the ending knot | முடிக்கும் முடிச்சுகள்

as if they were pearls of pomegranate
cascading onto the wet floor
slipping between these moments of the past
snaking through the Sunday market —
the sea of people (grey-haired)
dissolves into the crowd.

negotiating a price,
Kokila (who had forgotten to ask
for the remaining money
from the shopkeeper selling anchovies)
finds the coins
(of change)
spilling out of her bag
yet again
their deafening sound of laughter
echoing off the walls

black chickens
like headless fools
are laid out in the butcher’s sink
hearing the price
of one shocks Michael,
but before he can speak
his granddaughter
marks a full-stop to his sentences
by extending an extra
two dollar note

at the fruit stall
lips sipping papaya juice
complained about not remembering the school
that was near the market
in the 80s

these new teeth, chewing on radish
complained about a Malaysian passport
that had been
mysteriously stolen from him
in the 50s

these memories evaporate like
water in a lake, slowly drying up

Are the ones who have lost
the last pages of their books
resigned to wear
new glasses
every
single
day
just to rewrite their ending?

Posted in 99: SINGAPORE | Tagged ,

lamunan | Sekati Tamban, Secekak Bayam Dalam Bakul Rotan

1 How far is the market from home; the length of two feet
spurred by rattan canes.  2  Hold your  dollar coins tightly
in   closed  fists.   3  Minimise  the  un-paring  of  rice  and
vegetables.  4  Learn  your  multiplications. 5 See how the
canal  overflows  from  last night’s  rain.  6  Cats and dogs,
planks of wood, even your mattresses; all things return to
the sea.

7 The slippered  will  cross  from  market  to school.  8  No
worries  for your  vocation!  9  Exalt  the learned;   how to
read,  how to write,  how to count.  10  Multiply!  11   Your
parents are  your parents.  12  There is  value in the  aged.  
13 When of age,  you will marry before the passing.  14  If
it is willed,  so is the child.  15  Even fish and vegetables is
a kind of happiness.

16 If you wake from a dream, are you air-conditioned? 17
Hear the grand-children proclaim  “prosperity, prosperity
fish burger!  Full of spirit and delight!”  18  A  dream  is  a
folded memory.  19  Day and night,  let us pray  for magic.
20 This is a world where fish turns from the sea.
Posted in 99: SINGAPORE | Tagged ,

Untitled Poem #2

I have heard that my mother’s nanabapu planted mango trees on his farm so that you could taste the the fruit from March to August. Such lush green in the Kutch desert.

Walking on the land, you could travel from Sindh to Rataul to the far south. Sindhri, Hafus, Kesar, Langdo, Dussheri, Rataul and Imam Pasand.

Here in Singapore I had the flavour of mangoes on my tongue from April to July. No, I gorged on mangoes. No journeying. The mangoes kept coming. Home delivery in the time of Covid 19. First the Hafus. Then Kesar. Dussheri. Langdo. Rataul. Sindhri.

Posted in 99: SINGAPORE | Tagged

fallout: new shenton | Shenton Way

i.

in the new city
a wandering river of
delivery bikes
throng canals of retail shops
drained of posh automobiles

ii.

are there angels
among the living
the air is thick
with the expensive smell
of sanitisers
let us raise our hands
lower our masks
open palms open hearts
all praise and glory
to the unclaimed

iii.

there is no comfort
in the wandering
only the waiting
find purpose
in the destination

Posted in 99: SINGAPORE | Tagged ,

Rhythm of Work | 上班下班

Morning (Accelerated Shot)

Get up, brush teeth, wash face, drink tea, wear
clothes, shoes. Wait
until the need to take three steps
as two. In the driver’s seat, pause.
There’s dust on the windscreen and
the asphalt road beckons, widens.

Morning (Slow Motion)

The road keeps widening but
never feels quite wide.
In ordered rows, cars move, crawl,
stop at red lights, at forked roads, at
zebra crossings. Stop,
wait, time is waiting,
tired of waiting. It abandons me
leaps over cars, sprints away.
It leaves a trail of beaded perspiration,
glistening at the tip of my nose.

Evening (Accelerated Shot)

To write, to look at the clock, to write,
to pack up, to look at the clock, to pack up.
To walk to the lift to press G.
Down the stairs, behind the wheel,
another half–hour to home.

