The first time I saw you it was in math class.
I didn't notice anything about you at first I just memorized the back of how your head was.
After all, I had an hour to ****.
The second time I saw you were in English class.
You sat next to me but not by choice.
But I was happy about it.
It took me about four to five weeks to talk to you,
and I wasn't even the one to speak first.
You introduced yourself and then we worked together on an assignment.
It's been two weeks and I haven't said another word and I probably won't out of random.
My anxiety swallows me whole
and I'm sorry I can't even say hello.
But I have had time to notice you.
And let me just say
I'm in love with your taste in music
I'm in love with the way you hold your books
thinking that if you change the sound of your voice when the diagonal changes,
or if you struggle reading words you've never seen before and sit there for a few seconds trying to piece together what they mean.
I love how you can play the mandolin, you should show me sometime.
As I think about these things I also pick up how you would never even think of me.
I mean really,
you probably want some girl that's outgoing and can strum a guitar solo at midnight with you.
You probably want someone with long hair you can intertwine your fingers in,
or someone you can spend an afternoon together after church with.
I can't move mountains
and I can't even speak without looking like a fool,
but even if nothing will ever happen
It would be just as quite exciting being friends with you.
We could trade books and make each other mixtapes.
It hasn't even been a month yet and I'm already writing mediocre poetry about you.
I'm sorry about that by the way.
I'm not asking for a relationship but a friendship with someone like you would feel just the same.

I wanted to write about walking away
the two of us, fading away from each others view
I'd decorate it in poetry as if it were anything more than another premature ending
but all I'm left with is shrines in the form of mixtapes
and days spent wondering what it would feel like if I was still in the backseat of your car
instead of sitting upright in the passenger side of his
he says he likes the song I'm playing
but I think he'd hate it if he knew it's just another epitaph for the nights I spent with you

"The best memories are like overplayed mixtapes: they lose clarity and detail over time, yet they seem to sound better the older they get."*

We listen to the fourth round of Trois Gymnopedies
on our break from the second round of *******

Our limbs entwined, in part because we like it
partly because we're stuck together by sweat and--

The air is thick with scents foul and fragrant
as furniture music fills the gaps in between

Every breath stalls to anticipate the notes
fingers twitch slightly on the downbeat

Ten minutes ago, we made our own music
Ten minutes ago, we were in perfect harmony

She stares at the ceiling as I stare on her lips
I watch her mumble the lyrics Satie never wrote:

A pack of cigarettes,
a pack of cigarettes
Could you please buy from the store?*

We're taken over by uncontrollable laughter
as uncontrollable as the trembling when we came

She shifts to her side, and my arms are freed
I stand and pick my jeans from the floor

I take my time buttoning up my shirt,
soaking in the view before I run the errand

She lies naked still, as I put a jacket on
I leave on the fifth round of the Gymnopedie

If I had a mix tape
It would be thirty one hours long
Get the cassettes ready
Poetry was something I chose and we're going steady
Sometimes I draw details out tediously but sometimes I like to get with the program already
They say Rap is Poetry
But I didn't compare my work to the McDonalds bathroom floors
The disrespect towards women, money and drugs
It's a dog but it's not as cute as a Pug
Someone end this concert, pull the plug
We used to have a standard and kept it snug
But even the Snails are laughing
We're too slow to realize
That were accepting bile with our eyes
And we're encouraging it
Why?
I have a mixtape
But I'm no legend
But neither are they
I just hope my influence is here to stay
Because as the clock arm sways
I get older another day
And I want to be sincere in a way
That will dramatically improve your day
I hope you feel the warmth of my heart hotter than May
Because it burns for you
And we don't need to pull out the other thirty mixtapes because I only need one
Let the repugnant trends come undone
I'm a song that's been left unsung
But that's okay
Because I want you to sing it
It will be more resplendent than the harmony of the Mockingbirds
And it tunes out the geese
That make me act the opposite of PeeWee Reese
And pull out a shotgun
Ernset Hemingway was relatable in that way

It was nice meeting you.

I bet you didn’t know you’re the first guy I ever tried to hit on. I bet you didn’t know I prepped for this conversation for a week. I bet you didn’t know how deep my heart sunk when I saw you go upstairs with another girl.

Thank you for being the first guy who’s ever flirted with me. Thank you for the pink gin. Thank you for the hand you placed on my back when you hugged me goodbye.

It was nice talking to you.

I know you falling on me was a move, even though you said it wasn’t. I know sitting and listening to the story of how I met J was a move. I know you like L. I know deep down she probably likes you too, I did.

It was nice that you didn’t message me after the party.

