"studio" poems
"--you know, I've either had a family, a job, something
has always been in the
way
but now
I've sold my house, I've found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I'm going to have a place and
the time to
create."
no baby, if you're going to create
you're going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you're going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you're on
welfare,
you're going to create with part of your mind and your
body blown
away,
you're going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you're going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquakes, bombardment,
flood and fire.
baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don't create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.
89.6k
Photography,
Photo journalistic,
Everyday, realistic.
Commercial, architecture, landscape, artistic,
Industrial, fashion, ethnographic, pornographic.
Big Brother, fallace, stealer of souls, vouyer.
News seller, instant gratifier, man pleaser, woman abuser.
Barthes, Sontag, Cindy Sherman,
Virginia Woolf, Warhol. Weegie, Francesca Woodman,
Leibovitz, Adams, Arbus, Tina Modotti,
Nan, Evans, Hoffer and even the Paparazzi.
Cheap ***** digital manipulator, image poser,
Center fold, coupons, Jackie O and Marilyn Monroe.
Where did they go:
Lifeless paper product, painter's picture mess,
C-type, digital archival,
Sepia, black and white, hard drive retrival.
Image addict,
Image taker,
Image maker,
image seller,
image buyer.
Newspaper, magazine, graphics and ads,
TV, dreams, even the trash.
Billboards, subways, phones and buses:
Utopia:
Surreal, crop, stretched and air brushes.
Modern ideal.
Surface manipulator.
Brain conditioner.
Consent manufacturer.
Oh Photography,
I got you in my eye.
A few thousand dollars,
A BFA, A critical scholar.
Or maybe a nerd,
Just boys with toys.
Telephoto genitals, with motor drive action.
Studio lights, umbrella traction.
Oh Photography,
You proprietor of obscene.
Detailed, de-sensitized.
Court ordered, jury analyzed.
Click, image, copy, edit, paste, print or post.
Myfacespace, twitter, flicker,
An internet media overdose.
Pry, spy, your friend's friend's acquaintances.
Parties, picnics, reunions and shows.
Visits, vacation, style, shoes and clothes.
Pics, photos, images, jpegs and giffs.
Snap shot, portrait, panoramic, Kodak kiss.
Exacerbate:
Divorce, break-ups, jealousy, envy, love and fears.
Devour and captivate society for years.
Slaves to Western and Capitalist desires,
Destruction of Earth with psychological, monetary empires.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
All I know I have learned from anime.
I have learned that intelligent high schoolers and unbelievable power sources should be kept far apart,
That there is a harem out there for everyone,
That ***** are the ultimate source of power in the universe,
and that nothing in all the world can not be improved by the addition of giant robots.
I have discovered that studio gainax has a huge stockpile of LSD, and that I must discover its location.
I have learned that Makoto Shinkai loves the taste of your tears,
and that Satonshi Kon is the thing the boogie man checks under his bed for.
But most of I have learned that you should always take that swing,
That if you stand strong you can pierce the heavens,
That if you stand together with those who mean the most to you, you will never be defeated,
And that true love can span the galaxies, knows no boundaries, and never dies.
Otaku forever.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
i dreamt you could love me again,
that you had a big studio apartment in the city
and you bought her lots of gifts,
made her go thrifting with you
to buy strange clothes,
but she knew you loved someone else,
she knew you missed me
and that you would always be mine,
and although i woke up
and not a bit of it was true
(because i know you love her
and that you don’t think about me)
it was still nice to live in a world
where your heart had not
forgotten my name.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
My dear summers dream was to the taste cream
Pass me the triple beam the microphone fiend
Back on the scene simplicity is your complexity
So amazingly like grace I be rockin' the place
Like we Studio 54 shut down the doors
Once the bubbly pours and the **** adores
Ya mental **** ya sentimentals and these new aged millennials
They too satirical I make miracles flow potholes
Creatin' mass mayhem your an inconvenience
Cuz of ya hesitance my presence is known
Without even being shown paragraphs of stone
Hard to crack waxing tracks like a shark attack
Felonious acts we never back down
Til my soul drown in the core of the earth
Royalties since birth new my worth they tried to mirth
At my pain tryna change the game cuz all these cowards
Saying the same thang got dang got dang
Time to chess box like Wu Tang leavin' a stain
On ya reign no tears though I'll be on solo
Rippin' up instrumentals ya know how we do so...yeahhh
From the Sunny to bees that make the honey
Sticky icky like my spliffs be call me smokey
Puttin' fire to mother natures forests check the creases I
unleashes
Rap game mafiaso so so better back back
Or else get dropped lika Domino so here we go!
