"kilograms" poems
I used to have an issue with my body.
Three years ago. 2015. The year of horrors.
My weight was 60 kilograms and I don’t remember if I had a few grams more, but it doesn’t a matter. The issues is that I was a bit fat. I have never been fat. I was sad about it and I had a lot of problems more in that year.
My principal problem was that when all of my girlfriends developed their body, I had a little girl body. My body begins to develop and that was when I turned fat, I didn’t like myself, personal problems, more issues. I increased 15 kilograms. I was really depressed. I started hating me more.
Between 2016 and 2017, my body started changing. I lost weight, I hadn’t got issues with me anymore. That was really amazing.
End of 2017 and this year (2018), my body changed completely. I don’t have the body that I used to own in 2015. I am thin and happy, but sometimes when I look at myself in the mirror, unconsciously I see myself as I was in 2015, fat.
That kills me.
Kills me more knowing that I couldn’t talk with my mother about it, because she didn’t understand it. But I could talk with my best friend and with my auntie because they understand it. I’m thankful about it.
What more kills me is the fact that I know that my body it’s thin but my mind shows me another thing, which I hate and makes me sad.
But today, July 25, 2018. My weight is 48 kilograms. I see the real me. I see myself thin. Now my unconscious accepts that I’m thin again. I’m really happy now because that is the body that I had all my entire life, that is the body that I want and which I’m in love with. I’m glad that I got back what I always wanted.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 2:08 AM UTC
Look around,
You will find all eyes down;
some expressionless,
some desperate,
and few smiling!
Both tiny and fatty thumbs
yearning for a rest,
after typing those texts.
Some consulting the Doc
for having a smartphone thumb
and some for lacking vitamin D!
Posts wanting more and more likes.
Kilograms of followers on Instagram!
Swapping stories on Whatsapp!
Unopened notebooks
when you have a Facebook!
Television screens consigned to oblivion
when you have a Youtube!
Discovering the veiled world,
missing the real scenes around.
Emoticons spreading fake feelings,
Stupefying infants swiping through the screens,
Kids imploring to their parents-
To drag out the patterns.
What is more satisfying?
Hitting play button on the screen or
Hitting a six on the field?
Carting products online or
Shopping on a girls day out?
Dribbling a basket ball or
Dragging down the newsfeed?
Watching daily soaps without a dish or
Helping your mother out to wash the dish?
Sharing the snaps of poverty and hunger or
Reaching out to them with eager?
A game of candy crush or
Gifting a candy to your crush?
I feel like whooping out to myself
and to people around;
To raise their heads and
Look around!
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC
I am from the old world
From over the waters
I am from old houses
Majestic, kings and Celtics
I am from Mountains and Lakes
Mozart, Music, Stereotypes
I am from red-white-red
And what once was a monastery
I am from skiing, snow and sunshine
From Schnitzel and pasta
I am from almost Espresso
And people speaking fast
I am from languages
(Servus, Srečno, Ciao)
I am from a house with a mom
And a brother, little me
I am from a family with 4+21
I am from a field, tough but still a passion
And rivers with the moonlight
I am from climbing
And the top of the world
I am from kilometers and kilograms
And from long nights
I am from Rap
And the school where it’s never quiet
I am from a mother
That says goodbye with the wings of a bird
And white roses
I am from a dad that helps me keep focused
On the important parts of life
I am from singing people
That I left over the clouds
Far away
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
The paint is chipping, the Christmas tree shutters hanging
Green on gray, brick stoop and twin column mouth
Opens to creaking stairs that made sneaking out commando work
My room made your favorite shade is gone, death to ugly orange
I used to think of it as my laboratory, safe haven for exploration
And abstract cultivation, I bled my innocence into the floorboards
There are still fist-sized holes along the stud that I detected
Remnants of the games I played and the four that I connected
The basement is still damp and dreary, the wooden cage for laundry suspended
At the bottom of a chute that you told me was the tomb of a curious girl
My weight bench, secondhand and mixed pounds with kilograms
Living in sin, vowed never to be defenseless training endless
The attic lends its hospitable hand to trapped bird and cobweb gems
Quarter-circle window kept by chain hungrily swallows smoke
Shelves packed so tight with yellowing knowledge and petrified wood
That if spiteful spark made love to
Musty air and