But I bet you didn’t know that I would of loved you with my whole heart. That I would of wrote you love letters and made you mixtapes of songs that reminded me of you. Thank you for making me realise that the right guy will come along, but that guy isn’t you. I know I’ll always be that girl at the party who’s name you can’t remember, or face you can’t place but I don’t lie.

It was nice meeting you.

I hope one day we’ll meet again.

— p.d.e

she told me that this is what it was like to be a firestorm,and i believed her.youre not golden sweetheart,
none of us are.we're not meant to look nice.
this is for our eyes only.dont look me in the eyes
and pretend that you dont know what i mean
take me to the cathedral pour holy water over my shivering shaking bones
build a baby grand out of my corpse,honey,its the only one ive got.
dont pretend you dont feel it too
and even if ill never be as romantic as you,at least ill try
at least i wont leave you here
gasoline on pavement,dying the only way you know how
they told me i could be anything i wanted so i turned myself into a gun,
hollow like your stomach when all youve had to eat the past three days is stale ******* bread.
dont look at me like that.
i know all of your secrets and youre the one still forgetting about my jaw,the one you broke.
i see it in your eyes.we both know how this ends
but I wont pull the trigger on heartbreak hills
not until theres more whiskey than broomsticks beating us ******
cigarette **** wrists against a concrete wall,you always were one for a metaphor werent you?
jesus,babe you look so beautiful in this light.would you let me take your picture with the old kodak we pretend doesnt exist?
im sorry if this is forward of me,but i think id like it if you dug bruises
into my throat
loving the only way you know how,and this isnt the kind of love you see in movies
cause its not really love when neither of you can stop chainsmoking for a ******* second
to look at the way the sun glints off hair at just the right time.
maybe if i had sinners hips youd kiss me,just the way i like
too much,all at once.this,you say,
this is what its like to be a firestorm.
we tell people we're just close friends,like in the way real people are close friends,
we tell people that the bruises on both our mouths are just from the red wine,silly,isnt it obvious?
the train station is too crowded.im fidgety
and the woman in the dress sitting next to me is reading a newspaper article about string theory
i wonder if it tells her about the way i sewed my mouth shut one winter
(or maybe that was you.whatever.its the same ******* thing anyway,isnt it,you say.stop ******* smiling at me like that.you know its not funny)
i wonder if she knows that the needle does not have to be very sharp to pierce the skin.
lesson one:stop pretending that youre the dragon.
lesson two:god.god.god youre ******* annoying.cant you keep your ******* mouth shut?i told you not to tell anyone,you ******* *******.if you show up outside my house again ill **** you.
dont leave someone voicemails after they leave you for the subway station. they will not reply.
this is normal.
you called me a narcissistic ***** and i think you were right but at least i think im worth something,right?at least i havent given up on my collarbones,thrown
them away like they're ******* trash.but what i mean to say is,
at least im not like you.at least i dont have a scar on my upper lip.
stop telling me that the ******* is a ******* metaphor,
this isnt a novel and im not a vampire
and last time i checked your eyes were brown,not black.youre not a monster so stop trying to be one.
the woman sitting next to me on the airplane wont stop reciting bible verses but i dont feel any more holy than i did three hours ago.
this isnt a ******* contest.you cant compete with someone to be the most ****** up,god whats wrong with you
havent you read about cain and abel
this will end the only way it possibly can
stop hanging grave markers on walls,cant you see the marks on your fingers
this isnt a ballad for a dead man and i dont mean to be condescending
but i like the way you kiss people,ten days after the time of death
and maybe ive left you too many voicemails at three in the morning
and maybe i stained your pillowcase with whiskey and secrets
but listen up,honey,you need me more than i need you
dont lie to me,you know its true
youre lying down at the bottom of the gymnasium swimming pool
and somehow youve managed to find comfort in it
dear reader:im sorry.im sorry about the mixtapes,okay,you were never supposed to find them and-and ****,ive messed everything up.bye.see you soon,
i guess.

somehow all neighborhood tribes & tribe lords love you.
somehow you beat my score on the nickelcade spaced invaders.

we leap fences
in escape of party befouled
cops. crusaders
of mustache & veiny hate.

you rip your jeans
& lose your artifacts in the creek. into
convenience store warm lights
& makeout mixtapes.

my heart goes boom,
    along with the,
    beat of the stereo,
    loud and alive.
the sound of my heart,
    boom, clap-- it goes.
    it makes me smile,
    for this time.
then it goes on--
    subconsciously humming
    to the tune,
    of your heartbeart.

