frisco

going to san fran where the bookshops first published howl. the beat museum beckons.
all these places; the house on the hill where kerouac lived with the cassidy's, big sur where ginsberg ran to get away from the world, harvey milk's hill and the publishers and the gay bars and the vegan coffee shops and the record stores; i'm excited for these most of all.

the clouds float past her face and it's a little like being in love.

blank pages like a couple comfortable in the silence of wind and waves; avoiding the squawking of company that runs shallower.
there is nothing needy about emptiness.
there is nothing ugly about quiet.

byron

the shop on the corner has jewels and silver clinking in the wind until you run your hands through them and the shopkeeper with her one purple dreadlock smiles at you. there is soy and you can make yourself a cup of tea and take off your shoes and watch the seagulls slip over the ridges in the sand; until the sun goes down, and then the tie dye looks as though it's glowing in the twilight, and you can walk home barefoot if you don't mind the rub of sand between your toes.

reading mid life crisis books approximately 15 years too early

"Just as there exists in writing a literal truth and a poetic truth, there also exists in a human being a literal anatomy and a poetic anatomy. One, you can see; one, you cannot. One is made of bones and teeth and flesh; the other is made of energy and memory and faith. But they are both equally true."
- Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat Pray Love

the ending of something which i am yet to write the beginning for.

"... the romanticism had faded: without hot water, the baby cried, without fresh food, he cried, and without sleep, his parents, behind doors or late at night, they cried too.
Shivering on the step with a blanket wrapped around him, Jones told Betty; I'm sick, he said, I'm sick and they say I might die.
She stood up.
I thought I heard the baby cry, she said, but he was asleep, and they both knew it, so she sat back down and took his hand.
I'm only young, Betty, he said, I'm only young and now I'll never be old.
Now that's not, necessarily, entirely true, she said quietly, because, she thought, to look at us, who would have thought we were so young? He started to cry and it embarassed them both. She moved to touch him, but hesitated. There was nothing she could do but live; and nothing he could do but die, and nothing that the baby could do but grow up thinking he was invincible until he didn't, and by that stage, he was as good as dead, anyway. No, she decided, pulling out a cigarette, she would live."

anti-school.

in equal parts the yellowed street lights, like old cotton
fill the holes of winter sun.
midday reeks of no-one
but nighttime solitude is communal:
in the rush
smooth tyres on concrete
patchworked advertising / melange of housing.

this city
can't make up
its fucking mind

"it's an improvement on zero, isn't it?"

coffee leaves a stain
on my stomach;
burnt skin a deep, dark red
shallow breaths and
deep, chesty cars cough.

i thought you would.

japan: travel list #1

"Lovers hang padlocks on this statue at the top of Venus Bridge. They write a message, lock it then throw away the key. Those steel wires are unhooked from time to time to clear out the locks. Some couples don't use the statue though; you can see padlocks hanging here and there all over the bridge and around the park."

found here

amitriptyline