Evening (Slow Motion)

The road keeps widening but
never feels quite wide.
In ordered rows, cars move, crawl.
Those on the road shoulder stop.
Those in a chain collision stop.
Those commanded by the traffic police
stop. Always stopping, always
waiting, time is waiting,
tired of waiting. It abandons me
leaps over cars, sprints away.

Posted in 99: SINGAPORE | Tagged ,

Drivers | Jenti Lebah Kareta

Some drivers are like millipedes
Driving very slowly and cautiously,
Making drivers that race
Like centipedes
Furious.

Many drivers are similar to dragonflies,
They swerve from left to right
Without indicating,
Without thinking of safety
And without courtesy.

Other drivers are like lizards,
They are immovable on narrow roads
As they deliver goods,
Intent on their prey, they block
Other road users.

Why can’t they remember
The rules for drivers?
Have they become old
Or do they have amnesia?

Posted in 99: SINGAPORE | Tagged

Bus 67 | Bas 67

Eyes thick with dreams. Sweat-slicked seats
wicked by breeze, a cockroach drowses
in the dusty cracks between. Outside,
a fugue of motion: people, cars
criss-cross roads trundling from
Paya Lebar to Kallang, lorongs swell
with stories split from Asia’s belly,
Geylang sighs of sultry nights,
laments its morals loosening.
Coffeeshops thunder with soft-boiled eggs,
roti bakar, hot buns, mushroom mee.
Heavy breathing steams the rubbish heap.
Massage parlours re-open at eleven,
mosques and temples bear sullen witness
as brothels sleep. Migrants flit to hi-card kiosks,
contraband cigs slip from fist to fist. The bus
pulls in shadows huddled in front of shops,
then suddenly whiffs tumble in:
stale Tsingtao, nicotine lacing
unbrushed teeth, prata soaked in dhal,
breakfast kopi. Sweat ripening,
earwax, grime wiped on pants.
Heads forward. Will not move
back. Red eyes patrol the space
from seats, tracing foreign scents.
Too many already, cannot come in.
The cramped journey suspends
in stifled air. The local driver is late.
Dreams stall at the entrance.
Stand up. Rage. Go
to the back! Go back,
go back.

Posted in 99: SINGAPORE | Tagged ,

This City | 这城市

This city is truly pure
The flowers have been sterilised
The moon inoculated
All the luminous shine of the mountains and colours of the sea
Have been distilled
Even car sounds and birdsongs have conformed to the norm

Footsteps on the streets
One following the other, one answering the other
Oddly enough, now behaving so well they are untainted
While poetry no longer causes any pain or stirs an itch,
The so-called suggestions, symbolism and ambiguity
All end up embalmed in ethanol

This city is truly pure
So pure it’s astonishing
Buildings adhere seamlessly to the ground
No sudden tantrums from the clouds
No startled wind
Not even a tendril of peculiar smell
Not to mention
Those sand grains so fond of sneaking into the eyes

Posted in 99: SINGAPORE | Tagged ,

a rat’s pilgrimage | ஒர் எலியின் யாத்திரை

the silence of night
is chased away
by the sun’s alarm

shoved into a train
in the middle
of shadows that appear
expressionless
I too, tremble as a ray

the mice shake their heads
while the bandicoots speak
conversing
without the need for understanding
like the lunch that had
long gone stale
laid out in front of us
these conversations are just as bland

I patiently await the time when I can rest

Either riding a bicycle on the East Coast tracks
Or waiting in lines outside restaurant entrances
Or watching TV in silence

Only in sleep
through my silent pilgrimages
am I allowed
to put on a façade
to become
a tiger, a dog or a space creature
and in some magical moments
also human

Posted in 99: SINGAPORE | Tagged ,

Presumptuous Modernity | 诗组:自以为是的现代

Tradition

Sixty-five thousand four hundred and thirty dollar advertisement
and one piece of mooncake

Office Block Lift

Up, a depressing morning
Down, an anxious sunset

Fast Food
rubbish that’s stopped breathing
quickly patching together
rubbish that’s still breathing

Posted in 99: SINGAPORE | Tagged ,

Death of a Refrigerator | 冰箱之死

We assume the cold lasts forever.
Unaware of its untimely demise, we opened
its door to a dying ribbon of light. The cooler
had stopped working—like how the charm
hidden in an old film can’t help but prove
its stars dead, its soundtrack now stale.
The beer, refusing to cool, hinted at this
inevitability—or perhaps, at a lingering
uneasiness I could not ignore.