I've been in my own hometown
for a couple of weeks now,
and slowly, you've started to
creep out of my mind.
I had a dream about you last night,
and now I'm right back where I started.
it's a cruel and unusual fate,
not being loved in return.

we can pretend we’re jack and sally,
simply meant to be.
but really we’re joker and harley,
a disaster bred to leave
or else just fall apart.
babe we’re always playing games
but never playing as ourselves
and in all honesty i’d keep playing
if you too are so compelled.

i remember when you called yourself
alice, strung out and imbalanced,
riding from one edge to another
with a half-hearted intention
of having your whole life tip over.
i remember replacing your self-imposed noose
with that grey scarf,
because you needed somewhere new to rest your neck.
i’d break into that old school with you again
without breaking a sweat
just to have your lips part like the red sea,
breaking apart for me.

my stomach always squirmed when you said
“London,”
always scared of your need for running
and being stuck in the mundane,
the past life of past-you,
a constant re-run, when you got recast
or maybe killed off, or our contract didn’t hold fast
and i watched you walk right out of my TV
i watched, frozen, when you passed by me.
i wanted to play peter and gwen
and follow you, fight jack the ripper
and swing from big ben every now and then
but beautiful blondes were always fated to fall again and again
as stan lee said.

do you remember
the year of dev, me in suits
and lots of la dispute?
a rough spot, i’m sure,
but worth it at the end
when i caught up your heart
as the credits rolled
dedications and dead roses
blossoming another season of love.

sometimes i think of cliched times
like prom or new years eve
and I had hoped, maybe finally a halloween
i hold old memory lane tight like its my job
i go 60 down my mind, and with my brakes, i can’t stop
the days where your smiles keep coming
never-ending,
up-end me.
i earn those split lips and some teeth
like currency.
but those days dance around my calendar
falling like rain in a California-dry July:
uncertainly.

the thing about me is i come saturated
with sorry’s and mixtapes
and i don’t think anyone’s every quite ready
for all of that.
but my mixtapes, like me
like to tend towards a surprise
every now and again.
like how you’re nancy from now on
or maybe that’s me, i’m convinced
you have to be reading my poems.
rhyming’s everything
gotta get that **** right
“she’s a wolf and i like it when she bites me.”

one more remember when
before i rhyme you to the end
remember when
we played ***** king and queen
at high school prom
i was always good at spooking the scene
but you were only really good at ever scaring me.
you aren’t the nostalgic type
so i guess that duty falls on me
here it goes:
dear diary,
my dear is as far as the late solstice sun
and the distance is far enough to wrap my arm
around the other side
of the earth, and tap her shoulder
or i would, if it wasn’t so cold there.
i wonder who she’s playing now
i wonder who she is today
i wonder
i—

’m not ready for our year to end, yet
but summer left
like 500 Days said
and we’re bonnie and clyde again
falling over each other trying to run from time.
at least we’re not sid and nancy
well, one of us is
but which one’s which?
it’s always come as a matter of circumstance
trying to pick who’s been vicious.

but you’re still my november girl
and i don’t want our fall
to end, or start.
this was both of us at our best.
leaves are counting down the days till
the sun stops burning so hot and the trees stop working so well.
on daylight’ savings do the clocks stop ticking?
and do we stop ticking too?
or just you?
can i stop ticking until winter’s bringing
spring again?
or am i busy living
in my memories, like a has-been?

snow is here and you’re not.
the winter forever.
but no broken plea for my honeybee.
the birds are far and few between
and the trees feel as naked as me.
i guess having them is a little less lonely
but it’s not fair we call them leaves
if every year they come back.
what should we call you?
you have a million names
but none of them fit on tight enough to stick.
i don’t know what they’re calling you now
but i still want to.

i'll make mixtapes we can lay down rubber in parking lots call out our joy and anger which are almost the same thing anyway i will cry at night but you will lick the salt like a wild deer pepper me with small bruises drive in our underwear just to feel skin sticking to something make contact with your hair as it billows in and out of the car in and out of sight make contact with the only part of your body that is not warm stop only in small towns that keep their stories close in those towns press silky moonlight to the warm parts of your body like poems like slits of light to let the light in through smoke and eat hanging out of the windows pretend we are leaving crumbs to find our way home with but never come back anyways anyways

We used to roll together

We used to stay up all night just crusin around the dead quiet towns listening to whatever mixtapes we had in the car

Now we're just memories on a facebook feed, we instagramly regret it but I secretly miss it.

I remember you were a little hip hop and I was a little punk, together we would play the underground tracks that we'd mix together on our Spotify playlist collection.

That was then and this is now and now it seems so long ago that we used to be something solid.

Now like air  we can't see each other but we know we're out there- somewhere.

