ncljntn

[ncljntn]

My Broken Mariko - Hirako Waka (2019)

[ncljntn]

"Beautiful Losers", Leonard Cohen

[ncljntn]

Solmaz Sharif, from “Beauty,” in Customs [ID in ALT]

[ncljntn]

this body can’t hold me

haruki murakami “norwegian wood” // embroidery by ana teresa barboza // mitski “goodbye, my danish sweetheart” // erin tucker (2013) “frayed and fragile” // unknown // art by annegret soltau // fiona apple “heavy balloon” // chloe gong “these violent delights”

[ncljntn]

When I see the article about the polar bears wandering into Russian homes I leave it open unread for a week and consider this trying. Because I am trying to be honest, I can’t say I am doing my best, or even trying my best, but at the very least, at my very worst, I’m trying. I wake up, and this is trying, by which I mean I am sad and yet participate in the requisite functions of my life, usually without audible complaint or demonstrative suffering, trying, for others’ benefit, to be polite, or (trying to be honest) because I am embarrassed to be suffering—but I also mean this, that I am sad and it is difficult, a trial, a circumstance that tries my patience, this sadness is so annoying, I’m so sad it drives me crazy. Like everyone else, I try to do the dishes, to remember birthdays, not to pick at my degenerate skin. Because I am female I try to fulfill domestic labors like cleaning out the fridge and unreciprocated kindness, I try to improve my appearance without making it evident I care about my appearance, I try to care about the right things while making it clear I am still trying, with my appearance, so that men might consider fucking me, and I should consider this (privately) the measure of my worth. And because I am American I try to keep up with the crisis de l’heure, with domestic politics and public displays of rage, I try to be productive, I try to remember reusable bags for my produce, to reduce my footprint, to check pronouns and my privilege, I try to do my part, to cause little harm, but because I am alive harm comes with the territory, the territory upon which I rent is stolen, the city gentrified, and all year an unseasonable heat that I, minor accomplice, have to try very hard not to delight in, short sleeves in February, sweating through Halloween, I admit it, for no defensible reason I still eat meat, still drive on occasion to the CVS down the street, I’ve been known to tell a joke that verges on mean, I’m trying, I mean it, to be good, to be good in a way that is not covertly gendered or self-serving, to be accountable, to practice virtue without announcement, to make at least half as good what I leave as how I found it—trying for you, inkblot, mirage, standing in the artificial dawn on cold tile, golden dew on a stick, first snow pawing at the window to get in.

— Leila Chatti, “Trying”

[ncljntn]

“Imagine the emptiness in you, the vast cavities you have spent your life trying to fill—with fathers, mothers, lovers, language, drugs, money, art, praise—and imagine them gone. What’s left? Whatever you aren’t, which is what makes you—a house useful not because its floorboards or ceilings or walls, but because the empty space between them.”

— — Kaveh Akbar, from “The Miracle,” Pilgrim Bell

[ncljntn]

gwendolyn brooks / milsae / richard siken / mario miranda / ross gay / jacob van loop

[ncljntn]

“I feel numbered, and constricted all over. I barely fit inside myself.” - Clarice Lispector, Complete Stories

1. Marya Hornbacher, Madness: A Bipolar Life / 2. Su Xinyu / 3. Clarice Lispector, The Stream of Life / 4. Su Xinyu / 5. Clarice Lispector, A Breath of Life / 6. Su Xinyu / 7. Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being / 8. Delfina Karmona / 9. Andrés Cerpa, The Vault / 10. Delfina Karmona / 11. Emily Dickinson / 12. Delfina Karmona / 13. Clarice Lispector, A Breath of Life

[ncljntn]

world eater

like salt on meat,

i cleaned the earth

and there i saw him,

dying star.

“were you happy, world eater? light bringer?

after all,

was the dusk worth the dark?

would you still choose to fall?

he said, lord,

i am what you have made.

born,

with my left hand corrupted,

my right hand ruin,

and so the world did end.

but let it be known:

it ended for love.

nothing more.

nothing less.

