I'm Marlon, I am long past 18, you can find my creative and fannish endeavors at @anduefex. feel free to slide into my dms or askbox at either location.
There are a lot of thing they didn't teach you in school
Quotas aren't handouts!
Try being born Black in a slum and you'll see
What happens with Black and poor people doesn't appear on TV
Oppression, humiliation, prejudice
We know how it ends when it begins like this
From the time she was a little girl, running to help her parents
She watches the kids, cleans the house, a bunch of other stuff
Midday, she takes a bath and goes to school by foot
She doesn't have money for the bus
Her mom used it earlier to buy bread
And now that she's tired, she wants a ride on the bus
But since she's Black and poor, the driver yells, "no!"
And that's only the first door that closes
@patrochilles-or-bust
She doesn't have a bus, she's already tired, but she hurries up
She gets to school, another door closes
You're late! You won't go to history class
Wait, sit there, an hour's passed
Wait a little bit more and go to your second class
"And make sure you're not late again!" the principal says
She gets to the room, now sleep's knocking at her door
But she won't sleep, slowly she learns that
If the ticket is 3.80 and you have 3 in hand
She interrupts the professor and says "You won't have bread then"
And the friends that laugh at her all day
Laugh more and humiliate her, what would you do?
She got tired of the humiliation and doesn't want school anymore
And on Christmas she cried because she didn't get a ball
Time passed and she grew
Now on the streets she's the black stinky-armpit girl
That straightens her hair to feel accepted
But it's no use, everyone rejects her
Now that she's grown, she really wants to study
She finishes school, textbooks, she still has entrance exams
And dry mouth, dry, no saliva
She's gonna pay the college, because Black and poor doesn't go to USP
That's what the professor that taught at the school said
That they're all the same and that quotas are handouts
Tired of quotas and not burned out from college
She still gets up early and cleans three apartments downtown
Try being born Black and poor in the community
You'll see how different the opportunities are
And don't you dare come to me saying that's playing the victim
Don't put the blame on me to cover your racism
And don't you dare come to me saying that's playing-, that's playing-
That's playing the victim!
They're enslaved nations
And murdered cultures
It's the voice that echoes the drum
Gather around, come here
You too can fight
And learn to respect
Because Black people came to revolutionize
Don't let them silence our voice, no
Don't let them silence our voice, no
Don't let them silence our voice, no
Revolution!
Don't let them silence our voice, no
Don't let them silence our voice, no
Revolution!
“A coalition of organizations that work with marginalized communities in Lebanon such as migrant workers are raising funds to provide support and assistance (food, medical supplies, pads, diapers) to the various communities. Please share and donate.”
EMERGENCY RESPONSE COALITION: VOICES OF THE UNSEEN As the indiscriminate attacks in Lebanon continue with over 120,000 (Statistics by OCHA)
As of June 2026, Voices of the Unseen are still raising money.
March 2026 update:
Campaign Story: Starting at 42,000 USD (raised in the last war), Voices of the Unseen begins again.... Following the devastating events of 1 March, 2026, and the subsequent heavy bombardment of Beirut’s southern suburbs and South Lebanon in the early hours of 2 March, we are witnessing a terrifyingly familiar cycle of violence. At least 31 people have been martyred and 149 wounded in just the last few hours. Thousands more fleeing their homes under new evacuation orders. The recent escalation has pushed Lebanon back to the brink of a full scale war.
In 2024, we saw firsthand the systemic failure of the state. As bombs fell, the state offered no safety net for those most vulnerable:
Migrant Workers: Still trapped under the Kafala system a form of modern day slavery, many are being abandoned by employers fleeing the violence, left without papers or safe passage.
Syrian Refugees: Already displaced by over a decade of war, we are once again facing the trauma of being uprooted with nowhere left to run.
Palestinians: Facing an ongoing struggle for survival as the violence in Lebanon mirrors the aggression they have endured for 78 years.