You reminded me to separate the food.
The meat, quick to spoil, was to be cooked first,
masking its death in a slaughter of oil.
Whatever remained, we left to be swallowed
by the heat, or hidden in the stomach of strangers,
if only to escape the wandering of flies. I wondered
if the eggs were alright. Only when they cracked
would we know if they were rotten, or fresh
like memories of breakfast. Or perhaps, we
could give them another chance? Let the
warmth’s embrace try and hatch them.

Your silence mirrored my cascading questions.
The answer came in the form of fried rice.
We ignored the vegetables for now, though
even the maggots could foresee their fate.

I open the fridge, expecting the melted ice
to have dried, only to find the spilt seasoning
grieving over their past. How I, too, who kept
opening this door again and again out of habit,
mourned in my many-flavoured grief—how death
somehow let me scent the proof of having lived.
How it let me taste this simple joy we neglected.

The inevitability of life quickly arranged
with the store for the new fridge’s arrival.
When the porters carried the old one away,
I saw an exchange of souls. How, spurred by
the guarantee, a fridge emptied and sealed
away is soon replaced by one new and
unopened, ready to contain anything.

Posted in 99: SINGAPORE | Tagged ,

26-second ad for canned cat food | 猫咪罐头二十秒广告

When we pass a clerk in a locksmith’s uniform,
The cat asks what kind of a relationship we are in.
Our relationship is that we wear the same colours.
Only with the cats I’ve loved before can I keep such a tight-lipped relationship.
The inexplicable image at last leads us to earnestly write poems that are more than half broken,
or turns us into another person who will fall in love with more strange cats.

The cat starts to run. Running cat.
I pursue.
The cat jumps over the Revolutionary Warrior Monument in the centre of the square.
Skips over the matchbox on the table in the outdoor cafe.
Leaps over the washing machine on the truck at the traffic light.
Soars over the champagne glasses in the hotel ballroom.
Jumps the turnstile at the subway.
Skips over our lost hearts.
The cat turns to smile at me.
We look at each other.
An innocent smile, absent all malice.

It is the immortality of the pictures on the ads that never catch up with the last train.
No one sees that there are no trains or passengers on the platform.
And so we suddenly realise that it’s a misleading, frivolous ad for canned cat food.
Frivolous and selfish.

If we just walk away in desperation,
that’s all it is.

Posted in 99: SINGAPORE | Tagged ,

3 | முதலைகளின் சுதந்திரம்

Crocodiles
graze on the entrails of afternoons.

Wearing his dentures
Grandpa would walk down the street to the shops.

In those places now
they sell crocodiles in tents.

Suddenly the wind might blow.
The tents hold on to their sides,
cheerful enough,
though eaten by crocodile.

If Grandpa were still here,
he’d be selling balloons like crocodiles.
You ask: where can we buy crocodiles?

Saturday afternoon lies with its mouth wide open
a wallet hurriedly stuffed with money.
A mouth opens like a city
a fluid-filled sac or saclike cavity
a purse
Saturday midnight.

Posted in 99: SINGAPORE | Tagged ,

Briefly, in the news | செய்திகளின் சாரம்

2.32pm, a moment ripe
in Singapore. Not America, not
Laos, where time pulls
dissonant. In India, more so,
it keels over.

The abyss clings onto Africa, as it did Asia.

All I have seen—
Sorry—
I mean, all that was seen by the news
agency
congregate in the spirits’ constant wailing
in that apartment building
where those buried under wander.

And finally, a dangling pronoun:
A deaf crow delighted after defecation—
The building is finally dirty.

Posted in 99: SINGAPORE | Tagged ,

Submission to Cordite 101: NO THEME 10


Images courtesy of Jeanine Leane and John Kinsella.

From now, and throughout 2021, we’re celebrating 25 years of publishing. Milestones include the publication of Cordite Poetry Review’s 100th issue in February, Cordite Books’ 40th print title, and the new free digital anthology 40 Poets.

For 25 years we have kept Cordite Poetry Review credible, lively, diverse, ethical and free, while continuing to pay authors, our contributing editors and the guests who help make our publications happen. It is a relentless endeavour, but a necessary one.

