Parallel Truths (20/04/2019)

"My brother and my sister don't speak to me / but I don't blame them"

- James Blake, "I Never Learnt To Share" (2011)

Alternatives (Schrödinger, 1952)
are another way of saying loss:
how Little Sis cried when Mom
reconsidered her own abortion;
Big Sis forgets to miscarry Mom;
a stranger owns my blog domain.
The wrong timeline a synonym to
this poem, a symptom of anomaly.

Distancing

Day 1: Throw all these words out of a window.
Day 4: The Sky remains blue, and not to be hugged.
Day 9: Pouring heart out, into sink. Peeling redness.
Day 17: Began counting despite lack of fingers.
Day 25: Began counting all hugs that were missed.
Day 31: Thinking of us Lesbians; and everyone erased.
Day 59: We failed in realizing how nothing comes to pass.
Day 100: Zeroes gaping, curved and sharp, fitting.
Day 219: What if there was no alternative? No vaccine for touch?
Day 370: Began projecting futures off the tips of raised hairs.
Day 541: I’ve tasted wet lips once, long before my lips had hangnails.
Day 712: Numbers, Skies, Zeroes, Hair on my lips and touchy, touching.
Day 713: Nights becomes taut and I didn’t even get to touch them.

Day *11: There is no longer a pandemic that failed to touch everyone.

Day 2*6*: I lost you in writing: you too, were out of the window, out of touch.

Anxiety #1

, .
[,]…
[; ? ; ?; ;?]
[; ?; ; !]

,,,!,!,,!,!!,!,!,!!!!,,,!!!!!!,,,!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!, , !!!!! ,
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!![;;;;;;;;;;;;;]!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

,!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
,!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
,!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ,!!!!!!!!!!
, , , , , , ,,,,,,,,,,, ; ; ; ; ; ; !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
[…,,,,],,,,,,, , , ! , ! , , , , , ! ! ! !
! !!!!!

!!! !! !!!…!!!!!……!!!!!!!… , , , , , , , , , , [.] , ,! , ,

Lack of Dawn

How we used to breathe starlight,
because I imagined there were no
clouds overhead: each cloud was
every exhalation of how this night
fails to end, how I keep dreaming
of a comet that would not fall
for me. Each dream counts the
number of breakfasts I’ve missed
and the number of swords I eat
during dinner; I counted ten
to completion, to end all wounds.
See: all I did was to feed myself
waiting for the sun to rise on set.

Suiteroom – Take 3

Microsoft Windows [Version 10.0.17134.829]
(c) 2018 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.

C:\Users\Lune>darken puddle
‘darken puddle’ is not recognized as an internal or external command,
operable program or batch file.

C:\Users\Lune>add tears
‘add tears’ is not recognized as an internal or external command,
operable program or batch file.

C:\Users\Lune>dose check
‘dose check’ is not recognized as an internal or external command,
operable program or batch file.

C:\Users\Lune>hot tea
‘hot tea’ is not recognized as an internal or external command,
operable program or batch file.

C:\Users\Lune>stroll room
‘stroll room’ is not recognized as an internal or external command,
operable program or batch file.

C:\Users\Lune>d:

D:\>cd Google Drive\Poetry

D:\Google Drive\Poetry>type Suiteroom_3.txt

12/06/2019

This is what Hauntology does: the endless consumption of remakes and reboots even after your biological death. In ‘BR: 2049’, we see holographic renditions of Elvis Presley – who’s to say in 30 years you won’t be presented the option to consume commercial facades of David Bowie, Mariya Takeuchi, or Keanu Reeves. Every generation had, has, and will have an ‘Aladdin’, a ‘Frozen’, a ‘Lion King’, in exploitative tradition. The next generation will internalize the same media as personality, have collective memories of a magical past, where all there was were similar conditions of wage-labor and replicative production. In this, the nostalgia economy runs efficient, haunting each generation for their productive energies; a ghostly Soma that distracts from the rise of collective class consciousness, alike how a B-grade Horror flick uses jumpscares to evade a shell of a plot.

An Empty Barstool is Love

(after Pooja Nansi)

Dreaming on a Barstool: on an infinity 
of regression of dreaming barstools; we
in a dream bar / you crafting cocktails for;
/meinatelegramcommand; @yourusername;
we watching Europe go by as art noveau;
two blue ticks consent to a means to an end;
4.00 / morning / bak chor mee / eyelids/lips;
poem for you soaked in vodka & tomorrow;
you opening whiskey an observer effect;
sizes A4 on the rocks, A3 shaken, A2 stirred;
one night, we went to a bar to drink water;
one day, we discovered alcohol to be water;
I woke up in a universe without dreams;
we watched the bartender set twin suns;
being-in-itself & being-for-itself, for myself.