Happy World Poetry day!

Neruda:

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Kerouac:

In Vain:

The stars in the sky
In vain
The tragedy of Hamlet
In vain
The key in the lock
In vain
The sleeping mother
In vain
The lamp in the corner
In vain
The lamp in the corner unlit
In vain
Abraham Lincoln
In vain
The Aztec empire
In vain
The writing hand: in vain
(The shoetrees in the shoes
In vain
The windowshade string upon
the hand bible
In vain—
The glitter of the greenglass
ashtray
In vain
The bear in the woods
In vain
The Life of Buddha
In vain) 

Margaret Atwood:

This is a photograph of me:

It was taken some time ago
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;

then, as you scan
it, you can see something in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.

In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.

(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.

I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.

It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or how small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion.

but if you look long enough
eventually
you will see me.) 

Sir Ogden Nash ji:

Celery, raw
Develops the jaw,
But celery, stewed,
Is more quietly chewed. 

The world would be a sad place without rhyme. 

I need to listen to flowing water outside my window. I feel my throat turning dry in the city.

 IN TWENTY DAYS TO MY BELOVEDS THE MOUNTAINS. I don't understand why I'm delaying going to them forever with useless things like college and wanting to go to Europe. 

If less is more how are you keeping score?

Around 20 days ago I descended to underwater for the first time. I tried to creep into a coral and swam with sardines and I remember looking through my goggles and wondering how anything could be this beautiful.

I know with every passing moment that the city I used to once love and which I called mine is pushing me out of it. I cannot stay here any longer but I do not know what to do, where to go, if I can go somewhere else, what I will do there. I do not know anything and it's exhausting. All I have is bouts of elongated confused panic with a sort of determination to figure it out that surfaces at the end.

It's really nice to agree with other women on something. Usually, with most of the women I know or meet, we all like different things. We like different boys, girls, food, TV, music, and general life aims vary. But it's nice to have something in common with all women in the world to love. This thing, is Ryan Gosling.

A shorter version of another poem for kids (the new one has a changed and cooler rhyme scheme). Inspired by one of my favorite people in the world. The fear of fruit is a real thing, or so he claims. 

Once upon a peaceful time

In a place rather cold

There lived a happy young chap

Who was not very old

He was twenty, I think

No wait, twenty-four

Or maybe it was twenty-two

Maybe less, maybe more

The lad was tall and strapping

With a mop of silver hair

His socks were always blue and red

And his face was very fair

He wasn’t afraid of anything

Not guns or thugs or brutes

Only one little thing frightened him,

This thing, it was fruits!

He loved the smell of flowers

And wearing fancy suits

He didn’t so much like his hair 

But he hated, HATED- fruits!

Whenever he saw an apple

An orange, or a grape

He ran afar, fast as the wind

Every time, he did escape!

“Take them away!” he cried

“I cannot stand this smell!”

Of mangoes, melons, pears and figs

“Away! I don’t feel well!”

“Oh Oranges, so round and scaly

And grapes of which a whiff

And berries like little evil pebbles

Oh god! It scares me stiff!”

Aside from this little strange trait

The boy was quite unique

Strong and handsome, smart and kind

With a honorable streak

 It was a very funny sight

Of a man so young and brave

Every time he saw a fruit

He ran into a cave!

But then we all have funny fears

That cannot be clarified

Of dolls and slime and fire-trucks

Of things that might have died

Some people fright from chopsticks

And from babies without hair

The only thing that chills me, however

Is naked cold despair.

DEAR UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 

STOP BEING EVERYWHERE. IN T.V, ON YOUTUBE, IN POSTERS IN MY ROOM, STOP GIVING BIRTH TO MUSICAL GENIUS AND EDDIE VEDDER AND GENERAL CALIFORNIANS BECAUSE THEN I WANT TO MOVE IMMEDIATELY TO FALL IN LOVE WITH THE ENTIRE STATE. I KNOW YOU AREN'T AS COOL IN REALITY. I KNOW IT. BUT STOP. STOP TAKING CONTROL OF ALL THE MEDIA THAT WE EXIST IN. IT MAKES EVERYTHING VERY CONFUSING. 

I just wrote a children's book that is about to be published. It's around 80 pages long. I don't really think its that big of a deal and I'm being honest here because why would I have to be otherwise on my anonymous blog.
But I don't like to tell people because then they get this funny look on their face which is full of forced awe and they say something random like 'wow writing a book is really cool'. When I say I hate this my friend insists I'm being pretentious but I actually really do hate it. I hate that someone is ready to shake your hand for something they haven't seen, or send you friend requests as appreciation. I don't like that people don't look forward to reading it and telling me if its any good, but exhaust all their congratulations by being excited that someone was ready to buy it. It makes me embarrassed and annoyed and the next time anyone says 'But you've written a book, look at that' I want to tell them that I still struggle to make good sentences (As you can see), to spell without auto correct, and to move my brain out of my bed.  I also want to tell them I'm still transcribing for money and being published is no big deal. The amount of bad writing that gets published is unbelievable. Bad writing could sit on good writing with one butt cheek.

I don't know how I'll deal if I ever become truly famous :D

Also,

I cried almost through this entire film. Not a sad crying but just overwhelmed crying that happens when anything sweeps you off your feet. There are these parts of Eddie and Kurt and they're both so young and scared and honest and real that it made me happy. I remember being seventeen and beating myself up and remembering that it was 'hard to be a young person nowadays'.
It really is.



Best.Band.Ever. (Among others)

What really fucking sucks is that all we ever have to watch are the likes of Swedish House Mafia.