I love you drunk, I love you sober.
You’re my April in October.
-
you come home, open the door,
leave your boots right on the floor,
don't smile or nod or kiss my neck
and then you take a cigarette
and smoke till midnight. Hell!
Fuck that!
I'm playing St Paul, fix ash with gin,
take my shirt off like I'm a whore
but you're high on ketamine.
I bleed the letters from my nose,
the droplets smudge on nipple rings,
I am close, so fucking close,
but I need another drink.
4, passed out in salty bath,
where my wounds soak up the foam,
you put rubies in my meth,
I'm alone when you are home.
And it's tragic, but it's fine,
cause blue horns grow off my spine
and my hips, the veiny snakes,
will ache and melt and age and flake.
don't fuck with me, or fuck and go.
-
Tonight I smell of pink salt
and black orchids.
And my earlobes taste of wet metal.
My eyelids wait for your lips.
And the vein on my neck
trembles at the lick of your “goodnight”.
You’re probably still there,
Paris.
Taking too much room in your white bed.
Not knowing that you smell of sunshine
and green apples.
I have married your memories
but divorced your life.
-
you left and took your smell away
from my morning bed last year.
and now I fuck and talk and play
with the voice no one can hear.
#epsomsaltdiaries (part 5)
-
patience, my darling, killed a cow.
now, as much as I appreciate being milked, I do not identify as one.
-
I've always loved your parties -
playing Liszt and David Bowie;
drinking sarcasm and mannered smile;
smoking style and impertinence;
dressing up in flirt and whiskey;
-
remember that one time you asked me to learn how to draw
so I could draw you.
foolishness, paired with promiscuity turned me on.
-
witches gathered by my bed
and scratched their names on my ribs.
I could feel the vibration, of their fingers in my spine.
-
Take me back to that small town
somewhere in New England,
where old Americans drink brown beer
and lick their lips
thinking about my toes and ankles.
-
misplaced and anxiously looked for -
the way I feel.
-
sexualizing trauma,
because I'm a fucking millennial.
-
night. green.
You poured blue wine on my shoulders.
It serpented down the canyon of my backbone; and kissed me lilac one vertebra at a time; and crawled around the dimples of my lower back,
sleeping and slipping through my thighs You were Adonis. I am Dionysus.
You poured blue wine on my shoulders.
It serpented down the canyon of my backbone; and kissed me lilac one vertebra at a time; and crawled around the dimples of my lower back,
sleeping and slipping through my thighs You were Adonis. I am Dionysus.
#epsomsaltdiaries (part 4)
.
Being alone in my dying bath listening to “my future” is the most peace I’ve experienced in months.
If only I had more gin.
.
My knees come out of water like mountain ranges, with the quiet ravine of Mars in-between.
.
I’ve been patiently teaching myself that I am weak and good only for clowning.
You made me feel like a little prince that day.
And now I am unbelieving and crysome for craving your presence.
.
My skin in spotted like white giraffe with charcoal and ink.
.
I’ll know it’s time to sleep when I ran out of paper.
.
I’ve worshiped multiple gods, of youth, witchcraft, flora, gold, applause, humility, silence, limits, adventure, love, anger, knowledge…
but I remained faithful to only one, god of poetry and wine.
.
I am not noise. I am not bright. I am not a drum.
Play me like a cello, with fingers and bows.
-
Let's walk to the river
and pick strawberries.
we'll sit by the forest.
talk about ancient gods
and myths and poems
that don't seem too far anymore.
frogs will come out
and stick their little paws
on your knees and listen.
stories will pour
as river flaws away.
birds will quiet.
snakes will round.
life slows down
as will the breath.
and trees that seemed silent before
will be loud with approval.
we'll have all the time in the world.
your hold will be strong and forceful.
my neck will stretch and wrinkle.
and the tower
that we passed,
built to honor
goddess of fauns,
shall stare at our direction,
with chambers full of
wet, dark creatures,
and doors,
soaked in moss and saliva.
you've been my reward.
I'll be your sacrifice.
and pick strawberries.
we'll sit by the forest.
talk about ancient gods
and myths and poems
that don't seem too far anymore.
frogs will come out
and stick their little paws
on your knees and listen.
stories will pour
as river flaws away.
birds will quiet.
snakes will round.
life slows down
as will the breath.
and trees that seemed silent before
will be loud with approval.
we'll have all the time in the world.
your hold will be strong and forceful.
my neck will stretch and wrinkle.
and the tower
that we passed,
built to honor
goddess of fauns,
shall stare at our direction,
with chambers full of
wet, dark creatures,
and doors,
soaked in moss and saliva.
you've been my reward.
