made a new blog
this one is def just gonna be poetry from now on. And maybe some cool serious stuff i like.
If you want just dumb shit and stupid pictures you can follow my other blog here
Gone Home didn’t have the budget for 3D rigged women, which is the argument big budget studios also give for not including women characters. But Gone Home didn’t include men’s bodies either. The Fullbright Company designed to make people real without having to consider the one constraint that consistently objectifies and dehumanises women: the gaze of the player and a fixation on bodies.
Instead the discourse is given wholesale to women in direct contradiction to what usually happens. The first narrative discourse Gone Home indulges is to have one young woman leave another a note, seasoned with a kick of emotion, on the front door. The second is to have Sam’s calm voice speak to you via audio diary. And suddenly, in your head, these young women are not invisible any more in the storm. They become people who are just like you."
"Tell me again about the wedding
we did not have. How I did not wear white,
did not choke on tradition, did not blush.
All the weddings that were not weddings,
the vows that were just sneezing.
The road ahead painted on a wall and how
we sped over and over again into the brick. I say “we”
like you weren’t just watching me bruise.
Did you know I built us a home, laid the brick,
filled it with Jameson and apple-cheeked
children? I tried to slip the key onto your tongue
but you cannot kiss a smile. So my home is not
an honest home. So my home is an empty bed.
That’s the thing about heart break. It’s the
smallest of worlds ending. Everyone goes around you
smiling, like it’s nothing to close a door"
A cornered mouse will bite a cat.
This does not reclassify the mouse as a predator or the cat as prey.
did a song, it’s okay
"I feel like all poems are essentially hopeful. Even if a poem is depressing and hopeless, its existence, the feeling that it has conveyed something, is miraculous and hopeful."
while you were out
I’ve written you
rock n roll love songs
on liquor store
filled my bedside
endless cups of
I’ve lived near the edge
with unfiltered cigarettes,
and thin walls
I’ve stood on
drank to you
on silent weekend nights
at the ceiling
I’ve driven for miles
worn out songs
and arrived one more time
SMALL POEM ABOUT BAD THINGS
I wish things were better
I don’t expect them to get there
issue number one
In comic book parlance,
a reboot happens whenever the governing board of editors decides that a character needs a refresh.
Often they will be recently dead, or just getting old
and the editors, gods of their own designs, will weave together
the loose threads of personality of the previous incarnation
with the strongest aspects of steel cording that make up the character.
The superhero will be reborn, they will be modern, sleek
probably a black costume- because black is cool. We all know that.
They will have all the memories they need and none they do not,
they will be so much better equipped for the modern age.
The soul of a comic book superhero, then, is unchanged
they do not have recollection of their previous endeavours unless it is prudent
for them to recollect
they do not have to worry about past faults coming to haunt them
unless, in the end, they will grow from the experience.
They do have to worry about the harm that has been done to them
because they can simply erase it.
There is security in pulp serial immortality.
there is a knowledge, shared between artist and writer and character
that no one ever really dies- the sacred convenant.
Everyone had a backup plan, everyone was a clone at just the right time
it wasn’t them, it was a hologram.
No one special ever has to die. Not even the villains.
Everyone can be rewritten.
It must feel nice, to have that.
to know that whatever happens, is but a minute of your infinite voyage
a blink of the eye in a passage through time
each word, set down. Each action, recorded.
No pain is forever, no little death goes unnoticed.
Never having to worry about growing old, about going through trauma
about losing a child, about grieving over death
everything is cumulative, nothing is subtractive
for everything can be reset.
Just one reboot away from the original.
One universe denomination from the truth.
Write away those tears, turn the page away.
One little pen stroke from life again.
One little pen stroke back to normal.
Did you see me
the day they pulled your body from the tracks?
I carved your name into your favorite oak tree in the park
and underneath it, 2009 and a heart,
I picked up all the wood shavings
slipped them in my pocket,
I keep them on my nightstand,
I want so badly
to paint those numbers in superglue
to push the bark back into place,
if I could see your face
if I could have you back,
I would give all of heaven for that,
to have seven more minutes
to eat Fritos and laugh,
and tell you,
you are the coolest person in the room.
No matter where you are.
Brenna Twohy, Fritos make every romantic encounter better
“When I was young there were beatniks. Hippies. Punks. Gangsters. Now you’re a hacktivist. Which I would probably be if I was 20. Shuttin’ down MasterCard. But there’s no look to that lifestyle! Besides just wearing a bad outfit with bad posture. Has WikiLeaks caused a look? No! I’m mad about that. If your kid comes out of the bedroom and says he just shut down the government, it seems to me he should at least have an outfit for that.”
- John Waters on the sorry style of today’s rebels (emphasis mine)
Own your shit, Tumblr users. I occasionally click through to the people that like or comment on posts and I see a lot of “here’s my shitty drawings” or “I made this awful music” and so on. Stop it. You made that shit, you’re probably into that shit, be into that shit. Don’t downplay the fact that you make stuff. Just make stuff! Make it and be into it and if people don’t like it, tell them to fuck off (or tell them that that’s OK, it’s not for them in the first place).
It’s OK to like the stuff you made! It’s even OK to want other people to like the stuff you made! Permission granted to be into yourself (if you need that)! Just… try not to become an egomaniac about that, I guess.
That’s my stupid opinion about it, anyway.
"Self-Improvement," Tony Hoagland
Just before she flew off like a swan
to her wealthy parents’ summer home,
Bruce’s college girlfriend asked him to
improve his expertise at oral sex,
and offered him some technical advice:
use nothing but his tongue tip
to flick the light switch in his room
on and off a hundred times a day
until he grew fluent at the nuances
of force and latitude.
Imagine him at practice every evening,
more inspired than he ever was by algebra,
beads of sweat sprouting on his brow,
thinking, thirty-seven, thirty-eight,
seeing, in the tunnel vision of his mind’s eye,
the quadratic equation of her climax
yield to the logic
of his simple math.
Maybe he unscrewed
the bulb from his apartment ceiling
so that the passersby would not believe
a giant firefly was pulsing
its electric abdomen in 3B.
Maybe, as he stood
two inches from the wall,
in darkness, fogging the old plaster
with his breath, he visualized the future
as a mansion rising from the hillside
of the shore that he was rowing to
with his tongue’s exhausted oar.
Of course the girlfriend dumped him:
met someone, après-ski, who,
using nothing but his nose,
could identify the vintage of a Cabernet.
Sometimes we are asked
to get good at something we have
no talent for,
or we excel at something we will never
have the opportunity to prove.
Often we ask ourselves
to make absolute sense
out of what just happens
and in this way, what we are practicing
which everybody practices,
but strangely few of us
grow graceful in.
The climaxes of suffering are complex,
costly, beautiful, but secret.
Bruce never played the light switch again.
So the avenues we walk down,
full of bodies wearing faces,
are full of hidden talent:
enough to make pianos moan,
streetlights deliriously flicker.
one day the dead will walk again.
one day i will be forced to confront the things
that i considered buried
their fingers- still caked with grave dirt- will rake my skin
and their cold lungs will fill with air once more
i’ve dug a lot of graves.
i’ve dug mountains of dirt up to find a safe space
to throw down the regrets I’ve had
the graveyards that I have filled- peaceful stillness
will be uprooted and overturned on the day the dead walk again