Two titans of literary activism, Jeanine Leane and John Kinsella, will be doing us the honour of guest-editing the poetry for issue 101: UNTHEMED 10: their call below doubles as an acknowledgement of our achievements.

Cordite’s first newsprint broadsheets published some of the final poems of renowned authors, as well as many of the first by members the new generation rising up to take their place. More international than ever before, Cordite Poetry Review now includes many writers not yet born when we began. Here we stand – tenacious, upright and still publishing, embarking on our next 25 years.

We cherish the worldwide collaborations we’ve been a part of, and our millions of readers across the world throughout the past 25 years. Although we receive no financial or in-kind support from any university, the strong network we have established with higher education institutions across Australia, and many others overseas, is fundamental to our success.

We’ve always been known, and will remain, simply as Cordite. The world knows who we are and what Cordite means for literature.

Please consider making a DGR tax-free donation.

–Kent MacCarter


We are looking for poetry that enacts and is responsible for what it considers. The crossover between the degradation of human rights and the injustices of capitalism seems to inevitably align with the destruction of the biosphere, and – even if it does not refer directly to these wrongs – we expect a poem to exist with a consciousness of the environment in which it is being written.

For some, crisis is an ongoing state of being, and continuing colonialism and neo-colonialism ensure that past wrongs cannot truly be addressed. Poetry is a way to engage a decolonisation that is imperative if our world is to be respected and its exploitation halted. The many brinks people have been pushed to over millennia by imperialism are reaching an ecological fracture that will be absolute unless addressed.

So, we look for poems that can be on any topic written in any style but are conscious of crises, brinks and redress. We are not talking about polemical verse (though we are not opposed to this per se), but poetry of consciousness – the beauty of the poem is second to the act of confrontation, healing and investigation of culpabilities.

We are calling for poetry that moves beyond a beautiful art form to literature that recognises the capacity and far-reaching impacts of poetry for social justice, community awareness and social and emotional wellbeing. Activism, yes, of course, but with deep belief in the poem having purpose as a dynamic means, and not just as an act of writing.

This being a celebration of the 25th year of a poetry journal that has enabled many activisms and assisted many voices to speak, we are conscious of what has come before across the great diversity, celebration and confrontations of previous Cordite Poetry Review issues, and their committed and believing editors.

This call is also a thank you to all editors and contributors of the past as we look to a future of peaceful and committed resistance to the status quo and the blandness of security in capital and social privilege.

Let us all aid each other in finding ways of speaking out.

–John Kinsella and Jeanine Leane


Submit poems (prose, comics, visual, concrete) or works of micro-fiction (500 words maximum). Read more about submitting to Cordite Poetry Review. Please note:

  1. The guest editor has sovereign selection choice for all poems submitted.
  2. Masthead editors will also contribute to the issue.
  3. We will only read submissions sent during our official submission periods.
  4. Cordite maintains a hybrid submissions policy. This means that the guest editor may invite five (5) Australian and five (5) overseas authors directly to submit to the issue. In addition, the guest-editor will anonymously select an additional 30-35 works from Australian authors and use their discretion to select further overseas works. For each issue, the guest editor does not know the identities of the online contributors (via Submittable) until after the final selections have been made.
  5. Simultaneous submissions or previously published material will not be considered. This includes works published in print and web journals but does not apply to material first published on personal blogs.
  6. Please place up to three (3) poems in one (1) Word, RTF or PDF document (unless specifically noted otherwise for special issues), with no identifying details in the document itself.
  7. We are not able to offer feedback on individual poems.
  8. Submissions will only be accepted via Submittable …

submit


Posted in GUNCOTTON | Tagged , ,

This is where you hear the echo

LOCATION:


What does it mean to be in narrative, to feel
narrative hyphen in your body


Who spies a doorway, to pose a question of passage
between your lips


When same vowel sounds within same word,
or in words near each other


Voices — your half-face — her side-on —
internal cross-walls called the septa


Wail
Wail
Wail


Mouth twenty three seconds silence across
a background room


Buried beneath your teeth, her tongue —
whose subtitles: look


Who is here, no remaining there — silhouette
and the light swallowed


You — running in — saying through






Out — look out here — every out — you saw






you



THIS IS WHERE YOU HEAR THE ECHO



BODY (repeat)
(BODY fades out)