I'll be your sacrifice.
-
I put my clothes in paper bags
and took them to the dumpster.
light was small and nose was sharp.
air was yellow and city slept on.
and as the bags hit the metal floor,
I thought of your body hitting pavement
that day, in rain and cold.
I let go almost as well as you did.
and took them to the dumpster.
light was small and nose was sharp.
air was yellow and city slept on.
and as the bags hit the metal floor,
I thought of your body hitting pavement
that day, in rain and cold.
I let go almost as well as you did.
-
In the beginning of yoga class we are asked to dedicate our practice and meditation to something or someone who we love or feel passionate about. I have been dedicating my practices to various people and causes and places. And I thought I chose them based on who needed my strength the most. But now, looking back, I realize I dedicated my practice to those who I missed, places I loved... starting form my grandmother to my aunt's dog, from my former bedroom to my favorite row at the Opera House of Tbilisi.
All this time I was sending my thoughts, soul and energy to where my heart is.
Today I start my advanced yoga teacher training and I want to consciously dedicate it to Tbilisi, my hometown.
ლამაზქალაქი.
All this time I was sending my thoughts, soul and energy to where my heart is.
Today I start my advanced yoga teacher training and I want to consciously dedicate it to Tbilisi, my hometown.
ლამაზქალაქი.
-
he sent me postcards from Saint-Raphaël.
he told me stories of the sea,
“green as green milk,
blue as laundry water,
wine dark”,
and of the sun and roads.
I wished I hadn’t imprinted myself so much onto NewYork.
I wish I was free,
of decisions, and doubts and people.
he told me about Marseilles,
his nights and his days,
about the sun and absence of clouds.
I remembered all my secret journeys,
never told,
always hidden,
nestled in my hips and thighs.
And just like that,
I wasn’t in my bedroom anymore.
I was with friends, by the sea,
“green as green milk,
blue as laundry water,
wine dark”.
.
.
thank you, d
he told me stories of the sea,
“green as green milk,
blue as laundry water,
wine dark”,
and of the sun and roads.
I wished I hadn’t imprinted myself so much onto NewYork.
I wish I was free,
of decisions, and doubts and people.
he told me about Marseilles,
his nights and his days,
about the sun and absence of clouds.
I remembered all my secret journeys,
never told,
always hidden,
nestled in my hips and thighs.
And just like that,
I wasn’t in my bedroom anymore.
I was with friends, by the sea,
“green as green milk,
blue as laundry water,
wine dark”.
.
.
thank you, d
-
Standing on a platform.
Heels together. Soldierly posture.
Waiting for 7.
Reading Anna Karenina again.
Standing on a platform.
Where fat New Yorkers munch and fuss.
Waiting for G.
It’s all so.. effortless.
#epsomsaltdiaries (Part 3)
.
Taking a mid-afternoon bath is something that says a lot about me as a young professional these days. And the fact that I have to go back to working in the office from next Monday doesn’t really bode well with my habits and aspirations anymore.
.
When they say “blessed be the fruit” ... what do they REALLY mean if they’re referring to a man? I mean, it’s one thing to bless women’s uterus (uteri?!), but do we really think balls deserve the same level of admiration and/or acknowledgement?
.
2020 has already proved to be little too rocky for me.
You know what’s almost as rocky as 2020? This glass of gin I’m holding like a boujee dandy that I am. I’ve got only one little gulp and 20 more minutes left in the bath.
Clearly, I do love living on the edge.
You know what’s almost as rocky as 2020? This glass of gin I’m holding like a boujee dandy that I am. I’ve got only one little gulp and 20 more minutes left in the bath.
Clearly, I do love living on the edge.
.
One should only scroll tinder before ticktok. Otherwise, even that tender social media bubble is too underwhelming to care for.
.
While my beautiful cerulean sponge fizzled with soap, I couldn’t help but wonder: What is it in my brain that strives to be more like Patrick Bateman and less like Ron Swanson?
.
“Get a grip on yourself”, yelled a shower head at me when I accidentally laugh-farted underwater while listening to a true crime podcast.
“Calm your titties”, I yelled back and thought about how Tom Felton didn’t age well.
.
