Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.
It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
we’re inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.
Jul 1, 2024
Related Recs
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In my closet, I discovered a hidden door that led to a new room—I guess the door was in plain sight all along; I could just never bring myself to look and see what was behind it.
The first time I opened the door, the room was filled with men’s clothing and belongings that had been abandoned; I got the sense that they had been there a long time, but they just as easily could have last been touched yesterday. He told me to leave everything alone in the room, not to touch anything; that it wasn’t mine to take. I looked around, lingering for a long moment—everything somehow looked familiar. I closed the door shut. I wondered how anyone could have left so many beautiful things behind.
Secretly, I returned again to the room when I had some time alone and found it filled with women’s things now: little treasures and mementos and knick-knacks (he hates my knick-knacks because they are so frivolous and take up space and needlessly create clutter, he says in waking life, ever cold and rational) of a life well-lived; fabulous stylish accoutrements that would perfectly elevate an outfit; glamorous gowns that seemed like they would fit me and hug my curves just right.
In the corner, I found a wedding dress made of delicate shimmering off-white silk and organza, flowers hand-embroidered onto it with care. I ran my hands over it. It took my breath away.
I woke up with the song I had been listening to last night playing in my head.
Mar 1, 2025
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i love the windows on the bus
can barely see out of them
when the night falls in and the lights turn yellow, fluorescent, bend down to kiss your head, hold a towel around you while you change at the pool when you were eleven
when you look outside and it’s dark enough that you’re in the window
like a musty ghost
too embarrassed to look yourself in the eye
can’t be mistaken for vain
can’t look at that kid
can smell the grey, taste blood in your nose, concrete against your teeth
cheekbone against the scratched-out glass, grime under your eyelids
or- well-
maybe that last one’s just the dream of the street
the one you go home to when you close your eyes
the street dark and snowing
soft and quiet
the lights are out
and the glass is frosted over
the air is black
the sky is still
and you need to wake up
to the puffer coat of the person sitting next to you
and your reflection on your right
can see right through you
the window in my room is the biggest thing in the world
when the frosting has hit and the fever has set and you’re hanging high over the road, can’t put your feet down definitively, can’t feel your rib cage around your heart, your nerves are unfurling like hair you shaved off in the sink, clinging to the porcelain, floating in the bathwater
when your eyes grey over and your shoulders will fall off if you move, try to hold this weight
those nights, the window is the biggest thing in the world
like the apartment building a block away, the naked, callused trees, still prettier than you, the black air that fills in the rest, the car, the duplex across the street, melting flowers and dusty millers
you’re the only one left here
like you’re on the set of a tv show and everyone went home and the world is empty, isn’t even real, really, and there’s nothing behind the doors, a tv in the windows, the street is only 200m long, and someone in the window on the top floor has turned their light out and you’re imagining a man without a face, mattress on the floor, reaching over white sheets to yellow to black
maybe your room’s the one that’s not real
maybe you’re in a box
maybe those sirens were for you
i know you believe it
i know you believed it for a second
that you died on a bright january morning in your living room chair, the one you were going to take with you when you moved out
that the door was open and someone was holding your hand
what’s that called?
derealization?
haze brain?
freak head?
is that you?
freak head?
it’s snowing up there, isn’t it?
Sep 30, 2024
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Bring forth to mind, if you will, the ill-fortuned Orpheus; Odysseus, ill-fortuned but cruel- and cleverest-enough to make it forward; now lovely Inanna; loving Dante; Fritti and Ida and so many other brothers and sisters; so many poems, songs; yes, meet me tonight in Atlantic City; I’m in love with a dying man, yes, yes; now the post-midnight train to Coney Island, smiling in the summer, tears in November; a minivan to Cape May one grey day; prison-taxi down to Long Beach with the sun coming up; one thousand leaps into the East River and the Danube and the Seine and then… this is just what comes to mind. Oil pipelines. Black licorice. Oh, coincidentally, have you yet read the fiction-piece One Hundred by brilliant blonde Zans Brady Krohn? (printed, of course, in Heavy Traffic 1 — where else?) Yes, that too comes to mind, naturally, yes, I think so… Terrific story. Atlantic City story. So, katabasis story. In more ways than one, really … And following: certain buildings, certain seasons of mood. I’m running dry. Greenlight on the edge of the dock. Absinthe and stolen vodka. “Curiousity killed the cat, satisfaction brought it back.” That’s half anabasis. I’m just spitballing. Trying to remember.
May 10, 2023
Top Recs from @sammyawkward
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Don’t you think that PI FYI is a bit like Wendy Cope’s poem The Orange if it was a social media platform? Everyone sharing and recommending the things that bring them meaning and joy in life. It’s so wholesome.
It’s been a minute but I have some time off this weekend so I will likely indulge some more of my thoughts and recs for the benefit of journaling.
Feb 22, 2025
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sweet, sweet temporary relief
Aug 11, 2024
Nate Amos - one half of the NY art pop duo Water From Your Eyes - is a font of seemingly endless musical invention with something close to 25-30 collections of songs to his name on bandcamp when creating under the guise of This Is Lorelei.
An absolute trove of unbridled imagination and what a delectable treat it all is too.
On This Is Lorelei’s freshest batch, ‘Box For buddy, Box For Star’, a sense of timelessness is epitomised in songs such as ‘Angel’s Eye’, ‘An Extra Beat For You And Me’ with their nods towards a spruced up re-treading of Americana as well as leaning into the psychedelic adventures of The Beatles‘ more whimsical songwriting in ‘A Song That Sings About You’.
That isn’t to say that this is an exercise in nostalgia fuelled plagiarisms for Nate.
These songs are vivid portraits of modern life where no production technique is left unturned with auto-tune affected vocalisations and patched in drum machine featuring heavily in album highlight ’Dancing In The Club’.
These bedroom production left turns thrown in amongst traditional songwriting techniques make for a collection of songs that are imbued with a millennial/Gen Z veneer, therefore marking out ‘Box For Buddy..’ as an album that could only have been released in the year 2024.
There really is something for everyone here.
FFO: Alex G, The Beatles (Revolver era), Elliott Smith.
Out now via Double Double Whammy.
Jun 29, 2024