“Ever since I started this job and anyone asks how I’m doing, I always say, ‘I’m great!’ ” Maayan Zilberman excitedly explains. And why shouldn’t she? The former Lake & Stars lingerie designer, who has since founded confections lineSweet Saba, happens to have the sweetest career around. Concocting a literal visual feast out of her Park *****, Brooklyn, kitchen and Fort Gansevoort Meatpacking pop-up shop, the Israeli-born polymath uses her background in sculpture and a biting sense of humor to create her vibrant, indulgent delicacies. Think sugarfied tubes of lipstick, rap mixtapes, and Rolex watches—with their raw handiwork and dead-on wit, these in-demand pieces match Zilberman’s equally enticing wardrobe. Hardly barefoot in the kitchen, Zilberman teeters about in her workspace in vintage Betsey Johnson Mary Janes, while throwing on a customized Adam Selman pearl-laced apron to protect her Prada skirts andProenza Schouler knits. Here, the dazzling candymaker reveals how she has always been more En Vogue than grunge, why she never forgoes a perfect press-on manicure, and her plans on taking Sweet Saba herbal.

From Jerusalem to Vancouver

I was born on a kibbutz, where the first clothing I had was a mix of unisex hand-me-downs, so I was given a pretty blank slate. When I lived in Jerusalem we were surrounded by several sects of Orthodox communities, and the fabrics associated with each group were inspiring to me. During those years, designer brands were becoming popular, and the only place I was seeing this was in the shuk [market] where one could find imitation Calvin Klein and United Colors of Benetton next to tzitzit and shawls. I think it was in the early ’90s that I first understood how to mix my ethnicity with fashion and food.

Also, one of the most influential books of my childhood was Color Me Beautiful, which the women in my family took very seriously. I learned at the age of 6 that I was a “Winter” and haven’t veered off course since. I still have the book and love to pull it out at parties. Later in high school in Vancouver, grunge was the big trend and there wasn’t much room for my sensibilities in that environment—even when I wore my Revlon Blackberry lipstick and grunged out with irony. I was always far more En Vogue and Versace than the Pacific Northwest could handle.

Taking Cues From ’90s New York City Street Style

When I first got to New York, when I was 15, one of the first things I discovered was all the music I could get on Canal Street. I used to buy mix CDs from girls in monochrome outfits and big name-plate earrings. They pointed me to Fulton Mall in Brooklyn, and that’s where I finally got pants that fit right and jewelry that reflected my personality—a departure from the stuff I’d received for my bat mitzvah.

A shift in style for me meant a tougher, more confident look, where a short skirt is a reference to an era, not a call for attention. Music and lyrics played a big part in teaching me about how to dress and how to feel feminine. I had a Versace quilted skirt that I wore a lot—it made me feel like the supermodels in the ad campaigns: Cindy, Claudia, Stephanie, et cetera. I also had a Jean Paul Gaultierdouble-breasted pinstripe suit that I’d wear casually. In fact, I’m still wearing most of my clothes from those days: Betsey Johnson floral dresses, Donna Karanbodysuits, a metallic Byblos pouf skirt, and a grommeted Pelle Pelle jacket.

Lingerie Beginnings

I studied sculpture at the School of Visual Arts, and for a year at the San Francisco Art Institute my major was “new genres,” a very ’90s thing. Right after I graduated from SVA, I did an artist residency with Ilya Kabakov at the Fondazione Antonio Ratti in Como, where they also manufactured some of the world’s most beautiful silks. A tour of their factory opened my eyes to a potential dip into fashion, but it wasn’t until I met a pair of women in New York City that same year looking to start a lingerie brand that I took a chance on garment design. I bought a bunch of bras and took them apart and figured out how they were put back together. I cofounded The Lake & Stars in 2007 with the desire to make a brand that was in line with the story I wanted to tell as an artist. Lingerie was a tool, a structure that gave me rules so I could tell a sci-fi tale while inherently delivering romance and *** appeal.

read more:http://www.marieaustralia.com

www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

sometimes, i just want healthy relationships
                              and even though they might look crazy
~us waking up ****** and taking 10 am trips to the grocery store
to buy a bottle of wine and some flowers
for a trip to the park downtown
                   where we'll play our version of rugby while
the sun hits the color of your eyes just right
and the perfect song turns on, maybe led zeppelin
           and we'll run like children through a sudden rainshower
all the 1.5 miles to the borrowed car, with cassette records
of our mixtapes to each other when we first hit it off
all strewn across the console,
                 toweling each other off and saying **** it
driving ******* in rain spattered shorts home to our flat
blasting music from stupid-loud speakers,
         cooking souped-up ramen noodles with fancy appetizers
before we leave the stove on because we were too busy kissing
or feeding the dogs the treats we bought at 10 am
      while we swallow our wine with i love yous
and yes this is a healthy relationship
one where you don't expect anything but life from me
                     and me life from you
where there ain't nothin' but lovin' and real **** between us.