Also, how lucky am I that I wasn’t born in 16th century Georgia. I would have been captured and probably sold on Turkish market before I was even 12. I don’t really do well in captivity. Unless there’s a crippled health system, systemic racial inequality, police brutality, etc.
That probably explains why I’ve thrived in New York.
.
If I could change my name to anything, it would definitely be Tybalt. Just so I could scrutinize every American who pronounced it [tæ•bolt]. Either that or Her Royal Highness, Princess Consuella BananaHammock, Duchess of Smellyton Catton.
.
I’ve recently discovered that it’s not all so easy to squeeze yourself into a size S non-stretch boxers anymore. Especially for a young aristocrat who’s a little more than just a handsome devil with an ass that won’t quit.
.
Every time a podcast host says something about its “patrons”, I think of all the missed connections with prospective sugar daddies.
Oh well... I’m sure American sugar daddies are made of corn syrup anyways. All dribbly and sloppy and... dull.
.
At this point I don’t know why I’m even in this water, turning side to side, with a word “bellicose” stuck in my head. Try me, bitch!
.
I did watch mr Murphy’s Politician. And I must say, not even Frank Underwood scared me as much as the sight of a toddler in Ben Platts arms.
Put. It. Down.
No.
We’re not buying it!
Put it down, NOW!
.
Michael: “6 and 8 are the most unlucky, unholy numbers in yoga philosophy...”
Me (born on 8/6): dhanyavaad.
Me (born on 8/6): dhanyavaad.
My boy
My boy
always standing at the balcony
of the house that I left
My boy
on Sundays wears the blue shirt
I gave him on his birthday once
My boy
tries to move on,
tries to date other dancers
My boy
keeps the ticket from the movie
we first saw together
My boy
lives in Marseille
but dreams of coming to New York
My boy
saves all his money
to buy the painting that I liked
My boy
listens to recordings
of my poems about him
My boy
smokes and drinks Tanqueray
because I smoke when I drink gin
My boy
reads Bulgakov at night
because I called him once "blue Woland"
And all this might be just fiction
but perhaps it's not a lie.
always standing at the balcony
of the house that I left
My boy
on Sundays wears the blue shirt
I gave him on his birthday once
My boy
tries to move on,
tries to date other dancers
My boy
keeps the ticket from the movie
we first saw together
My boy
lives in Marseille
but dreams of coming to New York
My boy
saves all his money
to buy the painting that I liked
My boy
listens to recordings
of my poems about him
My boy
smokes and drinks Tanqueray
because I smoke when I drink gin
My boy
reads Bulgakov at night
because I called him once "blue Woland"
And all this might be just fiction
but perhaps it's not a lie.
-
I drink coffee and write.
and embodied flavor of exotic Africa
writes out through me.
mind escapes to the widest fields of dotted green.
leaves of shortling coffee trees
sound too much like New York keyboards.
So with a flick of my left thumb
I order them to tune their spirit,
soak into Liszt, or Brahms at least.
I see fields of golden desert,
richness of the light and blue,
burning skin on trembling fingers
drowning into the depth of the river Fast.
It is me who escapes
off this room from Queens and mice.
and I do so only laughing,
only trusting bottled mind.
I should have taken pills this morning.
instead I'm traveling to the South.
And then dance comes,
claims my body
and my chest shoots up the Sun
arms fly forward
arms fly skywide
head turns black
and feet press loud,
and the thighs that promised strength
have melted up the hips and stomach,
corseted the muscles tight
lengthened ribs and knees in purple.
I am all and all in mine.
played my body like a drummer
little boy who was a girl
who has waited for the summer -
desert turned to caramel.
should have taken pills this morning
and washed them down with powdered Liszt.
should have, makes me sound so boring.
and embodied flavor of exotic Africa
writes out through me.
mind escapes to the widest fields of dotted green.
leaves of shortling coffee trees
sound too much like New York keyboards.
So with a flick of my left thumb
I order them to tune their spirit,
soak into Liszt, or Brahms at least.
I see fields of golden desert,
richness of the light and blue,
burning skin on trembling fingers
drowning into the depth of the river Fast.
It is me who escapes
off this room from Queens and mice.
and I do so only laughing,
only trusting bottled mind.
I should have taken pills this morning.
instead I'm traveling to the South.
And then dance comes,
claims my body
and my chest shoots up the Sun
arms fly forward
arms fly skywide
head turns black
and feet press loud,
and the thighs that promised strength
have melted up the hips and stomach,
corseted the muscles tight
lengthened ribs and knees in purple.