[ncljntn]

how lovely it would be

to lay my wretched flaws out one by one

line them up like ivory glazed soldiers

to pick up each one and hold it to the light and sear its image into my head, each scar and crack and misaligned seam

to place each between my incisors and push down

feel the weight of each one shatter between my teeth

taste the bitter fluid rush out like a warped amalgamation of metallic blood and edema fluid the humour of impurity slicking up my molars and coating my tongue

the shards scratching against the soft pink of my eosophagus as i swallow them

i cough after each bite

[ncljntn]

Olga Broumas, Beginning with O; “the knife & the bread”

[ncljntn]

behold, eye of molten gold!

burst out of your lilac flesh and shed your skin

i, icarus and you, the fierce pulsating coin

we dance to the beat of a heart locked inside a paper-thin ribcage, and oh! the sheer beauty!

with every leap further the breath catches oxygen thinning

limber arms outstretched to touch to feel to reach

but these wings were not made to bear the touch of a god

in a fit of fury she brandishes her whip sparks of molten lava flung across the universe wax feather and gossamer explode in a flurry

the scream of a harpy

down, down, down

pleasure without conscience pain without principle

you hardy, fond-eyed fool

a sacrifice for a moment of brevity

the unflinching face of ra stares back as you plummet

falling victim of hubris

perfect clarity only comes from the kiss of death

i touch my fingers to my lips and smile. i can still taste heaven on my tongue.

this was when i went for a run and i chased the sun

[ncljntn]

startle.

there is frightful pain in the crevices of my hippocampus nestled between the cracks of my peripheral arteries and neatly situated in the marrow of my bones

rumble.

i feel it like gestapo soldiers running wild — in the raw unfiltered responses my pain is projected i slice my own tongue on the razor-sharp canines too large for my own mouth and i taste the hurt i have caused but am unable to reclaim. it is bitter but truth spares no one and with every further remark i learn to recognise this pain more and more. my father says i must control my anger but how do you learn to do that when you have never gotten over the initial hurt.

flash.

and everytime you hear his voice rumble the crackle behind his vocal chords grinds in your memories dragging you back to those god forsaken moments as a child writhing in agony of not understanding not knowing no answers to be sought but

CRACK.

these cards i have been dealt are mine to play and i will taste every fold and crease in them until i can close my eyes and see the resolutely blinding brilliance of a life ahead flash across my consciousness.

[ncljntn]

(you)

stuttering ecstasy of hearts

i look at you and it feels like something warm and sharp blooming in my chest

god’s finest creation

there is so much i dont know and so much that i cannot do to contain the enormous hurt that continues to follow me everywhere

but i take comfort in the knowledge that you will be there to see life through

even if i dont

so before i learn how to carve out a space large enough to hold my grief

maybe this warmth you hold can be enough /

for the both of us too

and maybe one day i can give all this comfort back to you and more

the same way you have let me find a home

in you

[ncljntn]

today i learnt that sea jellies have no brains or hearts

which made me jealous that you could be manifested as a creation that experiences

life in the most mundane of ways

lately i think that the most graceful parts of life are felt in the most unremarkable moments

the joy found in being a walter mitty wallflower-esque plain jane

to have one’s head in the clouds

isnt it lovely?

sometimes the best feelings are brought on by stopping to watch life pass

the lovely quiet accompanying train rides on the solo — people watching; rat-raced faces silently struggling to get home desperate for rest

the hardheaded stubborn nature of the human condition that pushes you to brave the frigid cold just for

one more second watching the stars

celestial bodies quietly creeping in the dark

hands grasping for warmth that

can only be found

with each other.

[ncljntn]

halfway between ennui and ecstasy

spread my marmalade-malaise on toast

i stuff my empty stomach with sustenance

that can never fully satisfy my cravings for something more

beyond this

lethal, suffocating sensation (or rather lack of)

mechanical, cacophony of crunch

i swallow down each mouthful

and feel the grit of crumb

scrape the inside of my eosophagus

until it is a raw, blushing pink.

my tongue traces the roof of my mouth and i smile through gently sugared teeth.