Here we go!
With the ghetto jams love girls with the derriere's of Pam
Got **** once again it's time to slam
Mics harder than Shawn Kemp ya flows shrimp
That's why ya girl calls me Mr **** no limp
Slick as Rick hello young world tilt and a whirl
Catch the swirl of Qatar Pearls on the neck of ya girl
Suckas better know I'm coming with a blow
Harder than Bowe combined with a super glow
black Saiyan raps slayin' turntables layin'
So I can get wicked lyrics Pickett
like Wilson
Flows in unison formation
of words
Herds a violent surge
feel the purge
We high rising no disguisin'
knockin' out Suckas who jivin' ain't none survivin' ?
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
Roomate:
*"It's uhh...
...Mad Max role play."*
Naked Bound man
center of the room:
"We get really into character"
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
[Intro: Honey *******
You ******* ******* stink
Go take a ******* shower
Schwag. Asian *******
[Verse 1: Honey *******
****** I ain't got time for a stupid broad
Cause bro I'm 'bout to beat a ***** and probably lose my job
**** I'm a bubble
Listen, ***** I tell you cool it off
Cause acting smart'll get you deaded
***** I rule the spot
Now, homie, I ain't ******* down to catch a charge, bro
Now her body found the same place she had parked, bro. (Whoops! [x3])
I forgot my ******* ride for me
Cause these ******* that drive for me
Are these ******* flying for free
I gain mine. There's a difference. You remember that
Cause I'm always hungry for the **** that I ain't never had
This here is baby food and be all like, ***** **** a snack! "
See ****** who said I'm crap is asking me to hit 'em back
***** **** that!
[Hook x2: Honey *******
Now, I ain't got time for ********
If I ain't getting mine, then that's ********
Why you all up in my face with this ********
Ew. ***** you smell like ********
[Verse 2: Honey *******
Oh, here I go. There they go in this here game again
Now these ******* praying they gon' never hear my name again
But look, I'm a stay around even although they acting like I can't
I don't sleep at all cause it'll always be my time again
That means I work hard, homie. I don't play around, dawg
Better cut this ******** or your face'll meet the ground, dawg
But after all, it's for the haters and the groupies, though
Find me at the studio
The smart ***** with a stupid flow
**** delivery. Got fans who in the dance
Now my enemies got plans
They just searching for a chance
**** friends cause I'm married to the music
***** cause I gained the world and die before I lose it
So cool it
[Hook x2: Honey *******
Now, I ain't got time for ********
If I ain't getting mine, then that's ********
Why you all up in my face with this ********
Ew. ***** you smell like ********
[Verse 3: Tyga]
***** back, back. Why your *** so flat?
Tell your best friend I want that
I don't pretend, ***** and I don't act
Why you all up in my chat?
Telling people that you know him
If I lend you all on my back
Criss-cross, you wiggedy-wack! (Aghh!)