I am all and all in mine.
played my body like a drummer
little boy who was a girl
who has waited for the summer -
desert turned to caramel.
should have taken pills this morning
and washed them down with powdered Liszt.
should have, makes me sound so boring.
-
I'm sitting here,
neighbor's backyard,
crosslegged,
almost 9 am.
And while the coffee,
I made earlier,
surrenders its acquired warmth
to the spring morning,
I watch birds and flowers grow
and liquids rise and fall in trees.
The phone.. I heard it and remembered
every time it brought me you.
the letters, lives and german gardens,
busses, buzzing with student chatter,
river, too small to have drowned me,
parents, left at home alone,
ice-cream cones and blueberry waffles,
cold milk, hidden in the fridge,
pastries and small creamy tartlets,
franzbrötchen and my pens and papers,
picnics, when I lay all quiet,
staring at the sky and friends,
with my thoughts, all scattered nowhere,
trying to know what you had done.
all my flowers, white and peaceful,
all my future, still unclear,
all of Paris, Rodin, Degas,
all the streets I had been lost in.
This is morning, in New York,
while my head is heavy, clouded,
and Brahms sounds like Rachmaninoff.
neighbor's backyard,
crosslegged,
almost 9 am.
And while the coffee,
I made earlier,
surrenders its acquired warmth
to the spring morning,
I watch birds and flowers grow
and liquids rise and fall in trees.
The phone.. I heard it and remembered
every time it brought me you.
the letters, lives and german gardens,
busses, buzzing with student chatter,
river, too small to have drowned me,
parents, left at home alone,
ice-cream cones and blueberry waffles,
cold milk, hidden in the fridge,
pastries and small creamy tartlets,
franzbrötchen and my pens and papers,
picnics, when I lay all quiet,
staring at the sky and friends,
with my thoughts, all scattered nowhere,
trying to know what you had done.
all my flowers, white and peaceful,
all my future, still unclear,
all of Paris, Rodin, Degas,
all the streets I had been lost in.
This is morning, in New York,
while my head is heavy, clouded,
and Brahms sounds like Rachmaninoff.
-
I couldn't help but wonder:
Is there a special lubricant
I could apply on my joints.
'Cause this twerkin
ain't werkin.
grammar and gin
Should we make "gin" a verb?
I'd gin your brains out.
But you've made it an adverb.
And ginly bit me.
I'd gin your brains out.
But you've made it an adverb.
And ginly bit me.
Lady Marmalade LipSync Project
Cast:
Stevie +
Saba +
Sydney +
Magda +
Stella +
Veronica +
Frances +
Jenna Herrington -
Wil +
Alex Lahr +
Natasha +
Dej +
Nicie +
Nicie +
SCRIPT:
INTRO:
ALEX LAHR: Missy: Ladies and Gentlemen, Welcome to moulin Rouge!
DEJ: Where's all my soul sistas?
Lemme hear ya'll flow, sistas
Chorus EVERYONE:
Hey sista,
go sista,
soul sista,
flow sista
Hey sista,
go sista,
soul sista,
flow sista
1.
VERONICA: He met Marmalade down in old Moulin Rouge
Struttin' her stuff on the street
JEFF: She said,
NATASHA: "Hello, hey Joe! You wanna give it a go?" Oh! Uh-huh
VERONICA: Gitchie, gitchie, ya-ya, da-da
JEFF: hey, hey, hey!
NATASHA: Gitchie, gitchie, ya-ya, here
JEFF: heEEEre!
JEFF: Mocha Chocolata, ya-ya
NATASHA: ooh, yeah
VERONICA / NATASHA / JEFF: Creole Lady MarmalaAAAAde
DEJ: What-what, what-what
Ooh, oh
Chorus EVERYONE:
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?
DEJ: Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
2.
STEVIE: He sat in her boudoir while she freshened up
SYDNEY: Boy drank all that Magnolia wine
JENNA: On her black satin sheets' where he started to freak, yeah
JENNA: Gitchie, gitchie, ya-ya, da-da
STEVIE: da-da-da!
SYDNEY: Gitchie, gitchie, ya-ya, here
STEVIE: ooh, yeah, yeah
JENNA: Mocha Chocolata, ya-ya
DEJ: yeah, yeah!
STEVIE/JENNA/SYDNEY: Creole Lady MarmalaAAAAde
Chorus EVERYONE:
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?
DEJ: what, what, what
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?
STEVIE: Oooh
3.
