the railways

there's a city which sprawls in contempt
underneath our feet, even when we sleep,
it goes on and on rambling about the passing of time,
about the turmoil,
about long lost love and how the railways
are not what they used to be, even so, they are no longer
selling tickets in paper stubs or newspapers that you can fold
and tuck under your arm as the train
comes and goes.
so then you look at how the trees hurl and the wasps nest on the tin roof;
there's nothing there except for the invisible,
nature can never retain that sense of authenticity
we often look for in someone we love.

it's just what it is, you tell yourself,
as people jump turnstiles and run down the stairs to meet the new train,
the next train, that buzzes and zooms, that sings a polyphonic song.
unease runs through the velvet cushions that line the seats
and the train continues to ramble on into the darkness,
never contemplating death,
but never stopping to look at it.

you emerge into the light, no sunglasses,
what could you do with them? your hand as a hat,
your hands, your swollen knuckles,
they extend less and less with time. the city looks back at you
as you walk down, the little white squared tiles
that line the cathedral entrance, you break down
into tears thinking how the've torn it all down:
all the sense of belonging, all the music, all the magic.

there's a city which sprawls in contempt. there's a city
even when the wind tries to blow it all away.
no one can convince you of that, you'd have to see it to believe it,
you wouldn't dare to dream it
it's the city that holds the secret of what makes us,
what an individual is not, 
and what a person should be.

how to be more put together, when you're not put together, but you got a friend who is

so you've got a friend who always makes you look like an idiot in comparison. she's the one who always has the best new jacket and shoes, and for some reason she's always spending money on clothes but never seems to run out. is she rich? maybe. is she insane? also maybe. but you don't want to tell her that you feel like an idiot next to her, and you know she'll dress up for that sunday afternoon iced coffee, so maybe you should, but you don't know how. so here's a few tips:
now that we've covered the basics, here's a few other tips:
  • wear make up. yes, I know, counter-intuitive. I'm not asking for a lot of make up, maybe a tinted moisturizer or a color correcting hydrating cream with some cream blush. not even mascara, just something that makes you look your age. and like you didn't just roll out of bed.
  • get a fragrance other than your deodorant going on for you. it doesn't have to be expensive. when I was not the rich stylish friend I used to mix essential oils with water and alcohol and used that. it didn't stain my clothes or irritated my skin, but I wouldn't go around recommending this to everyone. what I mean is, it doesn't have to be a chanel eau de parfum. but get something else, don't rely on your cosmetics to do the job for you. maybe even a scented cream will do.
  • can you stand jewellery? then try to keep a few pieces. I'd love to get a second and third hole in my ears to wear more earrings, mix and play. If not jewellery, a belt or a bag or sunglasses or even a cap will do the trick: make it look like you've made an effort.
  • keep your shoes clean (hard, I know)
  • don't always wear sneakers. birkenstocks, even. a boot? I don't know, a loafer? innovate!
  • maybe that puffer jacket being your only outwear option is what's making you feel out of place. try another type of jacket, even mid-seasonal ones.
  • go monochrome when in doubt.
  • dress proportionally: big shirt small bottom, small shirt big bottom. think of how it makes you look.
  • have an outfit formula that you fall back on. mine is levi's straight leg ribcage jeans, short sleeve black or white t shirt, a bomber jacket. chances that I am not appropriately dressed with that are slim for the type of activities I do. what are yours? think about it.
  • buy better quality clothing. yes I know, it's expensive, but your weekend drugs and the alcohol and the weed are expensive too and I am not hearing you complain!
probably your well dressed friend has gone through many stages of personal style. experimental outfits gone wrong and such. so try it, make mistakes, learn a thing or two about yourself.

the kiss, kurt brown (2014)

that kiss I failed to give you.
how can you forgive me?
the kiss I would have spent on you is still
there, within me. it will probably die there.
but it will be the last of me to die.


a packet of camels

I want to be alone walking down the street
in the summer, somewhere where it is still summer,
light a cigarette, unattached to the consequences, and ponder.
maybe just for a fraction of a second I could be free.
nobody would see me and I would see no one.
I would wear only a white t-shirt, a pair of old washed denim, and sneakers.
a wristwatch, my hair down, untamed.
I'd look like everyone else, a faceless crowd, a nameless person.
this desire of being invisible, where does it come from?
would I feel closer to the almighty if I was no longer visible to the rest?
maybe the dead don't come back because there's something so enchanting
about the newfound eternity of freedom–
I could choose, of course. I could always choose to disappear.
what holds me back is exactly the same that doesn't let me
light the cigarette.

beacon

you know I love you, right?
there's too many things I hide from you to make it work–
like the person I am and the person I could be don't work together.
but I love you, and there's a third person when I'm with you, 
the one that sleeps through the night and wakes up and looks for your hand
the one that gets your clothes ready in the morning and packs your lunch
and I love you, dearly, and when I look at you
I love you even more;

do you look at me and think we're drifting apart?
do you look at me and understand?
do you look at me frustrated, clueless, lost?
am I a beacon, am I blinding, am I the light?

we can stare at each other,
there's sweetness in your greenish-brown eyes
there's sweetness in my icy cold hands.

hold me, we'll understand, somehow, someday.

a quiet stream of denial

I am tired of not being the beautiful self I know I could be,
so I've resorted to lying about my conditions,
denying my urges,
feeling my cravings disappear as I go
and I don't care.
people weren't built to understand the way
shame operates on me.
so as long as there's no shame,
just a quiet stream of denial,
it'll be fine.
I can continue lying until is not a lie anymore.
I know where I'm going,
I don't need anyone to follow.