Duplicating my racks
Introduce you to my life
Yeah, my gold heavy metal
You can't rock out on my level
Yeah, yeah. That's a red Ferarri
And I'm dancing with the devil
***** testing me, you get answers
**** a ***** quick fast, like cancer. (Aghh!)
(Well, well) Make a ***** rubbin money on my **** till it swell, swell
And ya money, money shorter than a elf, elf
And I keep cool J's like LL
(Hell yeah) I don; t wanna start nuttin' ***** lemme finish
All in a ***** net ***** mouth like a dentist
(Dennis) Rodman. Come on, come on
***** is you with it, with it?
Cause I ain't
[Hook x2: Honey *******
Now, I ain't got time for ********
If I ain't getting mine, then that's ********
Why you all up in my face with this ********
Ew. ***** you smell like ********
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
Eating mushrooms, to her is yet another art
she loves to perfect, in my ear she whispers
with such visible pleasure,"I want to be a connoisseur in this"
Her studio smelled herbs and wild flowers of inner forest,
brought me back to the cardamom and cinnamon garden
I played in my days of boyhood; spices build a bridge for us.
More of a herbalist than a paint smelling artist, she seems,
mounted on the wall on irregular fashion were the mushrooms
she painted with a passion rare, and a precision mirroring life;
the paintings brought her past in to the studio, only trained eyes
would discern the cryptic symbolism, a consummate artist she certainly is!
The woman who smoked cigars in succession and untiringly danced,
she said was her favorite, along the lake front we took a long walk
comparing notes; there were parallels that met, we found soon enough.
"You too knew her so well, I am aware", she said. A room filled with smoke
where we dance, make love, grow tired, fall down and sleep, wasn't it our life?
No one can miss the signature smell of her dense cigar smoke on my dress!"
I loved the smell of cloves she exhaled while eating mushrooms.
though detachment she pretended, eating mushrooms never was that!
I kept looking down at her eyes, a sailor about to sight the land,
any panting moment that rushes with a monsoon song for me and her.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
Our love can never be
No matter how dearly you love me
Others have no clue
Of how empty I feel without you
You'll forever be the Juliet to my Romeo
Always we shall meet up in that small one bedroom studio
Our love is greater than the gods
Maybe it can one day defeat all odds
But alas for now it's hidden
For now our love is forbidden
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
It was not, by any means, a loss of faith;
Indeed, her devotion was a boundless, unfettered thing
Beyond proscription, beyond rote chant and catechism,
And what she found as a novitiate
Were shuttered gates and gossipy confessionals,
Standoffish priests, pig-eyed and pinch-lipped
Sisters who thought life’s commerce
No more than mechanical prayer and spotless linens,
The whole enterprise
Smacking of the exclusion of Heaven’s bounty.
So she demurred when the time came to take her orders,
And she returned to the world of pavements and lesser pieties,
Free to seek God on park swings and barstools,
In pleasures of the pastoral and the profane,
Though her faith is no Dionysian walkabout,
As she is passionate to the cusp of maniacal
When it comes to the Book of James’ admonition upon works;
She is often found among the sisters she once tiptoed alongside
At food pantries and clothing drives
(She is scrupulous about ministering to only secular needs,
As the Bishop is not happily disposed towards those
Who choose not to take the veil,
And the specter of excommunication is a prospect
Too awful to contemplate)
Afterwards clambering onto some vaguely roadworthy MTA bus
Back to her studio apartment in Green Island,
Where she often walks down to the Erie Canal lock nearby,
Praying for those who have travelled near and upon the water,
Convenience store clerks and ragged Irishmen fleeing famine,
Feral kittens and insufficiently mourned mules.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
Cricket is the only game which lures me so much;
And then engrosses me so much.
That craze would never drive out of me…
My inspiration was ‘Yuvraj Singh’,
Only then I arose to identify that King.
Once Yuvi’s record of six sixes in six *****
The firmament was incredible for certain minutes:
That was the first time I witnessed cricket,
And India’s triumph provided me a mind-blowing buzz to watch cricket,
Nevertheless continuing with ***** and wickets.
I would turn crazy when Indian cricketers approach the ground,
And that would certainly not halt lest they are made proud.
This T20 shadowed by IPL,
Made me to by stand that awe-inspiring sport.
Chennai Super Kings-my favorite,
Followed by Royal Challenges Bangalore …
And lots more hilarious teams and cricketers.