SHE SIPS (repeat)
(SHE SIPS fades out)


ANOTHER (repeat)
(ANOTHER fades out)


EJECTA (repeat)
(EJECTA fades out)





WAIL WAIL WAIL
COUNT ONE TO TWENTY THREE
NO ECHO


TOOK (repeat)
(TOOK fades out)


FOLLOWED (repeat)
(FOLLOWED fades out)


YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU
YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU
YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU
YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU


BETWEEN
BEFORE
BESIDE
BEYOND

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

When Back Where You Came from Doesn’t Want You Either

Even if I replaced the piercings in my ear with transparent studs and lied about a worried wife waiting back home for me and wore long sleeves over the ink that covers my arms and told crass jokes about cheap whores and faggots and cloaked the laugh my ex-boyfriend called impish and grew a thick and wiry beard full of secrets and lowered the pitch of my voice and kept my wrist taut and my shoulders square and my gaze as straightforward as a drone strike

My father said the Taliban would still kill me and they’d kill him, too.


Return to Tell Me Like You Mean It volume 4.

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Love Carefully

Studies have been done
on the impulse found within
children
to wave off morning trains south
bound to elsewhere

goodbye, you were here
for only a moment, and by noon we’ll have
forgotten you, goodbye,

goodbye

I want to know
why this life inside of me means
something more than the life that moves
the breath throughout my body, the blood
of a father who never calls, a mother who watches
game shows full volume, waiting
to win herself another life

I watch the train window, the reflection of our careful
bodies, how in the tunnel the dark
crowds us like the warmth of an open flame, how in the light
thrown back at us you
could almost believe these fathers
mothers
lovers
are tiptoeing out onto the tracks, their hungry
lonely bodies propelled
towards whatever lives
outside the edges
of nowhere


Return to Tell Me Like You Mean It volume 4.

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Tell Me Like You Mean It 4


Image by Rickiesha Deegan

Tell me you’ll come with me on the next part of the journey. Even if you are unsure, everything unfolds with inherent intention.

With the glorious task of commissioning writers for a new collection of sincere, heartfelt writing for Tell Me Like You Mean It volume 4, I found it took longer than usual.

All has been difficult. I have been struggling to write down any words at all.

Tell you like I mean it? I couldn’t tell you anything at all.

My whole apartment has become an extension of my consciousness. I ask myself why I would get out of bed when in the next room I walk into the contents of my brain’s mess, consciousness splattered all over the place. On writing this it seems clear why I am vacuuming every second day.

It follows, then, that putting words on page would be too concrete. It would be a validation of COVID-normal, validating the rupture in the way I was inhabiting the world before. Doing so would establish an after. Too much specificity. Me as a Someone, something corporeal, fixed.

A liminal space like this is what I’ve always thought I wanted, what I thought I was predisposed to, and where ultimate imagination, possibility might occur. But it seems like I’m stuck, incapable of saying. (Yet very capable of watching most of the Netflix lifestyle category)

Meaning is established in its own way, in everything it does. Something is meant, yet not always clear to you.

Bringing together a collection of writers should have been easier than the drawing blood act of my own writing. But it just wasn’t, like so many things haven’t been this year.

It was a privilege to work with writers whose work appears here and for all who I had conversations with along the way. Poetry is a living thing: conversations around this journal taught me grace, humility, compassion and openness. I thank the incredible folks who had, found or created a notch of capacity within themselves to tell us like they mean it.

It’s in the spirit of the journal for me to stand back and let the writers words speak, but just a small editorial offering: Rickiesha Deegan’s beautiful cover artwork came towards the end of the project, and is a visual summary of the words contained within as well as the process of editing the journal.

You haven’t travelled alone so far and you won’t go unaccompanied into the next movement. Does the future loom? Yes, but it’s also inviting. To go exactly where you’re meant to, a calm inevitability.