NANCY: Yeah, yeah, YEAH, uh
WIL: We come through with the money and the garter belts
Let him know we 'bout that cake straight out the gate (uh)
NICIE: We independent women, some mistake us for whores
WIL: I'm sayin', "Why spend mine when I can spend yours?"
(SABA: I can spend yours?)
MAGDA: Disagree? Well, that's you, and I'm sorry
I'ma keep playing these cats out like Atari
(SABA: like Atariii)
WIL: Wear high heel shoes, get love from the dudes
NICIE: Four badass chicks from the Moulin Rouge
(SABA: from the moulin rouge)
NANCY:
Hey sistas, soul sistas, betta get that dough, sistas
NICIE: We drink wine with diamonds in the glass
WIL: By the case, the meaning of expensive taste
MAGDA: If you wanna gitchie, gitchie, ya-ya
Mocha Chocolata
DEJ: what
WIL / NICIE / MAGDA: Creole Lady Marmalaaaade
WIL: One more time, c'mon now
4.
NATASHA: MarmalaAAAde
(SABA: ooh, oh)
JEFF: Lady MarmalaAAAde
(SABA: ooh, yeah, yeah)
NICIE: MarmalaAAde
(SABA: no, oh, yeah)
SABA:
Hey, hey, heyEEEYYYY!
FRANCES / STELLA:
Touch of her skin, feeling silky smooth
Color of café au lait, alright
Made the savage beast inside roar until he cried
Chorus EVERYONE:
More (more), more (more), mOOOOOOore
STEVIE:
Now he's back home doin' 9 to 5
(SABA: 9 to 5)
NATASHA:
He's livin' the grey flannel life
FRANCES:
But when he turns off to sleep, memories creep
Chorus EVERYONE:
More (more), more (more), mOOOOOOOore
Gitchie, gitchie, ya-ya, da-da
(SABA: da-da, yeah)
Gitchie, gitchie, ya-ya, here
(SABA: ooh)
Mocha Chocolata, ya-ya
(NATASHA: yeah)
SABA:
Creole Lady Marmalade
Chorus EVERYONE:
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?
(STEVIE: ce soir, NANCY: ce soir)
Voulez vous coucher avec moi?
(VERONICA: all my sistas, yeah)
STELLA: Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?
(STEVIE: ce soir, NANCY: ce soir)
STELLA: Voulez vous coucher avec moi
(NICIE: c’mon! Uh)
ALEX LAHR: Christina
(FRANCES: hey, oh)
ALEX LAHR: P!nk
(STEVIE: Lady Marmalade)
ALEX LAHR: Lil' Kim
(MAGDA: hey, hey, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh)
ALEX LAHR: Mya
(VERONICA: oh, oh, ooh)
ALEX LAHR: Rockwilder, baby (baby)
ALEX LAHR: Moulin Rouge
(SABA: oh)
ALEX LAHR: Misdemeanor here
Chorus EVERYONE:
Creole Lady Marmalade
Ooh, ooh, yes-ah (Pink, Xtina)
A letter (2)
June 23, 2019
Dear M,
Today is June 23rd, almost mid day. It was raining all morning. Tables are probably wet. So are the chairs. Everything carries this odd smell of white marble, eve though everything is made of steel. I am wearing the same white shirt I wore in bed, hoping it will carry the warmth of my nightly body, quiet warmth, effortless and naive, unlike ever so anxious mind. Hoping it will carry the dreams into my real life.
I miss myself the most. Not the person I was. No. But the feelings that comprised that person, the perspectives and perceptions and accents on the objects that my eyes lingered on.
Dear M,
Today is June 23rd, almost mid day. It was raining all morning. Tables are probably wet. So are the chairs. Everything carries this odd smell of white marble, eve though everything is made of steel. I am wearing the same white shirt I wore in bed, hoping it will carry the warmth of my nightly body, quiet warmth, effortless and naive, unlike ever so anxious mind. Hoping it will carry the dreams into my real life.
I miss myself the most. Not the person I was. No. But the feelings that comprised that person, the perspectives and perceptions and accents on the objects that my eyes lingered on.
#epsomsaltbathdiaries (Part 2)
.
While I “float” in this epsom salt, practically boiling alive and afraid to move a muscle cause the waters is HOT HOT HOT (damn you, Sydney), I couldn’t help but wonder: will I grow hair on my back or am I safe?
.