Marginalised Lebanese: Families in the South, Bekaa, and Beirut are losing their livelihoods and homes, watching their society be torn apart once more.
When the state failed, organisers from these communities built critical safety nets. This was done with your help. Last year, we raised $42,000 (USD) that went directly to community organisers from these communities. Now, we must do it again. Our current efforts are being channelled through a core group of trusted community groups: Tres Marias, Reman, Syrian Eyes and DoWAN. We are building community led solutions to a systemic collapse. We are calling for immediate financial and in kind donations to support emergency housing, healthcare access and basic survival needs.
you are required to accept that there is a vast conspiracy at all levels of power that has worked for hundreds of years to make you, and everyone you have ever known, more racist. you are required to accept that it has been extremely effective, it worked, you are racist.
you are required to become less racist.
when you are told that you are being racist, you are required to understand that as being offered assistance in resisting this vast conspiracy. say thank you.
you are required to cope with feeling guilty about being racist. your shame is only important to you, its only value is that it motivates you to be less racist.
I think most people, even within the queer community, fail to recognize trans men as an entity in itself. You're either trans or a man.
The idea that someone can be fully and wholly a man and still not be afforded the privileges given to cis men is foreign to most. The identity of "man" is synonymous with privilege and power, so when trans men say "hey I'm not as privileged as you think I am, there's more to it" that's unbelievable to most. They think we're purposely misgendering ourselves to gain imaginary oppression points. They compare us to cis men who refuse to acknowledge the privileges they do have because there's no such thing as a man that isn't privileged.
Its upsetting because it puts us in a bind. Either we suck it up and take the very real oppression we face head on and keep it to ourselves, or we advocate for ourselves and face ridicule for implying we aren't privileged or we're outright misgendered.
People truly do have a difficult time conceptualizing trans men. That's why other groups of marginalized men or intra-group male privilege are always brought up in these conversations. Not that those conversations are irrelevant, but it does mean they often get used as stand-ins instead of engaging with trans men directly.
Unlike other marginalized men, trans men are in fact marginalized specifically for being men. Because our existence disrupts the assumption that masculinity is natural, exclusive, or biologically assigned. The hostility directed at trans men is often rooted in the belief that we are “betraying” womanhood, aspiring to something we supposedly should not be allowed to become. That is gendered oppression.
Saying "men don't experience misogyny" or "men aren't marginalized for their gender" or "nobody is trying to stop you from being a man" is no different than saying "men can't get pregnant." Trans men aren't misgendering themselves, you just don't actually understand or respect trans people.
Perhaps people think they're being radically accepting of trans people but they're actually working from an incredibly cis-centric framework based on oppositional sexism.
I’ve been spinning like a chicken on a spit ever since I heard about the whole ‘AI generated story places in renowned Commonwealth Writing Prize’ scandal and now has come the time to regale you with my Opinions™️ about the matter, because it’s hit on some thoughts I’ve had for a while re: how I approach writing, both fanfic and original fiction… and thoughts I’ve had as a reader. long read, strap in.
tldr scandal speedrun: story by Trinidadian writer Jamir Nazir just won the Caribbean regional prize at the 2026 Commonwealth Short Story Prize ie one of the biggest short fiction awards in the world (almost 8000 entries this year) and was subsequently published on Granta's website, as all regional winners are. readers start flagging that something is off, and it quickly becomes clear that the story is almost certainly AI generated, and obviously the press and wank started up, media coverage, and my all time favourite part: Granta editor Sigrid Rausing uploads the story into an AI to ask if an AI wrote it and then puts out a statement that pretty much says ‘probably, but guess we’ll never know!’ (SORRY THIS PART IS SOOOO FUCKING FUNNY TO ME LMFAO 😭)
much of the earlyish discourse has focused on the AI detection question, what does this mean for literary prizes going forward, how do we verify human authorship. some responses have been very good/interesting (the Africa is a Country piece especially). what I want to yap about is what the judges' response to this story tells us about how postcolonial writing is read by the institutions that gatekeep it and readers who dismiss it (and this puts it perfectly with Arundhati Roy as an example), what the judging panel’s language reveals when read as a critical object in itself, and why the failure mode here is so damaging. tldr: the story is dogshit and so clearly AI generated you can even see the AI’s ‘thought’ process, but the mainstream reactions are slagging off the wrong thing, and for reasons that have little to do with AI.