When Chris Gayle approaches…
Tsunami warning must be lifted and “Gayle” (gale) warning must be given!
That’s how cricket relocates…
Most matches concluding in the closing over
And some others in the finishing ball…
The most exhilarating sport
Read more →and the format-
IPL is all fun for me…
With cheer leaders and the draped studio;
With cameras and videos
And at last the much awaited IPL trophy-
Cricket is all that it needs!!!
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
*Onward, soldier.
Onward.*
That’s what they all
tell me, but
let me
slow down for a moment.
There’s a little something I gotta
say,
Thank you.
To that swing set in Greenhills Music Studio
San Juan City,
without you,
I’d never have learned that sometimes
it’s the other way around—
feet in the sky and head on the ground.
Mrs. Arambulo, the swing set’s owner,
who made sure I was well versed in
sonatinas and arpeggio scales
before I found out they’d already made
a piano that didn’t need tuning, and
Ma, who’d test my memory by
asking me if I
could recite
whole paragraphs at age four,
she’s why I remember things like
the smell of pilmeni,
the color of our first house’s carpet,
and nine page spoken word poetry,
to everyone behind that old kids’ show, Bayani,
watching it in my
second grade HEKASI class
would bring me to tears each time — no kidding,
you all paved the way for my homeland’s history
to make its home in my heart,
my English teachers from
sixth all the way to eleventh grade,
who all believed and still believe in the words I put down on paper
and spew out on dark stages armed with imagery and the Spirit,
you made me fall deeper in love with the way words can be waves
or flames,
Dad, who taught me
to climb mountains, to read books,
to let myself run free among the nations
but to always remember to leave a part of my heart at home,
to the four little boys I met in Hong Kong,
if we meet again, I owe you a better explanation to your question,
“Why do you dance?”
thank you for asking me that, and I’m sorry for my cowardly answer back then
but I’m braver now, and
I promise it’s for more than just fun or exercise,
it’s for this God I hope you get to know,
and to every Philippine history teacher I’ve ever had,
keep teaching like that,
we need more young ones who’d be willing
to die for their homeland,
you taught me that there is so much more to this country
than its own people tell me, so
burn on.
and make sure they catch fire.
*Onward, soldier.
Onward.*
I’m not sure where I’m headed,
but I’d rather be uncertain of the road ahead
than forget
where
I started.
I’ve told you mine, now
tell them yours.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
Have you considered being a *** worker?
You have a body.
I know you never sleep there,
spend less time breathing than associating with your own ribcage.
You're an actress
no script, just a character summary.
Limp, age 12, non-verbal marionette.
*Snaps her strings when forced to dance.
Clings to the ceiling tiles, like the shadows she hallucinates.
Let's the puppet fall numb under strangers.
Ragdoll to be used for kindling.*
When you play your part
You'll inherit enough money to afford a studio apartment
in Washington, or Las Vegas; anywhere with men paid large enough salary to afford your vacant body,
three phone plans,
a hotel room for you to stay awake in
Listening to dull thuds against your wrongfully warm corpse
Invited hoping the stinging could form tendons
adhere together like rubber bands
Snap you back into your skin.
You cling helpless to the ceiling tiles
Watch the ragdoll make mistakes.
*"Have you considered being a *** worker?"*
A homeless woman asked me,
*"Unoccupied bodies should start charging rent.
Let a man who can afford it pay for utilities.
You might be homeless
but you won't be wasted space".*
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 1:56 PM UTC
Name: Falen Acon
Residence: San Diego California
Age: 15 (almost 16)
Birthday: Jan 4, 2000 (Capricorn)
School: Don't worry about it!