Philosophers have out grown philosophy
So they set down their motions of peace
And pick up the mixtapes and cds
Of the artist that speak the truth
Tho, truthfully I believe,
Real artist can never become mainstream
Ideals of the underground
Shake the balance of the things
We watch on tv, Subliminal messages
and suggestive themes
I confess that I once was meshed
With the things they wanted me to be
Silent to world I had a voice but could not speak
Nothing special just a ***** from the streets
Had a lot of brains but lacked hope
So I became I refuge of anger and violence
A menace to society,
My hands seemed to find everything I need
My hope was stolen, So I stole whatever could fit in my jeans.
Misguided by the bad influence
As I grew I broke hold of the influence
Tho, still lived my life under the influence Sleepless nights, emotionless days
So I concocted a formula To make the pain go away
Let go of my anger Locked up my rage
Educated myself On matters of the new age
I found that’s nothing’s new
Besides the technology We’ve grown accustom to
People sale their souls
To get their face on the news
The media grabs their tongues Insolent fools,
Voices are silenced Or set to hide
When what they say Is what’s on their mind
The truth, Whispered to blind eyes
Now mentally I’m the Voltaire of this century
Learn your history I shall enlighten the

my first boyfriend bought me an etch-a-sketch for christmas
with "i love you" drawn onto it
then broke up with me on new years day
the irony is not lost on me
and i still don't know
what shook him so hard
that i was erased
i was young then-
didn't know much about life
about love
hell, i still don't
i stumble my way through it all
i often trip & fall
yeah, i'm clumsy like that
but i'm saving all my "i love you"'s
and keeping them to myself
'cause honestly,
my love is the quiet kind
it's not candles & fancy table-cloths
or nicholas sparks dialogue
no, it isn't shouted from rooftops
instead,
it's whispered into pillowcases
in lonely beds
i make valentines mixtapes
that i never give out
i catch my tongue
before it runs away
with the words
i don't have the guts to say
i keep them locked up
somewhere in my ribcage
when i see you
i feel them rattling in my bones
there are claw marks on my throat
from times they've threatened
to spill out my mouth
i cry for you
like spilled milk
as white as your library smile
let me inside
i wanna learn everything
your wisdom teeth have to offer
i promise
i will be the perfect pupil
get straight A's
in the curves of your lips
anyway,
what i mean to say
is if i kiss you
would that
be
okay?

remember your hands, remember them like this, twirling cigarettes like ballerinas (you were four, and your mother said you looked beautiful up there). twist my fingers with your pretty hands, darling i'll thank you in the morning, gravel in my dead heart, littering rose petals at your wake you took my tongue and made it something sickening.

eat me raw, please, please, i need something to do with my fingertips, with the small of my back you bruise so much prettier than i do close your fingers around my throat i like the way you leave marks. i'm a disease and you're the closest i can come to something worth dying for.

call me beautiful, praise my hips and dig your pretty teeth into my spine. my skin is too big for my body but i'll wear it for you anyway i'll try to be pretty for you anyway your laughter lines are a geometry problem let me solve you, let me fold your smiles into me i promise i won't disappoint you.

"have you ever been in love", and "i love you i love you i love you", and "we're sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service", and oh my god i love you but not in the way i'm supposed to, is it still love if i want you to carve your initials into the arch of my spine?

i'm disgusting and you're disgusting, claw your way into my stomach, hold my bleeding organs in your hands and smile at me (i know this is true love, isn't that how predators look at prey, god i want you to kiss me with your canines, god i want you to break the flesh, god i, god), i'm ******* immortal i can't die i'm prometheus chained to a rock and i can feel the sun drying my lips give me water, give me blood i don't care anymore--

and, loving you is like loving a forest fire (god, this is just like those old mixtapes you made for me, the ones with "this is for you", and "i love you i love you i love you", and "we're sorry, you have reached a number--", and god, i, god, eat me raw, and, oh god, oh god, i can't wait to eat you raw, babe, i wonder how you taste, i wonder if i'll taste you on my tongue three days after, oh god, oh god, eat me raw).

we can sit up all night in some hotel room,
curled beneath each other, listening to the sound
of heartbeats and old cassette tapes.
you are the kind of girl i want to make mixtapes for.
when i see your smile, i collapse.
you give me the faintest idea of what a heart attack might feel like
and, god ******, i enjoy it.
i remember you telling me that you haven’t felt purposeful
or useful or strong enough to be either
and i looked in your eyes and saw
the only person who’d ever been strong enough
to admit that their only purpose was to be purposeless.
and if life is only lived to find promise,
then what the **** is death for?

i’ve seen god on lonely street corners
where homeless men stare at buses
wishing they had enough change in their cups
to change things.
i’ve seen happiness in the eyes of single motherscarrying three jobs and a failed marriage
in the shopping bags they drag up the stairs.
i’ve seen one bedroom apartments with more space to call home
than you could ever find in that mansion on the hillside.