Posted in CHAPBOOKS | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Only Heaven

Hozier playing when
we climbed
into the backseat of my car

parked by the oval on
Gay St – your idea,
we laughed and perhaps

I am naive for not
seeing it coming,
for missing it,

turning to shut the door:
your slick-quick
undressing, how suddenly

I gasp and gasp –
the single streetlight
filtering through glass

we are blue in this dark or
underwater which would explain
why I am breathless

the only heaven I’ll
be sent to / is when
I’m alone with you

it’s not like I have never
seen a bra never seen
breasts before, I have:

my body mirrored in
salt-water stories
and childhood rituals

eyes closed to the night
in theory, in practice
in milky dreams

see, I have been chasing
the moon my whole life
and now here she is

full and orange, glowing
until I am tide-bent, until
I am waxing golden

in the low lamp light, I was
free / heaven and hell
were words to me

my mouth opens in oblation
whispers, ‘oh my god, oh
my god, oh my god’


This poem cites lyrics from two songs by Hozier: ‘Take Me to Church’ and ‘Work Song.’

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Untitled Grasp

Callow in a treasure cave
Peering through a finger hole

Wanting finger stiffens
With chalky cuticles billowing

All gargles of what is and isn’t
Catch a breath of something

Deftly capacious
After divorces, dated feelings

Without notions of solidity
We are apparently just sieves

And a statuette can sell, carve paths
Poke holes in the ceiling

Cold shower glimpses of body thunder
A shudder feels truer than anything said

The consequences of focus took more
From me than love ever did

A ringing to replace trust grows
Braying in the back of me

As I recalibrate, digest
A feint stiffness wafts

Was once stiff in the back from laying
At altars, forever-beds, isms

Send me a video of butterflies
Licking a carcass on a hillside

If what matters is how the tongue
Gyrates around its little harem

Be silent in the reverb tails of
Unprovoked claims of realness

How many times must a confession
Be made before we begin to feel the same

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

when i tell you to run, you must run

almost like x-ray vision the
new skin of here they come
and soon the owl back to life
will notice what happened in time
as well as the egg yolk deposits for
our new bodies each nightmare kept
under pillow and so you marinate into
scattered daylight or disturbed sleep
something numb for my fingers to
feel so carnivorous and quiet that
the remnants of barbed wire will
consolidate our wide tongues we
can both be glorious and still
vanish into each other watch
and i will demonstrate not
during any rush hour
my wingspan


Return to Tell Me Like You Mean It volume 4.

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

The Camera Adds 10 Pounds: A Short Film Analysis

A body in Cube (1997)
A body in Ghost Ship (2002)
A body in Resident Evil (2002)
A body in Elfen Leid (2004)

The One Where an Infinitely Thin Blade Penetrates the Skin, Goes Clean Through, and it All Stays Together for a Moment, in Memory, Until it Forgets, in Gravity.

A body in The Thing (1982)
A body in Akira (1988)
A body in Death Becomes Her (1992)
A body in District 9 (2006)
A body in Antiviral (2012)

The One Where, Like Plasticine, the Skin’s Integrity is Compromised or Redefined.

A body in Re-Animator (1985)
A body in The Fly (1986)
A body in Frankenhooker (1990)
A body in American Mary (2012)
A body in Excision (2012)

The One Where the Mainstream Medical Industry is Disregarded for More Home-Grown, Self-Taught Methods.

A body in Demolition Man (1993)
A body in Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery (1997)
A body in Futurama (1999-2003, 2008-2013)
A body in Idiocracy (2006)

The One Where Waking is Substituted by Freezing, a Group of Cells on Pause, to be Warmed Up at a Time When the Future has Arrived.

A body in Nightmare on Elm Street (1984)
A body in The Matrix (1999)
A body in Vanilla Sky (2001)
A body in Paprika (2006)
A body in Inception (2010)

The One Where Waking is Substituted by Sleeping, But You Wouldn’t Know, Unless You Can Somehow Remember the Physics of Yourself.

A body in Videodrome (1983)
A body in Lost Highway (1997)
A body in Total Recall (1990)
A body in Adaptation (2002)
A body in Extraordinary You (2019)

The One Where a Space Exists Inside Another Space, and so on, Where the Spaces Forgot Where They Once Belonged.

A body in Brazil (1985)
A body in Jacob’s Ladder (1990)
A body in Mulholland Drive (2001)
A body in Click (2006)

The One Where a Traumatic Event, Such as Death or Falling Asleep, Cannot Be Comprehended, so Must be Reconstructed, in Order to Conclude the Traumatic Event for Oneself.