it has been actually infuriating to watch a significant chunk of the online reaction use this nonsense piece of writing as a launching pad for a much broader dismissal. someone posts the bench-men sentence or the sunrise-over-a-sink sentence as evidence of AI, and then in the replies someone else will say some shit like "well this is just what postcolonial writing is like" or "I've read prize-winning stuff that reads exactly like this". and suddenly we're not talking about Jamir Nazir anymore, we're talking about whether this entire mode of writing, postcolonial literary fiction, global south prose ‘in general’, varied and distinct language plays associated with everyone from Roy to Walcott to Kincaid, as somehow inherently gaudy, unmoored, purple, a performance of profundity that collapses under scrutiny. sheer vim against styles of writing unfairly and lazily judged as ‘florid’ and ‘overwrought’, ie people calling for the clinical manicuring of prose through a lens of anti-AI progressivism.
and this rage has very little to do with AI or this AI generated story, and a lot more to do with the epistemology of reading across cultural difference:
what assumptions are you making when you encounter prose that doesn't do what you're used to, and how do you distinguish between:
this is doing something I don't have the framework to follow/yet
and
this is doing nothing
the uncomfortable answer is that a lot of people, at levels high above the average reader mind you, being prize judges and all, don't make that distinction. they experience the unfamiliarity and name it as failure, as excess, as incoherence, as the literary equivalent of noise, without asking whether the problem is in the text or in the reading, or they fall prey to a manifestation of ‘trim the fat culture’ (good post on this).
this is not an accusation of bad faith reading necessarily; it is just what happens when you read without the relevant context and without the intellectual curiosity to notice that you're missing something and attempt to find it. telling, however, is how quickly that experience of unfamiliarity, in this particular case, became a generalisation. not "I find this story's specific metaphors incoherent" but "I find this kind of writing incoherent", as if “this kind of writing” is a stable category and not just something this AI slapped together. a sliding from the fraudulent to the traditional that happens with striking confidence, and one which you do not see applied with the same ease to, say, Western European modernism, where the response to difficulty tends toward "I need to read more Woolf to understand Woolf" rather than "yucky stinky Woolf is AI-slop”.
anyway. here is my favourite sentence from the shitty AI story:
"she had the kind of walking that made benches become men."
and like it’s my all time favourite sentence ever because like. what does it mean. what is it doing. why is it there. what decision was made in its construction and to what end? and I just could not come to a conclusion because the real answer is that no actual decision was made, because decision-making requires an engagement with the writing, requires a reasoning for the sentence to exist in the way it does, and this exists across all literary prose styles, from the sparsest to the lushest. the bench-men sentence is difficult to interpret, but not in a ‘this is difficult to interpret which makes the reward of interpretation sweeter’ way, it is difficult to interpret in a ‘there is nothing under this sentence’ way, and that is made very clear when even the slightest interpretative pressure is laid on the story.
anyway, turns out the judges of one of the world’s biggest literary competitions did not apply that pressure. caribbean regional judge Sharma Taylor described Nazir's language as "sublime — precise yet richly evocative — conjuring vivid, lush imagery with remarkable economy" and like man this isn’t to dunk on Taylor personally but i think that sentence, in being a diagnostic object, is in itself a diagnostic object as to the whole scandal here: it’s evaluative language that doesn’t touch the text itself, a string of compliments whose terms don’t require a unique object. "precise yet richly evocative" is a sentence that could describe anyone from Chekhov to MT Vasudevan Nair.