and i’ve seen you look so helpless
that the only help i could offer
was to let you climb out of it yourself.
i have trouble letting you be.
i have trouble finding myself.
i have trouble being anywhere but in your arms.
there are disciples in your chest
preaching off-balanced wisdom and there are
people written across your skin
all of them whispering,
"you made me feel welcomed.
you made me feel something.”
and if you only understood how lonely the bus rides get
or how hard it is to walk home in the dark
carrying nothing but your heartbreak,
then you would know what it meant
when i told you that you are the only thing
to ever make any of it worth it.
i will write your name in my poetry until it no longer has a meaning.
i will kiss you until my lips no longer make your knees weak.

i was homeless until i met you.
you handed me enough change to change things.
i hope you don’t find better things to do with your day
than to pass by my corner
and smile.

your are purposeful and you are useful
and you never had to be either.

b.h.
parched lips tinged with
sunset,
you knew i was escaping before
you even held
me
and said goodnight;
look me in the face next time.

a.d.
maybe if you were
the sun, i'd be the moon
floating on a little boat,
miles beneath you, melting through
the wooden splinters and rusted nails
bathing in whiskey seeping from leaks
and late night tiptoed desires.

r.m.
you barely moved, still but shaking in
ecstasy like a fallen leaf
balancing on a current.
i wanted your hands all over me;
i'm not sorry i made you angry and livid
like a rabid dog,
but i regret crying over you because
you were
never worth it.

b.b.
*** and **** stain
the memories like an old carpet
they're so far back in my head,
we were such different people
that i wonder if it really counts.
it doesn't,
but i'm glad you we're there.

c.m.
i only recently noticed
we have the same initials,
and that probably explains
the way i kissed you.
your touch started after my birthday,
your hands sculpted my bones as my cells
we're replaced,
like they will be every other 7 years.
it feels so far away and vacant
and i guess you always really were the
Nowhere Man.

m.g.
your lip bites were like the ravenous cold,
on top of spanning roofs
when the moon was heavy and ripe amidst
the cotton field clouds
my long skirt draped like curtains over
our secrets.

a.f.
*** in a leafless forest
trunks naked and bare,
dwindling at the tops, skinny and clueless.
you whispered the lyrics into my
cascading hair
and i sang along.
chocolate skin
against golden,
i could smell the burnt wood
embedded in your pores.

j.r.
you should have expected me to lead you on,
get bored and flee before you ask anything else from me,
even though i've taken all of you.

a tip: never again trust girls with equally brown hair and eyes
because they use both
to strangle and drown you

you have a kind heart,
and i hope you got the mud stains out of your clothing.

j.w.
nicotine bitten tongues
wet and slippery
your fingers dug deep
and you held my hair as i spilled
my lust all over you.
i fell asleep to your soft, drunk snores
and woke up to a fresh cup of piping hostility,
i wish i spilled it on your leg.

n.o.
you have nice eyebrows,
but maybe i should have read your initials.
i'd never let you touch me again;
too frantic, and you we're panicked because you
didn't know how to touch
a woman.
i could feel it on your breath,
like you we're afraid i'd dissolve right there
on the bed.
i'm sorry you wasted two mixtapes and a
broken cigarette
on a girl who doesn't want to be anybodies.

d.
you tasted faintly of bread
and ***** chaser.
i still don't know
what you look like
exactly,
i only know you we're twenty four
and liked when i spoke Spanish
because i have a very skilled tongue.

s.a.
a bathroom floor
tiles dimly illuminated,
skin soft, whispering
it probably would cave in
and leave us falling
under all our temper and temperature;
we'd crumble like a house of cards
in the plumbing and winding pipes
below.

I've got the world's best kept secret
locked in 2 AM screenshots--
her late night musings over a crusty joint, a crushed pill,
or some ***** cigarettes.

She sends me her thoughts,
fears,
anxieties,
insecurities--

at her most vulnerable,
absolutely the most beautiful.

Her anguish stressed in the digital scroll
(though she doesn't like Kerouac, I let her borrow my copy),
her stained fingers mashing all their hurt and nicotine
into the keyboard--

and her pen aches and her paper stains
with the unrequited love she empathizes with
in the somber pop punk songs that explode from the stereo
she sings loudly on cold and lonely night drives
(I shiver in her passenger seat).

And she made for me the greatest of mixtapes,
her holy scrawl expounding upon a dull grey donut-shaped
slowly fading form of intimacy,
a blank CD--

"This mix is a good time"

and when I jammed it into my car stereo I was illuminated.

She is so cool, she is so punk,
and in her clandestine drugstore car charger thefts,
broken poems,
impalpable aesthetic,
impeccable music taste,
illuminated or even further obfuscated drug trips--

I have the world's best kept secret,
and more than anything, I wish to share it with you--

                                     so she can make someone another mixtape.