********** embers, I would never make it out
Déjà vu as backyard grass soothes badtripbitch with tingling tips
Of leathery flesh, ready to be buried and wormed in its bedbox
Overwhelmed like militia in failing keep against advancing hordes
Until nature’s handsome sprouts remind me life is beautiful, always
The trumpet vine grows hideous and spiny, roots reaching deep
Settles in its site and survives all assaults man-made
For a blink during the year its vermillion nectar tubes take flower
The hummingbirds find love outside my window in their bloom
May 13, 2011
May 13, 2011 at 10:16 PM UTC
The world seems more beautiful with anagrams
Our body worst with so many kilograms
What is that which we call a Rose, bet
it's sure William, no Hamlet
So many beautiful Anagrams
So many beautiful Williams
A wealth for our literature-home
but as it had been told all those Williams is just a dome
Poor late Mr. Shakespeare or whatever your being
A Rose, a Sylvia, a Hamlet or a Morning-glowing
The world is full of you, this Planet
reads your Hamlet
William I love you, you have drama
All the others have only their dilemma
You made the mankind started to read
oh my lord, then started this creed
you gave us this inheritance
this grey planet a golden glance
we cannot remain such a ****
oh my Lord, we must first do our creed
Sorry, my excuses, Mr. Shakespeare
Can you please listen to me with this ear
we exist because of God above, that's my life
this creed first to my Lord, that's my strife
then comes you and Hamlet at your side
then this literature I abide
I keep telling that you gave literature a golden glance
I wish mankind knows what an inheritance!
© Sylvia Frances Chan
saturday 13-04-13
23.13 hrs. p.m.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 5:06 PM UTC
I’ve got those pants which used to hug my legs very tightly, some time ago
They were warm and comfortable and they’d snuggle up to each other
But today exact these same pants refused to recognize my legs
They started to let go of them
They observe them now, from a distance, and give them a strange look
They’re scared to touch my legs
They’re scared of those cold and sharp bones
Scared of the blue skin and of my fine hair on them
Bones cold and sharp, which used to be my legs, have become crutches
But they work
Bones, cold and sharp, which might snap in half with every movement
But still they’re whole
And like ghosts, invisible, I walk with those crutches through the hallway
Cross the streets of my hometown
And go for a run every now and then
I get past windows that show no reflection
Past people who look at me in disgust
And when I’m home, the pants slip off by themselves
So that I stand here, naked and barefoot and exposed without any cloth
Only to lift those cold and sharp bones one more time
To make a step forward
Onto a scale which will measure my self-worth in kilograms and make my bony knees wobbly again
Because suddenly, the pants fit again, suffocating my legs with their tightness.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC
I met a friendly woman at the college,
She sat in the entrance gallery west of the labs.
I said, "Hello, may I know your identity," with a smile,
And her lips spread to a mile.
She said, "Hello, I'm here on my job,"
Little did I know that blowing was her job.
Anyway, I started telling her about myself,
And as a loner with an infrequent *****
I respect and I know myself a lot.
When she sat in rapt attention for me,
Listening to my breath between the words,
And my gaze often slid down her face.
There they sat elegantly and imposingly,
Two cute babies, a picture of them, actually,
In a picture printed on the ***** of her shirt,
And I asked about them curiously.
She said, "They are my nephew and niece,"
"Both are twins and each weighs 7 kilograms,"
And looked for validation, "Aren't they both so nice?"
I nodded in agreement saying, "Definitely,"
And I continued, "I want to play with them both."
She said, "I know that you fell in love with them,"
Now she continued with another broad smile,
"You are welcome to play with both of them,"
I asked, "Are they with you?"
She laughed shortly and said,
"They always remain with me."
Puzzled, I said, "What?"
My jaw remained hung open in astonishment.
She put her finger under my chin,
Then shut my mouth to say,
"Don't act like an innocent kid,"
And she continued,
"I like you, and I want you,
Come in the morning,
We'll have a lot of fun,
And I'll blow my favourite toy,
Before both of us go for a movie."
May 9, 2024
May 9, 2024 at 7:45 AM UTC
They ask me a question every day,
They ask me 'Oh darling! How much do you weigh?'
And I answer this question every day,
I wish to tell them,
'I am not made up of flesh and bones,
I do not weigh on scales and stones.
I weigh the love letters never sent,
I weigh my heart I gave on rent,
I weigh all my insecurities,
I weigh Ganga's purities.
I weigh the prayers of my mother.
I weigh the hard work of my father.