Grade: 10th (Sophomore)
Class Of: 2018
Favorite Color: Ballet Pink, Gun Metal Gold and Burgundy
Favorite Flower: Wild Flowers, Roses & Sunflowers
Hobbies: Dancing and Poetry
Favorite Food: Pizza
Favorite Drink: Strawberry and Root Beer Soda
Favorite Dessert: Ice Cream (Shakes) (any flavor)
Happy Place (place that makes me happy): Beach or Dance Studio
Career Path: Professional Dancer
Lucky Day: Saturday
Lucky Number: 3
Favorite Number: 7
Friends: Christan Zeal, Elsa Angelica and Drevon Young
Goals: Find true love, Find happiness and Travel World
Favorite Artists: Lana Del Rey, The Weeknd, Drake, PartyNextDoor, Post Malone, ILoveMakonnen, Rae Sremmurd, RDGLDGRN, Kyle, A.$.A.P Rocky, G-Eazy and Zayn Malik
Celebrity Crushes: Zayn Malik, Justin Bieber, RED (from RDGLDGRN) and Steph Curry (GSW)
Favorite NBA Team: Golden State Warriors (GSW)
Favorite NFL Team: North Carolina Panthers
Favorite MLB Team: Chicago Cubs
Favorite College Football Team: LSU Tigers
Favorite Nascar Driver: Kasey Kahne
Future College: Texas State University (TSU) or Something :)
Future Sorority: Delta Sigma Theta (DST) /_\
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
Wimbledon’s playing on the TV in the living room. Dad and I are watching on the sofa.
In the kitchen, Mom cuts carrots and cucumbers with a long blade. She slices the vegetables one by one. Orange pieces. Green pieces.
I glance over Mom chops up the carrots and cucumbers without a cutting board, taking each long carrot and cucumber and slices it with precision, as though she’s a professional like the film with Natalie Portman and Jean Reno.
But she’s not a little girl and she’s not a Frenchman. She’s like a mix-in-between, like the asphalt in our driveway and the grass sprouting in between the cracks.
Dad is a computer engineer. He used to be an artist. Used to study technical drawing in a university in Saigon.
He met mom when he was working on a play. She was the lead actress. Shakespeare had said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.”
He’s right, but right now I can’t tell what act I’m in. Dad focuses on the TV. Watches Federer and Djokovic, his eyes, darting from left to right like the mood of a young boy that crosses back and forth from light to dark, and back again.
Blade in hand, Mom makes longer and deeper cuts across the cucumber, cutting away the skin, leaving deep cuts in the vegetable. Dad turns his head towards her, his neck cracking like the forehand swung by Federer.
He clears his throat, softly, soft as gas leaking out from a stovetop from a studio apartment, like the scene in Fight Club, a match about to be struck.
Mom sets the blade down on the table, and bites her lip. Her nostrils flare. I press down on the couch arm, and stand up, my head bent, my eyes wandering to the doorway.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 11:29 PM UTC
I love when the sun paints a golden hue on everything before it
disappears
into the obsidian night.
Its rays are like an artist's brush,
delicately covering the world's canvas with luminosity.
When its glow eventually fades, and the stars barely light up the sky,
it's like an artist shutting off the studio lights
after a long day's work.
Temporarily departed, but soon to return
to paint the canvas with incandescent light
once again.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
How could you leave me so unexpected?
I was waiting, I was waiting
For you but you just left me
I needed you, I needed you
Yo, I don't know what it's like to be addicted to *****
But I do know what it's like to be a witness it kills
You told me you love me, I'm thinking this isn't real
I think of you when I get a whiff of that cigarette smell, yeah
Welcome to the bottom of hell
They say pain is a prison, let me out of my cell
You say you proud of me, but you don't know me that well
Sit in my room, tears running down my face and I yell
Into my pillowcases, you say you coming to get me
Then call me a minute later just to tell me you not, I'm humiliated
I'm in a room with a parent that I don't barely know
Some lady in the corner watching us, while she taking notes
I don't get it dad, don't you want to watch your baby boy grow?
I guess that ***** is more important, all you have to say is no
But you won't do it will you? You gon' keep drinking 'til the ***** kills you
I know you gone but I can still feel you
Why would you leave me? Why would you leave me here?
How could you leave me here?
How would you leave me? Why would you leave me?
