b

*

string arrangement

"five leaves left" spins on the turntable



me: god damn, i hate them, such cunts
you: the world is a cunt, what are you gunna do about it, that's why Nick Drake killed himself



end scene. fade to black




bongos
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another little publication from babe soda

Why’d you have to go (and make it so weird) dude?

sang this in a dream last night

you could have just killed me first

when grief fills you up w/ it's nothingness
you can no longer sit in a chair
w/o crossing and uncrossing your legs
or find yourself looking off in the distance
because a memory has suddenly
contorted your face


you feel uncomfortable
you can't help it
grief is physical
and now you take up 
too much space


what private ritual
what event 
rearranging emptiness
the foyer of yr mind


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there are three billboards on 95 N that read THE ZOO CHANGES YOU

you speak
        & the drilling stops
you stop
        & the drilling starts


        no god
        a pair of white pupils
        eclipse the moon

        curtains drawn
        in the back of an suv

        stop crying
        or else

fuck me

bouquets upon bouquets
the mind is moon shaped
the monk tells us


it waxes & wanes
it makes sense
& tomorrow we enter
another phase of acceptance


sometimes
when someone dies in Japan
their body is burned
the throat bone removed
from the remains
and put in a box in the earth


thousands of throat bones
underground & all around
above


as temporal visitors here
a principle
a chorus of feet walking


below
this soft soil
these silent throats
to that which we become


i wish
i could do that for you
but you’ll end up in a jar
then you’ll end up in the garbage
outside of the abortion clinic

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don’t tell me to smile you’re awful

a new feeling 
moves through

a moor in moonlight
mined in a back yard garden

a view inside of a house
the silhouette of a man
alphabetizing an archive

& the smoke escapes through the window
this is the moment. where wonder,
happenstance of us,

of a sentience 
that never was,

of a sentience
that only was,

dead in jars. 
with no throat bones

& no knowledge
of ritual or moors

Rest in Peonies, Joanne

it's raining
i'm listening
to moon pix
eating slim jims

i always impress myself 
with my ability to reach
further into moments
like this one

the cherry blossoms browning
dying for a second spring

driving down columbus blvd
this image ruptures a cyst in time

i suddenly remember you
throwing me
up against a fence   telling me
it was going to be
okay

i sit in my car for hours
watching the rain on the windshield
a flimsy filter of my avoidance
the way the world looks soupy
it makes me laugh and i'm not sure
i'll miss any of this
when i'm gone
i'm gone

out in the tumult
out in the night