A curious thing about this “situation” is how many people (who should have been busy having sex and working and husstlin around) have started developing dangerous thoughts. Let me break this down for ya, Scotty: you ain’t gonna be a writer, you ain’t Oscar Wilde. Stick to what you know: sex and investment banking.
.
I am in fact bathing in the milk of a virgin (or several hundreds of them). But still thinking about the cockdestroyers. Both doing god's work.
.
And now I can’t get the image of Peppa Pig out of my head. What is wrong with me!
.
The best sensation in life is rubbing your boiling hot body against stone cold bath tiles, grasping for breath and wondering if your kidneys have failed yet. It’s freshmen year of college all over again.
.
Today a friend asked if I have ever been taken advantage of because of my money.
Um..
what’s “mani”?
.
I wanna date someone who’s so loose that bath basically turns into an enema sesh the moment they soak into a tub.
And by loose I don’t mean morals.
Is that too much to ASSK?!
.
My shower head started shooting dirty looks at me. It shook its head and mumbled: “6 inches
.. right!”
I feel violated.
Also, hoping love IS blind.
::starts converting cms into inches::
.
I honestly think that the only reason why I don’t drown in a tub is that I’m too bloated.
"Goya beans, saving lives one fart at a time!"
.
I wonder what’s it like to be devastatingly perfect like Achilles but mortally afraid of pedis.
.
If I had a turtle I would bathe with him all the time. To all the turtle owners out there: LIVE YOUR BEST LIFE! IT AIN'T LONG!
I think I’m lonely and quite bitter about it.
Don’t ask
.
I watched Too Hot to Handle and now I feel fat and smart.
But all I REALLY want is to go back to normal.
.
As I laid there, in an empty tub, tweeting to an undeserving space, I couldn’t help but wonder: did my guardian angel avert his eyes while I legit went into a downward dog up against the faucet or did it get into a bird of paradise himself?
Lighthouse peeps will understand.
While I “float” in this epsom salt, practically boiling alive and afraid to move a muscle cause the waters is HOT HOT HOT (damn you, Sydney), I couldn’t help but wonder: will I grow hair on my back or am I safe?
.
A curious thing about this “situation” is how many people (who should have been busy having sex and working and husstlin around) have started developing dangerous thoughts. Let me break this down for ya, Scotty: you ain’t gonna be a writer, you ain’t Oscar Wilde. Stick to what you know: sex and investment banking.
.
I am in fact bathing in the milk of a virgin (or several hundreds of them). But still thinking about the cockdestroyers. Both doing god's work.
.
And now I can’t get the image of Peppa Pig out of my head. What is wrong with me!
.
The best sensation in life is rubbing your boiling hot body against stone cold bath tiles, grasping for breath and wondering if your kidneys have failed yet. It’s freshmen year of college all over again.
.
Today a friend asked if I have ever been taken advantage of because of my money.
Um..
what’s “mani”?
.
I wanna date someone who’s so loose that bath basically turns into an enema sesh the moment they soak into a tub.
And by loose I don’t mean morals.
Is that too much to ASSK?!
.
My shower head started shooting dirty looks at me. It shook its head and mumbled: “6 inches
.. right!”
I feel violated.
Also, hoping love IS blind.
::starts converting cms into inches::
.
I honestly think that the only reason why I don’t drown in a tub is that I’m too bloated.
"Goya beans, saving lives one fart at a time!"
.
I wonder what’s it like to be devastatingly perfect like Achilles but mortally afraid of pedis.
.
If I had a turtle I would bathe with him all the time. To all the turtle owners out there: LIVE YOUR BEST LIFE! IT AIN'T LONG!
I think I’m lonely and quite bitter about it.
Don’t ask
.
I watched Too Hot to Handle and now I feel fat and smart.
But all I REALLY want is to go back to normal.
.
As I laid there, in an empty tub, tweeting to an undeserving space, I couldn’t help but wonder: did my guardian angel avert his eyes while I legit went into a downward dog up against the faucet or did it get into a bird of paradise himself?
Lighthouse peeps will understand.
#epsomsaltbathdiaries
.
influenced by a younger generation I am taking an epsom bath, for the second time in my LIFE!
Being a Leo through and through, I have a very cat-like attitude towards water.
I believe stewing in any kind of salt is better left to pisces...
But all the yoga kids are doing it, so...
.
Don’t shave the shaveable areas before taking the bath.
Also, turns out the fluffy rug by the tub should NOT be used as a headrest..
It is unfortunately damp.
.