I weigh the thirty-two-inch smile I carry and flaunt every day,
I weigh the fears which haunt me every day,
I weigh all the love I have for him,
And I am certain that weighs more than the stories I dream,
I weigh the fairytales I've read,
And I weigh the kindness I've fed.
I weigh my hope,
And I weigh my dreams.
I weigh my faith,
And I weigh my screams.
So I weigh the lightest I could ever be,
And the heaviest you could ever imagine being.'
But then in the end,
I murmur the words '47 kilograms',
A lean and skinny girl is what I am.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC
133 billion pounds in America
4.2 million Tonnes in UK
50 million kilograms in Australia
230 million Tonnes in Africa
1.3 billion Tonnes in Switzerland
222 million Tonnes in Malaysia
580 billion Rupees(Indian currency) in India
33.79 million Tonnes in Saudi Arabia
What are these numbers?
Amount of food we are wasting per
Year
In Tonnes, Kilograms, pounds
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
*“Session three;
Subject has loss of appetite.
Two days since Subject’s last meal.
Loss of weight; 16.234 kilograms
and counting.”*
It’s two till midnight.
“It’s three forty-three in the morning.”
That doesn’t matter to her.
“Why?”
She said it’s all wasted the same.
sinner
“Did she come again?”
In and out of silver.
“Explain.”
She got into my blood,
“How?”
With those cloudless eyes.
“Why?”
There weren’t enough.
“Of what?”
Rubies.
“Why do you need rubies?”
Count every time we’ve fallen.
“Why?”
She regrets it.
“Who regrets it?”
Tasting the wolf.
Hauntless
“Why aren’t you eating?”
I miss him.
“Who?”
It makes me sick.
“What?”
I’ve wasted.
“What did you waste?”
Please.
You found weakness.
“Do you know what’s happening?”
**Yes;
Atlas gave me his burden.**
“You cannot carry that.”
She lets me.
“Who?”
Lily-scathed and lapis shelled.
“What?”
She was so pretty.
“Who was?”
Lavender in the cosmos.
“Lavender?”
**Yes!
Basking in folding chambers.**
“I don’t understand.”
She was my west.
“What do you mean?”
I followed her into the sun.
Why didn’t he keep me?
“Who is ‘he’?”
My north star.
“The north star?”
That little bird with her owlet wings.
“What?”
Moons with comfort.
“Moons?”
No one wants to fall alone.
Spiteful
Don’t be afraid.
“I’m not.”
You are.
“I’m not.”
I like the way you smoke in here.
“I don’t smoke.”
Quiet your heart.
“What?”
You’re afraid.
“I’m not.”
**Don't lie anymore.
**
“I-
-
I am.”
Smile soft.
*“Assessment end;
Subject has gotten to me.”*
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 10:11 AM UTC
November first, all saints
Celebrated canonised or not.
Recognition left as beauty
In the eye of the beholder.
For sinners accomplishing
Something worthy of holiness,
Something worthy of humanity,
Its nature, the Universe.
Compassion, aidance, honesty.
Truthfulness, chastity intended
In its purest sense. November first,
Olive picking day for me.
Harvesting season's yield
After the longest drought as I feel,
The warmth of an obstinate sun
Pierce skin through bones
To my very core. The same,
Beams granting abundance
Of golden juice to the gently
Reaped pearls of black and green.
From fingertips runs
An inundating sense
Of blessing, intrinsic unity
Of substance shared.
Only anticipating taste,
Fluidity slithering on tongue,
An exquisite elixir caressing
Palate as globules fall like rain
From branches onto
Sheets meticulously laid.
An event unknowing solitude
For it demands collective efforts,
While the distant village band
Plays hymns to the dead I praise
The living and their worth,
Waiting to imagine hundred
Kilograms render seventeen
Precious litres of ******
Olive oil. Chastity unfolding
In its purest form.
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 9:28 AM UTC
I have a black heart,
Not just for the sake of art,
But because I am healthy.
My HB is around 15,
Not just for maintaining,
But 'cause I eat healthy.
My weight 6 weeks ago,
Not more than 74.600 kilo,
But I wanted to reduce it.
Some memories don't let me be,
I started skipping meals & jogging,
'Cause I wanted to reduce weight.
Her I wanted to inspire,
That nothing is impossible,
And impossible is nothing.
I lost more than 10 kilograms,
But not that I am ill-fed,
Not ate more than required.