Oh, Hey
I got this picture in my room and it kills me
But I don't need a picture of my dad, I need the real thing
Now a relationship is something we won't ever have
Why do I feel like I lost something that I never had?
You shoulda been there when I graduated
Told me you love me and congratulations
Instead you left me at the window waiting
Where you at dad? I was too young to understand where you at huh?
Yeah, I know that alcohol got you held captive
I can see it in your eyes, its got your mind captured
Some say it's fun to get the high but I am not laughing
What you don't realise and what you not grasping
That I was nothing but a kid who couldn't understand
I ain't gon' say that I forgive you cause it hasn't happened
I thought that maybe I feel better as time passes
If you really cared for me, then where you at then?
Why would you leave me? Why would you leave me?
How could you leave me here?
How would you leave me? Why would you leave me?
Hey
Our last conversation, you and I sat in the living room
Playing our video games, you started slurring and I broke down in front of you
You started crying, telling me this isn't you
Couple weeks later, guess you were singing a different tune
You Drank that ***** for the last time, didn't you?
It took you from me once, guess It came back to finish you
Crying my eyes out in the studio is difficult
Music is the only place that I can go to speak to you
It took everything inside of me to not scream at your funeral
Sitting in my chair, that person talking was pitiful
I wish you were here dad but every time I picture you
All I feel is pain, I hate the way I remember you
They found you on the floor, I could tell that you felt hollow
Gave everything you had plus your life to those jack bottles
You gave everything you had plus your life to them jack bottles
Don't know if you hear me or not, but if you still watching why
Why would you leave me? Why would you leave me?
How could you leave me here?
How would you leave me? Why would you leave me?
Hey
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 5:29 PM UTC
silver flute sits in the case
Studio awaits, soul suppress
Space slammed
silver flute rests on the stand
Insecurity of melody
Gasping for air
Trembling, closed off
silver flute plays a sweet song once, yesterday
For Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, & for Uriel
Resonance, chord floating,
pure revelation
last song of hope, courage
last wild witch prayer
Last organic sound, unplugged
silver flute sits in the case
Great Open Outdoors awaits, soul regenerates
Have we arrived to the sacred tree?
Silver flute will play Naked, wild, free!
All ears wide open
Open eyes, Open hearts, Open minds
True human connection returns
CODA
Silver flute floats in my heart & hand
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 9:59 AM UTC
Hollywood is dead and gone
It died a lonely death
It's just too bad no one was there
When it took it's final breath
Forget the tales of yesteryear
Of junkies and of ******
The Hollywood I speak of
Is behind the golden doors
Warner Brothers and MGM
United Artists and 20th Century Fox
Are now owned by conglomertates
With more cash than Fort Knox
Film is just an extra
In a business it once ruled
With the advent of computers
The industry's re-tooled
CGI and Green Screen
Let them do more at great cost
But, without the use of actors
There is something that is lost
The tie in with it's history
We only see each year
When they memorialize those who passed
At the Oscars....shedding tears
There is now just two places
To process film itself
When, way back in it's heyday
Of these there was a wealth
No new ideas forthcoming
Movies get rebooted or remade
And the startlets in the pictures
They're the one's who're getting laid
Merchanidising movies
That is where the real cash lies
If you're not attached to a food chain
Your bottom line will die
Hollywood died in it's sleep
It died with dignity
The funeral will be shown though
On reality TV
It smothered in it's excess
A victim of it's greed
It gorged on people's wallets
Forgetting peoples needs
Old Hollywood is magic
It lives on in peoples hearts
Too bad the studio system
Was sold off in such small parts
The western died, musicals next
Then came the comedy
You can't see them in the theatre
But they're on your big tv
I stand here and salute her
She put pictures in our heads
But, now thanks to her avarice
Old Hollywood is dead...
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 6:40 PM UTC
We love to chase the wind through streaks of blinding bliss,
Tagging the glorious ideals of love, peace, friendship, even
The meaning of life, to weeping willows and pensive pebbles.