I am no longer terrified by my own bellybutton. However, the nature of it is still mysterious to me.
Is it a hole? Why doesn’t it go anywhere? it certainly is not a button.
If it is a button (which it isn’t), should I try pushing it?.
.
I pushed it.
Something pushed back.
#AmericanHorrorStory Pregnancy Edition.
.
I want to see billy eichner hunt the streets of New York, Corona Edition.
But leave Elena alone. She ain’t exactly what you’d call “young”..
.
Shower head staring and drooling down at me is a little intimidating.
Also, I don’t know what it means but I hear Jared deep conditions his hair while taking a bath and I’m only hoping it’s not the sort of "conditioning" Rebeca has tricked us into on more than one occasion.
.
Massive “Dreamers” flashbacks. Am I Theo, Matthew or Isabelle?
.
To my dear “drain stopper”: you had ONE JOB!!!
Do it! Live up to my EXPECTATIONS!!!
.
Overall impression:
I still prefer bathing in the blood of Bambi’s mother.
.
Afterbath:
I really do have a figure of Venus de Milo. (not exactly an ideal look for 29 year old guy)
And I’ve found a new mole on my groin. It shall remain undiscovered by humans till the end of times!
Also, where the FUCK is Euripides when I need him to immortalize my perishable beauty and desperation!
.
Epilogue:
I haven’t been so beautifully moisturized in my LIFE!
There is cream in the places you wouldn’t expect it to be!
You could say I’m moist like a 13 year old at harry styles concern.
.
It might be Tanqueray talking but if my dick could talk it would recite sonnet xviii rn.
influenced by a younger generation I am taking an epsom bath, for the second time in my LIFE!
Being a Leo through and through, I have a very cat-like attitude towards water.
I believe stewing in any kind of salt is better left to pisces...
But all the yoga kids are doing it, so...
.
Don’t shave the shaveable areas before taking the bath.
Also, turns out the fluffy rug by the tub should NOT be used as a headrest..
It is unfortunately damp.
.
I am no longer terrified by my own bellybutton. However, the nature of it is still mysterious to me.
Is it a hole? Why doesn’t it go anywhere? it certainly is not a button.
If it is a button (which it isn’t), should I try pushing it?.
.
I pushed it.
Something pushed back.
#AmericanHorrorStory Pregnancy Edition.
.
I want to see billy eichner hunt the streets of New York, Corona Edition.
But leave Elena alone. She ain’t exactly what you’d call “young”..
.
Shower head staring and drooling down at me is a little intimidating.
Also, I don’t know what it means but I hear Jared deep conditions his hair while taking a bath and I’m only hoping it’s not the sort of "conditioning" Rebeca has tricked us into on more than one occasion.
.
Massive “Dreamers” flashbacks. Am I Theo, Matthew or Isabelle?
.
To my dear “drain stopper”: you had ONE JOB!!!
Do it! Live up to my EXPECTATIONS!!!
.
Overall impression:
I still prefer bathing in the blood of Bambi’s mother.
.
Afterbath:
I really do have a figure of Venus de Milo. (not exactly an ideal look for 29 year old guy)
And I’ve found a new mole on my groin. It shall remain undiscovered by humans till the end of times!
Also, where the FUCK is Euripides when I need him to immortalize my perishable beauty and desperation!
.
Epilogue:
I haven’t been so beautifully moisturized in my LIFE!
There is cream in the places you wouldn’t expect it to be!
You could say I’m moist like a 13 year old at harry styles concern.
.
It might be Tanqueray talking but if my dick could talk it would recite sonnet xviii rn.
-
I write this letter to you
from quarantine.
I am ill.
I've caught fever.
and cough.
and my body hurts,
as though it's trying to break free
from my magic.
I am holding it all together
by the skin of my teeth.
And this might be the last letter I write.
I always wanted you
to be my last addressee.
I have lived off the sadness
and your pretend love
for years.
I have grown quiet and dreamier.
Once you left the present
Past became the only place I wanted to inhibit.
And I moved.
And moved again.
They talked to me.
And they paid attention.
But all of them sensed,
That I had a secret.
And they never managed to get close.
how can your existence be my secret,
when you've has created the world.
Why didn't I remain
alive.
from quarantine.
I am ill.
I've caught fever.
and cough.
and my body hurts,
as though it's trying to break free
from my magic.
I am holding it all together
by the skin of my teeth.
And this might be the last letter I write.
I always wanted you
to be my last addressee.