what it cannot do is tell you what is precise about Nazir's objectively vague, dreary sentences, or where exactly economy manifests in a story that opens with three subordinate images somehow being unable to create even half an image. the judges either didn't notice or didn't give a fuck, and imo the honest interpretation there is that the evaluation was matching the text against a prior model of what this kind of writing is supposed to feel like, rather than what it actually does.
the main vulnerability of this kind of matching-against-model judging criteria is that it can only flag deviation from the expected shape, not absence within it. a story that inhabits the expected form, even hollowly, passes muster. a story that does something actually unexpected might fail on those same grounds, whether or not it's extraordinary. the AI machine got through to the prize list not because it fooled sophisticated readers into thinking they were reading a great work of literature, but because the reading operation in use did not require that experience of reading great literature to complete successfully. you just needed the vague shape, and the machines are good at making vague shapes.
what shape?
seemingly lyrical, lush, image-dense, located in rural poverty or landscape-as-metaphysical-weight, threaded with folk memory and unresolved grief, incantatory, myth-grabbing, rum shops, zinc rooftops, zinc-hair. what the AI has done is precisely what it is built to do: grab tiny scraps and fragments from actual prize-winning postcolonial stories and shoved them all together into an amorphous, senseless mass, knowing what it is supposed to do but not knowing how to do it. and so to me the most astounding/horrifying aspect of this scandal is how the judges who one can safely assume, based on their credentials, are very familiar with ‘world literature’, proved unable to tell the difference between a form inhabited and a form vacated.
and I really don’t like bringing up my literary/academic credentials (derogatory) etc etc on here anymore, because it at times positions me in an uncritical way I don’t intend or enjoy and I spent my early months in fandom realising just how very uncomfortable I was with the image I inadvertently curated as a result of coming straight from that sort of literary-academic space. so to put it very basically: I have spent my academic career broadly specialising in the very style and period of postcolonial literature that this AI story is attempting (badly) to emulate. my focus has always been south asia but i have also worked extensively with caribbean lit especially early on, and i’ve been taught/examined by some very well known caribbean writers and literary scholars, etc etc. ie i’m just trying to say that this post isn’t just me talking about a vague grievance with literary cultures but something i’ve been neck deep in for 10+ years now, ie i do know my shit and am not just knee jerk wanking, even though frankly i don’t think i should have to explain my background because way too many people are being way too confident with the ‘i have been writing for THREE BILLION years and they gave ARUNDHATI ROY THAT BITCH the booker prize’ atm…
anyway the reason I’m so brainrotted about this is because this exact literary-cultural problem was one of the things that led me to structure my longfic, Prayers to Broken Stone, in the way I did. the fic itself is totally irrelevant here so you’re not missing anything if you haven’t read it or are unfamiliar with the Silmarillion, I’m just referring to how the first quarter of that fic deliberately contains every single postcolonial miserycore cliché that appeals to a literary-prize, Western Anglophone, and diasporic audience’s ideas of what ‘Global South’ world-literatures should look like (and ngl I feel like I probably went too hard on this because so far I know at least 5 ppl familiar with the genre who justifiably almost dropped the fic before the mic drop because of the beginning being Like That… sorry guys. i will probably do it again 😭).
anyway after that, and very abruptly, the story takes a hard pivot to what it actually is, which is not an apolitical portrait of India, not diasporic literature about the Indian subcontinent, not even an Indian novel about Kozhikode, but a Kozhikodan novel about India, down to the style: my writing in general tends to lean on carnivaleque and incongruous tonal whiplashes between ‘lowbrow’ humour, abject tragedy and direct critical fourth-wallfucking commentary, but that whiplash is turned all the way up to 100 in Prayers and the humour especially is taken to borderline slapstick levels, and that style is evocative of Kozhikodan literary cultures (see—writings of Vaikom Muhammad Basheer, who is mentioned in the story in that Comrade Maedhros lies claims they are great buddies lmao), only that most writing from the region is in Malayalam, etc.