I achieved the feat in 6 weeks,
But just for proving myself,
Not 'cause I don't want to live.
But Death has other plans for me,
Not enthusiastic for taking me along,
I live in the onomatopoeia of time.
Tic toc. Tic toc. Tic toc. Tic.
Time, you have been tipped,
I won't again get slipped,
I want to get ripped.
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 2:54 PM UTC
*I used to stay up late w/you
Till I see the sun's light through the curtain
I used to share my secrets w/you
Even the things I could never explain
I used to eat my fav breakfast w/you
A croissant, no toppings but plain —
I used to eat a lotta dessert w/you
And Idc how many kilograms I could gain!
I used to listen to your voice
The happiness from it, I obtain —
The tone of your voice
Makes me feel no pain
On your lap, I used to cry
My tears were like a fountain —
But now, my tears have run dry
It seems that everything is vain
Don't you even try
You won't have me again
W/out you I won't die
w/out me, you're gonna be slain.*
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 7:30 AM UTC
and hell, and war
and all that bombardment,
a thousand chess pieces
in an intellectual's mouth
like scrambled eggs: the same
****** superstition
of needing awe -
ivory tower talk, the best
talk there is, when all limbs
drop off and the vegetables
talk: tongues on cucumbers,
tongues on cabbages, tongues
on cauliflowers - waggling about
like concerns for cars: how
many horse power thrusts?
and hell, and war
and all that bombardment -
like poetry, a bomb drops daily
coming from the ultimate war machine,
the res vanus, the empty thing,
the sponge -
because why would
a bomb or a poem be ever dropped
from the Cartesian weapon
that's kept, intact, peacefully
thinking, antonymous-synonymous
kindred of narration?
there, another bomb,
here, another day,
there, another bomb,
here another day,
ping
pong
ping pong
poetry
poesy
poetry
poesy -
and the world just turns
into black | white
and everything becoming
oh so ****** ordinary - so Tao -
or Tao works with
a billionth birth in a nation that deters
from media frenzy.
another way to say it:
how to write poetry when not listening
to music, when not listening to things
and your fingers' puncture on the keys -
overview of the news,
how to write in order to talk-over people:
you could be worse-off than being
a Heidegger apologist -
or to say: it was the binding
to the zeitgeist: the years later meant
repenting -
so from being defined
in Cartesian diagnostics as thinking,
to deconstruct that and become empty
(here too! my compass
n. Heidegger
w. Descartes
e. Kant
and s. Diogenes)
as the acronym suggests, toward the four winds!
but of course, many more influences,
but then again: who did i find commanding
and with difficulty bound...
oh i too wish i could write populist
poetry, worded: shambles! shame! outrage!
outrage! shame! shambles! a national disaster!
but here's little me, tucked away into a cosy
niche - weaving my little spiderweb -
or how
the fingers feels, after having spent 2 days
crushing 40kg of grapes to make wine,
from grapes to pulp, from grapes to pulp,
in the shed in the garden, 2 days, 40 kilograms of grapes;
i should have added a few apples to be fermented alongside.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 8:01 PM UTC
my friends told me
i've lost too much weight
is the mirror lying
or are they?
Jan 16, 2020
Jan 16, 2020 at 4:31 PM UTC
clouds have been shaded,
split and shaken.
for my skin sizzling and my words unpoken.
faded wanna clasp my mouth shut.
can't walk, can't burden.
wanting to be a child of tommorow and count my days until 27.
lover's worried and I can't figure out who to hate.
the conviction to be fitted for disaster, it's already too late.
lover's screaming in my dreams, sounds like matching fate.
sky whispers,the scale tingles, I'm 57 kilograms of feeble.
a leech so loyal,impatient parasite...a crawler.
enamored enough to follow.
Jan 16, 2022
Jan 16, 2022 at 5:28 AM UTC
I have gained five kilograms
My brain is buzzing
I need it to go
I just want to disappear
Make myself small
Find me in the space between strength and frailty
Strong yet weak
Aug 14, 2019
Aug 14, 2019 at 9:43 PM UTC
Sorry, I couldn't fit your standards I was too busy starving myself because apparently, forty-two kilograms is too heavy for society and you were afraid I was going to break the chair.you didn't tell me I was underweight not only was anorexic I was anemic skipping meals and exercising I mean that's fine I guess I could put on concealer to conceal my eye bags and feelings, put on blush so I looked like I was alive. put on a light layer of lipstick so my lips didn't look as pale , I'll put on foundation to look humane, to hide the scars I made when I ate more than 300 calories a day.
