thousand pound day out

on toulouse lautrec

you were right,

there is nothing to cover up, let the brush strokes

bruise the canvas, let the nouns and drunken adjectives

fall out like broken teeth from an old woman.

a brief tribute to anti-folk, summer nights, and soviet russia.

my procrastination brings me once again to the land of the pretendingtostudy, filled with jeffrey lewis singing about his pretty drawings of the russian revolution. he should make illustrative books for all of my exams. i don't care if they're blatantly leftist.
i will possibly fail this subject purely for my inability to condemn communism.
i like lenin despite his political cunning, disdain for the peasantry, what is to be done, forced dissolution of the constituent assembly AND hanging of kulaks. fuck you richard pipes. no need for black and white-isms.

also; i like trotsky's glasses. like, i REALLY like trotsky's glasses. i paint pictures of him and my art teacher is a little bit sceptical.

"Trotsky was a son-of-a-bitch dude, but the greatest jew since Jesus." - Orlando Figes

disagree. woody allen wins.

"it's a film about a weedy jewish guy searching for love in manhattan, who eventually realizes he hates everything."


overquotedunderstood.

vonnegut meets malouf

me oh my i like this.

Patrick Pittman from Patrick Pittman on Vimeo.

reflection

nowhere man

burning all my essays. not even mother-fucking-ironically. just burning them.
i've killed several forests with the amount of trees immma be pulling down with my revision. dear jesus. i'm over it.

essays fail. charcoal, born ruffians and v.woolfe win.

also; watching the time flip past until the excuses get tired and so do i, so i go to sleep and wake up somewhere, sometime else.
everything is still there.
i'm not quite.

at home it's sunny and at school there are people. inside there's food and tv and books and movies and outside there's cigarettes and cats and bicycles and coffee to buy and people to see. even in the study room, though there are books and pencils and computer and charger and practice exams and highlighters, there is also a space on the floor where one could lie in the foetal position and psychoanalyze one's dreams or hypothesize about the meaning of the universe or think about what to eat for lunch.

if one was so inclined.

lets leave here. drop everything and just leave. i don't even like suitcases. or clothes on backs. just, nothing. there's so much to say and so little time. oh my.

late night poetry

Your single bed can’t hold us both
So I sit cross-legged on the floor
With nothing to be said but
Comments on our matching sets of
Hair in a pile and motionless heat of two long days and nights reading
Nothing but Virginia Woolf and eating nothing but ice blocks
(They froze small holes in our exterior)

We fiddle with smalltalk
Respectively, one and two
Fall between us we ignore what has only been said in dull-humming light
What have three, four, five ever done for us we ask in earnest not knowing that
Within the tangled fingers shiver cold and touch palms
There is a wolf
And hungry silence chewing us to pieces
Whilst her stillness nestles.

So this is it, I say and stand, but do not leave.
Yes.
This is it.
(Six, seven, eight, nine)

time to run away and join the circus

also, get a job in a bookstore drinking wine and reading dusty books all day.

i have gotten into the habit of

writing abstractionist poetry late at night at other peoples' houses for them to discover in the morning. or sometimes, for ME to discover in the morning.
gardo calls them raps. but i am no rapper. nonono.

good luck to you if i have, at some point, hijacked your notebook/computer/walls to write on. heh.

other habits which warrant mention:
- watching other people rap about the french revolution to pretend i'm doing homework when really, i'm just on youtube
- lurking facebook to avoid work
- planning festival-love
- changing in and out of too many clothes. ridiculous amounts of Being A Giant Girl.
- downloading too much new music. all in the name of procrastination. yes.
- photohoarding