the reason i mention the fic here is that objectively speaking, those first few chapters, the ‘series of clichés’ ones, are the ‘clearest’ part of the story when it came to writing it. those chapters were written to directly evoke the vague shape of ‘prizewinning postcolonial giants’ of South Asian literature, both the brilliant and incisive writers and the floggers of diaspora-gaze miserycore, providing a series of aesthetic signals to those texts: the joint-family ‘madhouse’, the separated twins, the daddy-issues-as-father-of-the-nation-issues, the family-as-country, the dried rivers, the symbolic heirloom bangle, the utopian pre-imperial regional historiography, the diasporic returnee, the rotting house, the familial disconnect. Roy, Rushdie, Mistry, Lahiri, Desai, Seth, Ghosh, rinse and repeat.
do I personally enjoy every single one of these authors? no, I would probably cagefight two of them at least. what I am saying though, is that that their writing isn’t some kind of incomprehensible mess that nobody aside from their little tiny id-group can understand, not amorphous or vague or too overwrought to comprehend. their prose, all differing styles, can be rich, lush, playful, meandering, yes. but they are not unclear: they’re so clear that the positionality of the authors, their class and caste backgrounds, their educational and migratory trajectories, are often painfully evident (hence the cagefighting). the reason i used those aspects in my fic to signal towards a particular kind of globally lauded postcolonial literature is because those signals are clear, not confusing.
ie it is not a case of ‘global south’ writers being incomprehensible, it is a case of readers walking into a garden with a few flowers they haven’t seen before and immediately going ‘damn, look at this jungle. can’t navigate it but i’m sure it’s great, ok bye’ then turning the fuck around and writing the travelogue anyway. which is to say, applying a colonial reading practice to postcolonial writing.
and there’s a similar, though differently approached, aspect in globally renowned caribbean anglophone writing: a history of deliberate formal difficulty. where the difficulty isn’t some ambient mystery or marker of ‘serious’ literature but a formal consequence of a model of storytelling. eg. Selvon's Creole narration in The Lonely Londoners was a decision with costs+purposes about what it would mean for Moses Aloetta's interiority to be rendered in standard English versus in a voice that had not been, at the time, admitted to the Anglophone literary canon, rather than being the inevitable default of a Caribbean writer. Harris's dissolving frames in Palace of the Peacock are not difficult because Harris was apathetic to comprehensibility but because the Guyanese historical consciousness the novel examines does not easily resolve into stable subjectivity.
form is so often part of the argument across literature, across the English canon itself, and normally in literary criticism, ‘difficulty’ is approached epistemologically alongside aesthetically. this is common knowledge yet the first part is something that appears to be hard to grasp for people reading and commentating on ‘world literature’.
what is this form doing that another form cannot?
you can answer that question for Harris and Selvon and Ghosh and Roy and man, I think he’s so fucking annoying sometimes, but you can even do it for Rushdie. you cannot do it for "coffee and cocoa leaned wild on a slope that wanted either rain in teeth or none at all". and this impossibility has nothing to do with foreignness or excessiveness but because the question, when applied to this AI generated piece of writing, has no answer.
and like… what does that tell us about what the judges were evaluating? imo it tells us they were at least in part evaluating surface-level compliance. compliance with recognisable genre conventions and an expected register, and so with the right signals of “authenticity”. and in the case of ‘Global South literature’, these conventions include an emphasis on the rural, the embodied, the rooted, the mythical.
an AI is very good at compliance because compliance is, quite literally, what AI does: every LLM is trained on the corpus of what has been rewarded before and thus it reproduces the patterns of that reward. if the judges were themselves rewarding compliance with a known type, then of course the AI passed with flying colours, because they were, in effect, running the same operation as the LLM model: matching input against a predetermined template instead of engaging with the work itself.