Sorry, I'm wearing an oversized sweater and pants I didn't know I had to dress to please every time I went to school I thought it was a place to learn not somewhere you were based on how you look on the outside. I got the latest trend, Am I people worthy now are you going to sneer at me every time I walk down the halls?
Sorry, I almost died trying to fit your social standards, I totally downed pills for the attention of my peers, It's not like it would do me any harm.
Sorry
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 11:51 AM UTC
Why is my desire to lose weight so strong? When deep down I know that it is all totally wrong?
The visible ribs? The hollow tummy? Is it really worth avoiding all those foods which are so yummy?
The hunger pains; your new ‘high’, but surely its not worth it if you die?
Your heart rate so slow, and body temperature so low, but still you want those last few kilograms to go.
At what point do you realise enough is enough? I believe in you, you can do this; you are mentally tough.
Eating doesn’t make you weak, realistically, it helps your bones not to creak.
Your 19 years young, what are you doing to yourself? Why are you putting so much strain on your health?
Your poor family and friends watching you starve, while those tasty steaks they sit and carve.
They tuck in and enjoy them, as you sit with your salad; lifeless and numb, making you feel so invalid.
But this is your life and you only have one, so get up and fight until this self hatred is gone.
Your hips and your collar bones do not need to be seen to make you feel whole, your life isn’t worth having your head down the toilet bowl.
Tuck in, and eat; it doesn’t make you selfish, it purely gives you the chance to have life to relish.
Today is your day; everyday is yours, so go out and live it, be free and run the shores.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 3:39 AM UTC
A hostel, somewhere in Gangnam.
It was around 10, possibly 11
hot chicken in a box, and a man holding it.
A small man
thin shouldered, narrow faced
chicken *****
He wore a light green vest or
rather, it wore him.
And each leg being 10 kilograms
each wing, about 8
and upon later inspection, there were
5 legs and 3 wings thus
74 kilograms, plus the box, then
76 kilograms and that
that
was the weight of his world, which he carried.
...
Her name is Soo-Ae, he said.
She is in the first grade and
can tie her shoelaces,
all
by herself
Ding,
the elevator.
The chicken stepped inside, and
so did the man.
Her name is Min-Ju, he said.
She graduated 3 years later,
but I waited.
For her, I could’ve waited
3 hundred.
…
(Room 3 hundred three, right?)
(Yes.)
3 hundred,
3 hundred one,
two, and
three.
...
But sometimes,
just sometimes, you see,
shoelaces can tangle badly
like umbilical cords
I’m sorry,
Doctor Lee had said as he
held her hands, shaking
hands shaking hands, shaking
Poor Min-Ju, he said.
Poor Soo-han, he said.
…
(Beer?)
(Uhm. Any green stuff?)
(Yes.)
(Thank you.)
(Here, I’ll
pour you.)
(Thank you.)
…
Most of the time,
Soo-Ae unties them herself,
or asks me like,
like
Appa?
swig
(one.)
but did you know, he asked
that the moment that a father gets depressed
is not the moment that he realizes
he cannot do it,
but is the moment that he realizes he must tell his
daughter
that he cannot do it,
and watch, helpless, as half the lights in her eyes
flicker and
die out.
swig
(two.)
Poor Soo-Ae, he said.
Poor Min-Ju, he said.
Poor Soo-han, he said.
(Pour me.
yes
that’s good.)
…
And
and when your hands start shaking,
like, like
shaking,
they become hard to untie,
those knots.
and everything.
Soo-Ae is no longer in the first grade,
and no longer wears ribbons in her hair.
Sometimes coming home very. late.
Where were you?
**** off, you drunk.
Poor Soo-Ae.
Min-Ju is no longer three years younger,
And stays in bed, staring years.
Sometimes waking screaming sobbing.
Where is Soo-Han?
I hear him crying, where is he?
Poor Min-Ju.
…
Sometimes, big knots become
smaller, and smaller
and that’s when you know your life is over,
or that it’s time to get
new glasses, at least.
and
the liquor
stopped.
...
Do you know
what happens when a knot
cannot be untied?
he asked
My bleary eyes
went from liquor,
to cup.
And finally,
to my father’s hand.
…
You cut it?
...
No, he said.
...