I have lived off the sadness
and your pretend love
for years.
I have grown quiet and dreamier.
Once you left the present
Past became the only place I wanted to inhibit.
And I moved.
And moved again.
They talked to me.
And they paid attention.
But all of them sensed,
That I had a secret.
And they never managed to get close.
how can your existence be my secret,
when you've has created the world.
Why didn't I remain
alive.
Take your time
Take your time.
I' here.
I am waiting for the love of you.
There is nothing I would do
if you were waiting for me.
But these days you've gone.
I've stayed.
And for the first time in my life
I've become your servant
your maid.
Take your time.
I'm here.
I'm standing.
You told me once you did not need me.
But I knew otherwise.
I thought you were lonely.
I like lonely people.
Acknowledgment of similar souls.
And I've always had this unfortunate need
to find likeness in others.
human?
Take your time.
I'm here.
I' here.
I am waiting for the love of you.
There is nothing I would do
if you were waiting for me.
But these days you've gone.
I've stayed.
And for the first time in my life
I've become your servant
your maid.
Take your time.
I'm here.
I'm standing.
You told me once you did not need me.
But I knew otherwise.
I thought you were lonely.
I like lonely people.
Acknowledgment of similar souls.
And I've always had this unfortunate need
to find likeness in others.
human?
Take your time.
I'm here.
-
I crossed the illness,
Called self-loathing.
It was feverish, harsh and fiery.
It was bloated and sluggish and toad-like.
It was pitiless, doubtful and death-loving.
I crossed the illness,
Called self-respect.
I wrote and words poured out of me
Like venom and plea and sorrow.
I longed for something long lost,
something long denied to me.
We all play someone.
And while I mastered the role,
I denied my self-born child the experience of life.
For life is courage
And courage is looking
Into the eyes of him (me)
And not averting the gaze
And not admiring the sight
And not correcting the perception
Or plotting corrections.
I crossed the illness,
Called self.
And the land beneath me
Is the land of wondrous world.
And I finally see it.
I finally drink it and taste it and smell its breathless fields of rye.
Is this what being god feels like then?
Am I it?
A child is sitting in a room
A child is sitting in a room
with a hat of blue and white.
I still dream of time you bloomed
and became all pale and light.
Cold is crippling streets of "out"
when it runs with screech and shout.
But the child, without a doubt,
Stares with eyes that speak too loud.
She's a witch. I'm little wicked.
She's a beetle. I'm a cricket.
She is luck and I'm misfortune.
And the cold becomes exhaustion.
with a hat of blue and white.
I still dream of time you bloomed
and became all pale and light.
Cold is crippling streets of "out"
when it runs with screech and shout.
But the child, without a doubt,
Stares with eyes that speak too loud.
She's a witch. I'm little wicked.
She's a beetle. I'm a cricket.
She is luck and I'm misfortune.
And the cold becomes exhaustion.
-
I’ll play you like a saxophone
With early light in midnight dark.
I know I own your moan alone
While you purr, and scratch, and bark.
We’ll drink the gin and play with ice.
And lips will suck on cigarettes.
And I’ll pay much higher price
When mornings turn into regrets.
But tonight we fuck like demons
Just to blow off little steam in.
-
You asked me to tell you a story.
I said I’d tell one about life.
My life is the simple moment:
when you say something too fast
and too honestly,
and then you realize
you’ve made a grammatical mistake,
but you still don’t give a fuck.
That is my life.
only... sentences I say
are my nights and days,
and mistakes I make
are not grammatical.
I said I’d tell one about life.
My life is the simple moment:
when you say something too fast
and too honestly,
and then you realize
you’ve made a grammatical mistake,
but you still don’t give a fuck.
That is my life.
only... sentences I say
are my nights and days,
and mistakes I make
are not grammatical.
-
Blue jeans, white sneakers,
green socks and a hat
walked by me
with a dreamfully light walk
with Bill Evans tempo.
Was it Debby?
Steps flirted with the pavement.
And the pavement tried to grab them
with its strong and muscly arms.
But steps
(frantic with evening cortado
and playful with Spanish sun)
slipped away and disappeared
among well-pressed trousers,
cognac shoes,
charcoal socks
and Doberman-like coats.
I looked by the stairs.
I looked at the subway platform.
And the one across the rails.
I searched the trains.
But you had gone.
And I only wanted to know your name.
Not because I’m restless.
Not because I hope we’ll meet again.
But because I’d hate this poem
to stay nameless.
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