We admire the monochrome sky in all its barren blue or pregnant purple;
Hues of burple and plue are dismissed as being tedious, or just confused.
Fear not, photoshop will rectify this pigmented aberration.
We giggle at clouds that resemble kitchen utensils or mystical creatures;
“Hey look a teddy bear in a spacesuit with a flowerpot on his head wielding the Sword of Gryffindor!”
We declare sagely, with the acumen of a legendary bird watcher.
We resurrect grass angels by launching into horizontal jumping-jacks, and,
Just as a disclaimer, no flower was harmed in the process. Not that it matters,
As long as we did not soil our Lacoste and Burberry.
We spin a mixtape out of the torrential downpour, our tracks pitting
The pitter of regularity against the patter of inconstancy, synchronizing
The symphony of splashes to an undercurrent of nostalgia.
We kiss against the bark of an elm, and if a tree is not available in the vicinity,
We throw ourselves down a nearby hill, tumbling into a ball of moist romance,
Panting, as we bask in the studio lighting of the approving sun.
Every still is captured by a Lomo,
Every scene arrested in sepia motion,
Every moment ravished by the chichi Bohemian in us.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 4:03 PM UTC
I want to go live in a cottage in the woods
By myself with a few pets here and there
My friends would live not too far and would visit every day
My family would visit once a month and only on holidays,
Except for my extended family who would not ever come to my house, I’d only see them at theirs
I would have a cat, a bunny, and a dog
Maybe a chinchilla
I could bake cakes, cookies, and pies by the window in the kitchen
I could have a garden filled with flowers and fruits
I could have a stone pathway leading to my house
I could practice my witchcraft in peace and live happily on my own
I usually close my eyes to imagine this perfect place
Where I can dance in the rain and watch Studio Ghibli every day
I hope that I can have that one day,
To live peacefully on my own without a care in the world
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 12:23 PM UTC
humans paint the galaxies;
stars poured by the gods
on a piece of dark, endless canvas.
the nature talks about freckles and moles on a maiden's skin
and how interesting connecting dots into intricate shapes is.
humans boast about love.
all the mediocre melodies to woo, cupid unleashing arrows,
and the cries written on minor scale;
blacks and whites of the piano.
the unexplainable look on one's eyes.
things they left unrecorded though—
ones the studio of the universe releases an album of:
motorbike roars as a boy speeds through countless others
that are deemed insignificant,
compared to the thought of his mom waiting at home.
for centuries and more centuries,
the poets go on about emptiness.
the caging abyss, they said,
of sadness. a dark place.
but seasons whisper the stark difference
of breeze nibbling on your skin
and of the dropping temperature of winter
harshly piercing your senses like knives.
dancers waltz to the moonlight,
reenacting silent screams and insanity.
but withering flowers' petals got themselves caught up in a game of tag with their own kin.
it's funny how humans talk about the comparison (as i am doing right now)
of the art we make and the art that is already there before us.
when the universe tries again and again to teach us
what kind of little majestic things we are, what kind of little majestic things surround us.
(must say, we're quite dumb. unable to understand.)
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 10:53 AM UTC
Romilda was an old lady,
She had no small baby,
So she petted her sisters daughter,
Who only drank milk but not water,
Little baby had a nice name which was Angelina Geolly
But her life was a worry,
She never went for the studio,
Never had Romeo,
She was brought up at a village,
But had a wide knowledge,
Her old aunt was always frank,
But Angelina Geolly use to prank,
One morning Angelina knocked her head on the wall,
And started dialing a call,
It was to none other than the fire brigade,
Hello, Come asap for our gate, Fire! Fear! Fire!
After an hour they reached in,
It was all about a recycle bin
Angeline had only meant, fire at her aunts cooker,
But they responded you little sucker!
The poor Aunt Matilda had to pay,
For their visit all the way
But still the house wasn’t grey!
Some people, few people started to blame Angelina Geolly!
She ran into her trolley,
And Angelina Cried Cried Cried,
But later she was Fried Fried Fried
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 11:30 PM UTC