You keep on trying, whether it takes
three hundred years, or
three hundred and one, or
three hundred and two, or
three hundred and
three.
You keep on
trying.
swig
(three.)
...
And that night, at a hostel
somewhere in Gangnam
my father.
thin shouldered, narrow faced
chicken *****
wore a sad expression,
or rather,
it wore him. my father.
...
My poor,
poor father.
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 1:24 AM UTC
Standing on the brink of Valles Marineris
a canyon spanning twenty five hundred miles
As we stand there I glance at my companion
and we have to share a smile
For we've been dying to explore Mars
climbing down it's six mile depth
exploring all of it's one hundred
twenty five miles secrets of width
We start down a small crevice
and I stumble and nearly fall
he catches me and holds me
but really it wouldn't hurt me at all
I only weigh twenty six kilograms here
but still I don't want to tear my suit
smothering in carbon dioxide air
could not be considered a hoot
We turn on our headlamps
and brighten our lights
as daylight starts to fade
and Mars deep dark night
appears suddenly, just seems to drop
with atmosphere so thin the very stars
you feel you can touch and taste
so very bright and yet so very far
And we can see the two moons,
Deimos and Phobos rising high above
captured asteroids, the companions
of the god of war, each trying to shove
our attention away from what surrounds us
but it does not work
we have things to do and places to see
and we can't afford to shirk
our duties to collect more samples
of what once perhaps was life
before Mars lost it's water to space
and biology lost it's war to strife
We stroll along a rim of red Martian soil
and look down along a wash
where water flowed at one time
'ere evaporation left the planet harsh
We use our tools to gather samples
hard to believe through our thin suits
we're touching another planets land
leaving behind marks of our boots
to be swept away by Mars fierce winds
as they march to erase and reform
making war upon the craters
and filling the air with huge dust storms
My partner speaks and reminds me
it's time to return to our craft
and I look at him to say
what are you completely daft?
I hate to leave this behind
but inside I know he's right
It's just so hard to leave
such an awe-inspiring sight
I cannot believe the beauty
that lies in front of my eye..
dead planets tectonics once moving
leaving a vista of loveliness behind
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 10:22 AM UTC
alternatively known as: trying to sober up... but keep on drinking.
i remember this time,
when a girl i was ******* slapped me
silly...
because i assumely lied to her...
about getting a university degree...
and oh, what a pain that slap was,
given the ****** that came after.
throw a ******* penny into the fountain
for the last ten minutes i was trying
to sober-up,
and yes, i was slapping myself
in the face... over 6ft...
and weighing over 100 kilograms...
a slap by me... i felt it on my cheek...
i almost lost a tooth...
and i had a case for stating: my neck!
my neck!
but you know what was
agry. puzzlig, painful?
it wasn't the memory of being
slapped by a russian girlfriend,
and then her fetish for mirrors,
and how she loved looking at her herself
getting ****** in the mirrors...
oh... what an image to glare into...
no, but i was slapped on cheek by her...
so today, i was reading the newspaper,
meaning: it was a sunday...
i started drinking, and then slapping
myself in the face...
but that wasn't painful...
what was? the magazine read the headline:
100 albums you have to hear
before you die...
in the live rubric:
stop making sense - talking heads,
mtv unplugged in new york - nirvana,
1969 the velvet underground - the velvet undergroeund,
live at massey hall 1971 - neil young,
live! - bob marley and the wailers...
now... slapping yourself in the face
to rememeber an ex-girlfriend is past painful...
it's just itchy...
it's just an idea of a mosquito...
you get used to it, like love might be compared to malaria,
you can take a hundred girls slapping
you in the face,
after which you start slapping yourself
to estimate that 100 girls could slap you and
that you'd still **** them...
what's painful? the 100 album playlist...
what the **** happened to tom waits'
live album glitter & doom (live)...
which is akin to the doors', roadhouse blues
live... i really would prefer to slap myself toward
a 1000 times silly... than excuse tom waits' album
not being mentioned in the century of
worthwhile albums...
come on... live circus?!
come on! goin' out west?!
goin' out west live, is as good as the doors'
version of roadhouse blues!
the studio version doesn't match-up to it,
not even half as much!
sometimes recording music, live,
propagates the need for a judas...
you really need a thief somtimes...
i mean, sometimes the art-work comes with the audience,
rather than "claustrophobic", locked in a recording studio;
it's basically the energy, of the immediacy of feedback.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 4:42 PM UTC