les arts interrogatifs

giggling from too little

non-EU christiania hasish

i missed my mark

you

as i javelined

leftover smørrebrød

into a green rubbish bin

leaned a perfect something degree

for the greater comfort

of cyclists

wrapped in

aurora

contentment.

stockholm was

cold but

you

were colder

the picture of

health (first world)

i heard you accidentally

took pictures of the interior

of the darkrooms

at the berghain

(a couple were lying

bored out of their skulls

in a corner)

enlighten me.

under flaubert’s

large round table

in mahogany

i saw it

a kitty bowl

of arsenic.

 

 

immerse!

i know it’s been very hard for us to kill off happiness:

you can barely breathe i have to tell you something in this dream you had enormous breasts they look fake but i don't remember you had surgery sorry you had your head propped up on the edge of an old school desk you were quietly having a spa the desk was a spa machine you can tell me anything this is what sucks about this city after each performance there's no place to talk people go to graves to talk listen i'll go pay for those tickets then we'll go

submerge!

I guess maybe that’s what I want. Building a complete world from scratch that gets more and more complex as I get older. Never stopping, never running out of breath. The world will consist of layers, each a petri dish for the layer above it, so everything is connected and none can exist without the other. If you need to, you can extract even the bottomest layer to see what you did then, how your nascent world was like, reminisce, and rejoice at your current triumph as ruler of a universe belonging to you only. Only you know how simple your complex world is, how organic the progression from layer to layer, how everything is interconnected and how everything is one. You no longer get frustrated or envious at other rulers of similarly complexte (complex+complete) universes, because you know how they can be done. Because you have got one yourself. I have skinned myself, inspected all the wounds, ruptures, scabs and lesions on the surface of my freshly peeled dermis—mementos of long stretches of laziness, lack of focus and low self-esteem. I am trying to accept my life as it has been, as a collection of matryoshkas each one missing different bits of its innards. I have not accepted this fact entirely. Had I done this, had I done that, had I left her earlier, had I not believed her so readily, had I not abandoned my beliefs for a promise of comfort and companionship, had I believed earlier in the superiority of earnest artistic endeavours over cool detachment to anything remotely human. I will not go on, there are things waiting to be consumed.

crazy for jalan cileduk raya (but not that crazy)

it’s night. and i’m listening to the magnetic fields’ 69 love songs vol. 2. there’s a mysterious body of water on the road in front of pasar cipulir. is it an oil spill? or jeremy thomas’ hair?

not much traffic on cileduk raya. the formula goes (commuting, going home):  5-7, better stay at plaza senayan, gawk at sasaked hair the shape and size of giant beehives. or the standard beehives of giant ronnie spectors. 7.30-9, kinda like the ticket line at a megadeth original-member reunion concert: we are so old, but it’s moving. 9-10, that’s when the mbak-mbak plaza senayan kiss the hands they feed (ie, husbands/boyfriends/random first, second, third cousins waiting on their motorbikes outside) and cruise along the 10 or so kms from hang lekir to pos/lurah/caplin/etc at the speed of light (if light was a snail).

tonight, i’m going post-10. in an express taxi. with a crazy driver who rants about female busway drivers who «obviously have poor eyesights and are unfit.» i’m gonna give him a 5000 tip. pray that he’ll spend it on a pre-loved copy of jurnal perempuan. yeah left.

post-rain, cileduk raya looks beautiful, beatific. where’s the pope? we want canonization, now!

and if you wonder about the missing 30 minutes after 7, then obviously you don’t know how much hair product goes on jeremy thomas’ hair. that thing is like a black hole for brisk’s entire product line. you think time can escape it?

my name where

When you forget things you wonder, how could I ever remember?

So I was thinking of D– and how –A’s leaving now after less than forever

and of the people that were there when she came and who left after

and who replaced who and who got rid of who and who never stayed.

So I was thinking of N– and her bloated water-balloon belly and –I,

yes I remembered her though she, by all accounts, is totally, absolutely, forgettable.

I remembered, and my mind went off course, of course. Did she use emoticons?

(Don’t worry, your boyhood lyricism will come back (to haunt you))

I remembered nothing but that the tone was angry and the message cryptic,

she said something like: Some people know some thongs [sic, yeah !] about other people and keep them to themselves, and some people choose

to write a fucking book. I remembered, and I didn’t want not to.

So many things have happened and I’ve only taken notes of so few.

It comes from not having done enough thinking.

You blame her for forgetting things. Mind. It used to be so clear.

You can conjure up any name of friends out of the mere smell of loneliness.

Because thinking hurts. Thinking is lonely. Think lonely.

Why don’t we begin at the start? We hardly ever have clear objectives in our lives.

‘Tis clear thou art a loon

The aim of yer chosen passage
Of charming masks and bergamots
The joy of Lot and a quasi-dance
The sadness of yer fantastic disguise

Chant in yer minor mode!
Love is vain and life opportunistic!
The air, the cross, the magic hour
The son & a mêlée on the moon

The calm air on the moon is full of tears, beautiful
The river, birds, trees & the sangfroid of ecstasy & jets of water,
The grandest jets of waters
Svelte as Parma marbles.

– translitic of Paul Verlaine’s ‘Clair de Lune’