A body in Tron (1982)
A body in Existenz (1992)
A body in Tron: Legacy (2010)
A body in Sword Art Online (2012)

The One Where a Virtual, or Semi-Virtual, Reality Forces a Confrontation of Mortality.

A body in Sliding Doors (1998)
A body in Run Lola Run (1998)

The One Where the Copenhagen Interpretation of Quantum Mechanics is Realised.

A body in Vertigo (1958)
A body in The Prestige (2006)
A body in The Double (2013)
A body in Enemy (2013)
A body in Coherence (2013)

The One Where a Doppelganger Comes Around, and Around, and Around, and Around, and Around.

A body in Big (1988)
A body in Seventeen Again (2000)
A body in 13 Going On 30 (2004)
A body in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (2008)
A body in 17 Again (2009)

The One Where Time and Age Have No Correlation.

A body in She’s the Man (2006)
A body in Ouran High School Host Club (2006)
A body in Coffee Prince (2007)

The One Where a She Allows Herself to Be Mistaken as a He, in Order Gain a Position Within a Male-Dominated Field.

A body in The Beauty Inside (2012)
A body in The Beauty Inside (2015)
A body in The Beauty Inside (2018)
A body in The Beauty Inside (Forthcoming)

The One Where Homeomorphism, a Continuous Function Between Topological Spaces, is Exhibited, as All Humans Contain the Same Number of Holes and Handles.

A body in Pinocchio (1940)
A body in Life-Size (2000)
A body in Ponyo (2008)
A body in Under the Skin (2013)

The One Where in Becoming-Human, a Non-Human Attempts to Perform Human Rituals, to Mixed Results.

A body in The Falls (1980)
A body in Ginger Snaps (2000)
A body in Twilight (2008)
A body in The Human Centipede (First Sequence) (2009)
A body in Tusk (2014)
A body in The Lobster (2015)
A body in Sorry to Bother You (2018)

The One Where, Through a Curse, Crime or Convention, a Human Non-Voluntarily Becomes-Animal.

A body in The Six Million Dollar Man (1973-1978)
A body in The Bionic Woman (1976-1978)
A body in Inspector Gadget (1983-1986)
A body in Robocop (1987)
A body in Ghost in The Shell (1995)
A body in Iron Man (2008)
A body in Iron Man 2 (2010)
A body in Iron Man 3 (2013)

The One Where, Due to Carceral Techno-Capitalism, Man Becoming-Machine Enforces Law and Order.

A body in Child’s Play (1988)
A body in The Thirteenth Floor (1999)
A body in Freaky Friday (2003)
A body in It’s A Boy Girl Thing (2006)
A body in Avatar (2009)
A body in Secret Garden (2010-2011)
A body in Your Name (2016)
A body in Altered Carbon (2018-2020)

The One Where Mind and Body Operate Independently From One Another, so in the End, Descartes Got His Way.


Return to Tell Me Like You Mean It volume 4.

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

free meat on a suburban street

Special thanks to Vale, the mentioned friend




















































oscillating from

disassociation to despair

i try to write a poem &

i can’t

so i read abt vultures puking

& shitting on an NYC couple’s luxury condo in florida

& how one rogue neighbour kept feeding them

whole roast supermarket chickens

that relationship to chaos

is intimately familiar

i try to write a poem &

i can’t

& instead lie on the sofa

& watch six episodes of love island

& fall asleep & wake up & find

a perfect crop circle of drool

sometimes the poems

come to u

it’s been one of those weeks

where i’m so busy, far too busy to

cry cinematically in the shower

or dramatically on the floor

or luxuriously in my bed

which is quite frankly, not ok…

life is like being slapped in the face

the responsible party shouting

[redacted]

as they walk away

flipping the bird w/ a perfect manicure

i wish i could be as useful

to the world

as that cult Maybelline mascara

but my long-term infected tragus piercing

is a reminder that my body

takes time to heal

last year i thought

everything was

expansive

the truth is

everything has limits

pressing inwards

like a stern finger

it’s like a chronic chicken shortage at kfc

it’s like wearing ur best gown to the met gala

& getting locked in the toilet

a friend told me that

her mother said

flowers are condensed light

& that’s what bodies are

& that’s what feelings are

& that’s what you & i are

& that’s what this world is

& i sure am

going to miss all of this light

when it’s gone


Return to Tell Me Like You Mean It volume 4.

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged