Belvederhée

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.

-

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.

-

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.

-

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.

Lady Marmalade LipSync Project

Cast:

Stevie +

Saba +

Sydney +

Magda +

Stella +

Veronica +

Frances +

Jenna Herrington -

Wil +

Alex Lahr +

Natasha +

Dej +
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

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

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

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

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)

-

He takes off his jeans.
I am watching.
He smiles.
If only the night was longer,
less bright.

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.

#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.

-

call me later.
painkillers haven't kicked in yet.

#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.

-

smell of your chest,
your neck and your temples,
has turned the dangers of this life
into my comfort and into my light.

-

I have no memories of your non-existence.
and that's why I love all of our broken films
and broken poems.

-

every evening:
lipstick,
eyeliner,
gin,
jazz,
poetry,
fuck-me eyes,
in Givenchy.

-

- How do you take your tea? - she asked.

- Orally. - I replied after a moment of hesitation.

-

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.

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 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.

-

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.

-

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.

-

train rattled (iron snake)

and I swayed into red wine.

my smile breaks

when you’re awake.

I’m your mistake.

but you’re not mine.

if you hear crying, it isn’t me.

that’s just my heartbreak on the floor.

you said I was your dopamine,

and you don’t want me anymore..

but that night, with crimson wine

I was yours and you were mine.

-

My dreams are made of my insecurities.

In my dreams I’m taller,

My name is David

or Nicholas

or Johnathan

or Oliver

or Pip.

I am full of adventures.

I am in your stories.

I am admired for my wit

and humor

and heart.

I am happy,

sometimes sad,

but mostly happy.

I live a reckless and carefree life.

I am young

and beautiful.

In my dreams I am loved,
being loved.

-

‪I love New York in rain.

It is still messy

and overly practical

and anxious.

But rain soothes ambition

and clears perspective.‬

‪And boys like me fall in love. ‬

‪I am controlling

and strong-willed

and well-disciplined.

But rain rhythms out my walk

and turns it into waltz.

-

You should have killed me.

It would have been better.

Thought you were kidding

When I read your letter.

But page one with sadness

Set Page two fears free.

I begged gods to end this

On cruelest page three.

But you were just honest.

It tore and ate me.

in a bar

a guy walks into a bar.
drinks whiskey on rocks.
smiles a lot,
and talks a little.
others watch a wonder.
some flirt and offer drinks.
but he leaves alone.
with a heart that's broken,
and stories,
too sad to tell in a bar.

-

‪It’s somehow impossible to listen to Orville Peck
‪on the subway.. ‬

‪I crave that intimate atmosphere of my silent room, ‬
‪where
a little drunk with gin and New York, ‬
‪I lay spreadeagled on bed, ‬
‪wearing nothing but Mojave Ghost ‬
‪and mask of exhaustion and satisfaction. ‬

‪I am a hungry nocturnal cat.‬
‪going hunting.‬

-

Why should pain bite my heart
When sadness already nests in it.

Why should doubt tie my thoughts
When panic set them loose.

If I was a bird,
I’d be a short-winged one
with Amber eyes.

-

Blame me for being me.

I’m flattered.

After all, I’ve always blamed you

for not being him.

-

Since you left me
I cried for a week
in every street in Greenpoint,
every corridor of my office building,
every bathroom.
I drank for three days.
and fucked around for one.

now I sit in my bed every morning
reading books I loved more than I ever loved you.

-

Every time I'm happy,

I forget all my rat-like worries.

I’m the Summer sun,
thinking I will last forever.

Every time I'm happy,

I live my life faster and louder.

I jump down the subway stairs

and my smile is wide and loving.

Every time I'm sad,

I can hardly move.
My lungs are drained of air.
And my heart turns into a dead turtle.

-

Remember,
something that you said,
something along the lines of:
"You are calm and normal
and different.
You are my sanctuary from the craziness of this city.
You play my refuge,
and I am fortunate to have found you.
You are the warmth of the early sun
and the quiet breath of the ivory moon."

And for the first time
I felt my soul then.
I saw beyond my body
and muscles
and bones
and blood.
And I recognized something,
an emotion,
or thought.
Something we all refer to as
soul.

But it was not you who I fell in love with then.
It was I,
the image of me,
the perception of me,
the significance of being something,
the curiosity of being seen as someone,
of having acquired that function
of being an object.
Liberated -
I felt.

But I do not fit your ideas anymore.
I have left the room.
I have gone.
And this silent departure
has wrecked my mind
and broken my pulse.
But I am going,
I am moving,
I am searching
and running
and shouting
and living
and changing.

I do not play the role of the muse
anymore.
I am not looked at,
admired,
anymore.
I do not pose for you
anymore.
I do not smile for you.
I do not play the role.
I do not follow
the script.
I break the line
and scattered I might be,
But I call this state of me
"beating".
And I know you think
I am lost.

But I'd rather be lost,
than easily found.

-

I try to write but mind goes silent.

Been too quiet, far too long.

Snow has turned my fingers violet.

Missing you feels dumb and wrong.

Walk with me to subway station.

Talk to me as though you’re here.

Trees will bloom in celebration

Of my hopes and thoughts and fears.

But pretending has been harder

Since memories have disappeared.

-

When I see white clouds on a midnight sky

I think of you.

And I wish you could see them too.

I know we share the sun

And the moon

But I’d like to share my city too.

-

‪My nicknames disappear
faster than coffee shops in Brooklyn
and my personas suffer monotony
and nostalgia of performance days. ‬

‪Hysteria takes over
as I’m confronted with my “real” name
and predisposed identity.‬

‪I suppose sometimes I do sound a lot like Satan. ‬