As always,
read aloud
and enjoy.




It’s been one month,
30 days since the last time they touched.

I mean sure,
   hands’ve been held, lips’ve been locked, heart beats counted,
   armpits tickled, eyelashes licked,
   backs rubbed, hips hugged
   but

It’s been one month,
30 days since the last time they touched.

720 hours of smiles and telephone conversations and ticket stubs and flowers and mixtapes and tree climbing and
   waiting for the other to finish showering before the night begins and your recite again
   the smiles and telephone conversations and ticket stubs and flowers.

43,200 minutes since that night.
That night that night fell softer than
   eyelids overflowing with sleep.
Finding no full moon to mask,
The thin cloud cover sat in the sky
   like gasps passing lips slightly parted,
   like abandoned similes left suspended midsentence.
That night his house was
   cold as a corpse,
   empty as an elephant skeleton,
But between the two of them
They managed to salvage some warmth.
That night they whispered three words to each other
   through sheets of white linen and teeth.
Three words,
   the culmination of all they’d shared thus far,
Three words
   worth more than any that’d follow

In the one month
30 days
720 hours
43,200 minutes
2,592,000 seconds since the first time they had ***.

Yes it’s been one month,
30 days since the last time they touched.
A full moon since they made love,
******,
Poured the night’s libation into her drawing salty emotion from sincerity’s well giving back blood running blind turning brown against white cover down where three words were loosed from lips translating the *****’ leaning into one learning from the other like lusters slipping in and out of fun like lovers finding oneself in the other.

But time can’t count all the ways things have changed.
And time can’t stand him standing out in the rain.
And he can’t remember which hit him harder,
   her lips curving to form that big L word or
   her hips arching to meet his.
And he could hardly discern pain from pleasure and confusion swam in their hands until paralysis overtook their power to put a stop to it and he finished before she could fish up even a single coo but that didn’t matter because he was in love and loved in return and all the sudden the Beatles are making a whole ******* lot of sense because

It’s been one month,
30 days since the last time they touched,
And he doesn’t give a ****.
He’s just happy to be in love.

Passively Pacify Our Minds
Lil Wayne Is Our Guide
Willie Lynch’s Spirit
Masterminds his Rhymes

Spirits Full of Hate
Played Out on Mixtapes
Ancient Ideologies Perpetuate

As we greedily devour
Beats that makes us
Forfeit Our Power

Physically we are free
But our minds are in 1793
Archaic ideologies
chain thee

...a pillow
...another pillow
...mixtapes and re-runs
..."500 days of" DVD
...the TV on mute
...your restless hopeful heart

You were forever on my mind.

Your eyes,
Your dimples,
Your entire ******* face.

I stopped thinking for me
And started to think for you.

Will he like this shirt?
He won't like me if I gain anymore weight.
Does he prefer my hair up or down?

I should have ran then.

Now here I sit
Watching the waves roll in,
Completely devoid of emotion.

I've cried my heart out until i could cry no more.
I decided then to pack away my heart.

I wrapped it up in the newspaper from last Sunday.
The one that mentioned all the graduating seniors.
I whimpered a little when I read your name.

Then I placed it in a cardboard box.
I ****** in a deep breath when I realised
That box had your mixtapes in them.

I shoved the box that held my heart into the back of my closet;
The one you hid in when my parents came home unexpectedly.

I take a few deep breaths whenever I see that box.

I remember taking a sharpie and writing a few words on the top.

NEVER TRUST A BOY WITH GREEN EYES AND A GUITAR.

unstill life with a peach pit.
//

i paint you in every colour before you leave my field of vision.
i spit out words i don’t understand like i love you, i need you.
you dance with me in my bedroom, spin me around until i’m blue
in the face, you say you love my glow in the dark, i say but you
shine brighter.

maybe we could sip on the cyanide in our peach pit smoothies
while i carefully contemplate? i don’t quite understand this but i dream
anyway because there’s nothing better than our flashlights.

i’ll make you a thousand mixtapes and we can dance to modern
day synth pop and we’ll feel like we’re in the eighties. i’m a nineties
baby i just made it there. syncopated words, and clever cacophony
spill out of my mouth, you’ve got my lip gloss on the corner of yours.
stay careful, i don’t know what any of this will mean in two weeks.

but, we’ll go out singing,

*baby, we’re golden,
baby, i’m holding
on to you.
baby we’re golden,
baby i’m holding
on.
baby, we’re golden
baby, we are,
we are,
we are...

i've got my eyes set on the sky but my feet are nailed to the ground. gravitational pulls and cosmic love are contradictory, what can i say?

