because even if this is the greatest poem that I ever wrote I'd still have to write a little sidenote saying, 'It is not enough simply to say I love you.' That kind of shit just ain't gonna do, because if the universe has no beginning, has no end, has no bottom, has no top, I would jump from somewhere, I would drop through infinity, because I'm not just saying I love you.

I'm saying I'll never stop.

i miss you

while you are away
my heart comes undone
slowly unravels
in a ball of yarn
the devil collects it
with a grin
our love
in a ball of yarn

jennifer sullivan's "bedroom"

-n. A room in which to sleep: As in, I hung the painting you made of your bedroom in my bedroom. I imagine you walking into your bedroom, taking off your straw hat, face lined by sun. You put your pipe down next to the porcelain basin, unbutton that blue smock, remove your underclothes of unbleached linen. There are specks of lemon yellow paint all over your arms. I could scratch them off with my fingernails. -adj. 1. Sexually suggestive: Did you ever have a lover in that wooden bed? I mean bedroom eyes, flesh upon freckled flesh- folded, trembling, full. The swell. The space between morning and midday. The separation. 2. Related to or inhabited by commuters: Our two worlds meet only in these bedroom poems, through your bedroom being in my bedroom. It is the last thing I see before I close my eyes.

floating up to the top of the sea, sunlight and I'm sorry

Today after spending ages on webcam with Sabine I realised that I CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT HER!!!

Countdown to October 16th!

Last night I had a horrible dream about a murderer in the hotel room I was sleeping in with about 20 other people, and I went out on the balcony for a smoke (why? I do not smoke) and I walked back in and the murderer had cut open the chest of this sleeping guy and put his face into his lungs and blew into them so the dying guy could shout in pain. I ran through all these doors that I remember locking carefully at the beginning of the dream but I could pass through them and I ended up in the middle of this huge banquet in a marketplace where I tried to find my parents, who, when I found them were not mine at all.

I am not watching bad horror movies before I sleep anymore.

if you're looking for something life-like

CREZ, I am finally updating this thing!

Well, I do not have much to report except I am pretty tired and today I actually started drawing again for the first time in months, I am glad. The progress will be displayed with time, I guess.

Hmmmm what can I write that is not small talk, of course a to-do list:

* buy blank notebook and black fineliners
* clean bathroom
* clean foodstuffs off desk
* fix laptop
* call home
* post two packages, one to the Netherlands (I always feel like I am talking about butts when I say that instead of Holland) and one to Singapore
* stop sleeping so late so these things can actually be accomplished

oh and

* get a job.

Thrilling.

dennis o'driscoll's "home"

When all is said and done.
What counts is having someone
You can phone at five to ask,
For the immersion heater
To be switched to "bath"
And the pizza taken from the deep-freeze.

john ashbury's "the problem of anxiety"

Fifty years have passed
since I started living in those dark towns
I was telling you about.
Well, not much has changed. I still can't figure out
how to get from the post office to the swings in the park.,
Apple trees blossom in the cold, not from conviction,
and my hair is the color of dandelion fuzz.

Suppose this poem were about you--would you
put in the things I've carefully left out:
descriptions of pain, and sex, and how shiftily
people behave toward each other? Naw, that's
all in some book it seems. For you
I've saved the descriptions of finger sandwiches,
and the glass eye that stares at me in amazement
from the bronze mantel, and will never be appeased.