you can't see where i get it from though, all this love love love love, and babe neither can i. it lights me on fire and tears me to shreds, it makes me scared to go to bed, and all this thinking of the love i can't get to rest when i do, it keeps me awake at night.

i have no time to die, i've got things to do and people to see and nothing you say can stop me. (except for those three words that blue eyed wonder has said to me lately- but i am his friend, i am his friend, and he love love loves me, so you can't stop me, you can't.)

these days i have become well acquainted with these facts.
a. i am not loved
b. i can not be loved
c. i am broken
d. i will always be broken
and e. no one wants to share this madness that drips from the words i speak when i'm sober. (i'm always sober the only thing i've ever been drunk on is love love love. god i have so much. oh god, i can't stop.)

i'll swing like sinatra, rock like a rolling stone baby, and remind everyone of the mixtapes they used to love love love when they played seven minutes of heaven in their mother's closets on a saturday. the closet i used to hide in, but i'm clean now, wearing green, and my name is blue blue blue.

i'll have a little baby girl one day. i'll call her baby blue and she'll spit fires and cry snow flakes, and she'll remind everyone of how they used to love love love love love.

Tie your powder blue checkered sheets,
and dangle them out of your
splintered window frame.

Wire bodies scrambling down,
you and your sister, tan and loud,
bringing ultra-light cigs and
burner flip-phones,
promising *** without
the feeling of being alone.

This is for the chips on your polish,
much like you: red and drawn
by a shaky Saturday night,
where I'm your friend,
unsure and twenty-two,
driving through muddy water
like a submarine submerged in time.

The stereo shouts out Minor Threat,
neon and done, are we, the naked,
parked outside the park
where you wrecked your bike,
we threw mixtapes off the bridge,
where we had fun.

I can still hear our theme song
beyond the headlights
beyond the moans.

I must be talking to you
About these past few days thats been rough
About how the blue skies become strange dark grey unknown
About the suddenly lightstorm breaking my body
About those stars who shines darkly often

I must be telling you
About our songs became a death march very instantly
About the roll of mixtapes out of the line and playing badly
About the lovebirds suddenly gone hatebirds
About how naive she is whos writing these poems lately

I must be watching you
About how you have fallen for the beauty and ditch the poetry
About how your long black coffe turns out to be a sweet lylac tea
About two lost souls meet at the wrong time asking somebody
About how i drunk on tears after you watch choose and dancing with the beauty.

Yo
They say tell.me hip hop ain't dead
How come fools droppin'
More mixtapes than albums?
Bums out with balm tryna getting money in there palms
I aint mad at the hustle but this generation is nothing but trouble
Went from  socialism lyricism to materialism
Now fools rappin' about how cool it is
To spend loot and then doom for prison
Teachers of new school misguided by the old school?
Well Cuz at once we considered at same points
But at least there was social commentary
Seems like all the realist rappers are in the cemetery
Holding it down for the underground
Like K-rino he know they game done took many turns
But this ones for the worse its the hearse
Can't revive what ain't alive??
Unless there's a new savior me an imagery
Of my pops dark skin afro full of inferno
I look him.in his blazin' eyes then he reveled to me a sign
Start the revolution pick off where pac marley and others left off
Cuz the game is too soft
No fathers figures just a bunch of ***** acting like *******
Strategize your destiny no one has chains on you only ya brain
Can keep you from accomplishment
And when I die will dear lord hear my sentiment
Try to teach what I preach
Not for the bad but as well as the good
Look in every hood
I see poverty lookin up to these SIMPs
Nothing buts hoes to the recompany pimps
Hip hop is dead?!!!

Yea I know I made mistakes in my life
Buts that's part of life
Through obstacles to miracle
I drop the oracle messenger to the people
Ask me y they call me Yosef
Which means peace but an art of was mentality
Tell me about quiet storm deep as i swarm
Like a plaguin' locust
In ya brain make ya lose focus no need to cuss
But then again I gotta
Muthaphukkka!!!
Cuz brothers only commend what they comprehend
Followin' these rappers like a religion
Stuck lost as a stool pigeon
I'm.writing verses to break the curses
And keep ya out the spiritual hearses
Most can't understand me?? Saying I'm hating the game Cuz they not paying me??
When I can make more overseas
United snakes ain't nothing but a tease
Taming audience without the cognizance of knowing
A lighted hypnotist like Chris Wallace past through the palace
Ya see nothing but skulls and bones
Society prone due for an overload
And watch the system fold
Then where will the rappers be at? When there's a sudden collapse
Once the master plan is success they wont need u any longer to manifest
Stupidity ya guilty but ya pleas no contest
Join the system I say give me liberty or give me death
I'll take death instead Cuz you'll go stale tryna eat bread!!!