not to use my favourite cliché, but this specific scandal having played out in the way it did pretty much evidences how these two things, the upper echelons of the global literary prize circuit judging panels and generative AI, are less ‘warring factions’ and more ‘two frat bros fisting each other while saying no homo bro’, ie comorbid counterparts.
and so imo the question that should haunt every future Commonwealth Prize shortlist is not "did an AI write this?" but "what model of literary value are we using to judge Anglophone literature?”, and “why the fuck are we doing that???”
bc if your aesthetic criteria are vague enough that a sentence like "the grove isn't a ledger; it's a mouth — it closes only when it's satisfied" reads as "vivid, lush imagery" delivered with "quiet authority," then your judging criteria is less criteria and more vibes. you are literally just playing a high-stakes vibes-based game of Pin the Tail on the Mango whilst wilfully ignoring how vibes are precisely what AI large language models are the best at faking.
anyway, like I said in my intro, this scandal is already sliding into a secondary discourse in which ‘Oriental™️ opacity/incomprehensibility’ is being treated as the general category, of which this AI-generated confusion is just the most recent instance. you can watch it happening in real time, unbearably prolonged: people who rightly found the Nazir story incoherent, reaching way too easily for other examples of postcolonial prose they also apparently found incoherent or “purple”, prose that is, in fact, doing things they just didn't know how to follow. the AI story has handed a lazy, sneering and dismissive reading practice the veneer of clinical diagnosis.
that is the horribly ironic thing here. reader after reader, openly admitting to doing the exact same lazy, apathetic reading of postcolonial literature as the literary prize judges they are (rightly) criticizing have done with this AI story, have been doing for human-writing from the global south for all this time. “ewww this is what that writing looks like when a machine does it" (correct) is sliding so so so easily into "ewww this is what that writing looks like" (not correct). dog after dog, chasing tail after tail.
and that slide, from a machine having ‘successfully’ impersonated prize-winning prose, to a panel of judges who clearly weren't really reading, to the genre itself being defined as imitable machinery, is imo the most damaging thing to come out of this whole affair, and the people most hurt by it are the writers who have fuck all to do with Jamir Nazir, who is clearly just a chancer who fucked around and found out.
because somewhere in those 8000 entries, there is a writer, possibly many writers, who solved their riddle, who knew what every sentence was doing, who had made the thousand small decisions that constitute a story, and whose difficulty (if their story was difficult: difficulty is subjective and not a default, as we have established) could easily be accounted for. that writer did not win, because the judges were not looking for them. and now, in the aftermath, the interrogation of the incident continues to refuse to ask the questions that would have found them.
I first thought it would be blowing smoke up my own ass to finish this post with a quote from my own story. and then I remembered that this is my circus and you are all my monkeys, so I will indeed be ending with a (spoiler-free, context-unnecessary) quote from the final chapter of Prayers, from one of the fic’s multiple fourth-wall breaches, this one explicitly addressing both the character of Maedhros, a gay Muslim man in postcolonial India, as well as the attritional impact of global Anglophone prize cultures on ‘national literatures’, explaining the structure of the story and touching on the reading-practice I talk about in this post, this cold, dismissive flattening based on the reader’s refusal to comprehend the unfamiliar. Emphasis obviously made just for this excerpt:
Humanity has tried many times, with fanfare and floodlights, to hold the great white shark within glass walls. When a young female was placed in the Steinhart Aquarium in San Francisco, its keepers marvelled for a day, two days, then watched as she rammed herself against the tank walls, snout bloodied and refusing food until her body yielded to exhaustion. In San Diego, one was found dead within two weeks. More recently, in a public aquarium, a six-foot juvenile circling its tank like a condemned spirit, colliding with the corners until its skin peeled raw, was released after months only to die on the way back to the sea. Each attempt ended the same: a slow unravelling, a remarkable animal’s vast strength curdling inward, its shimmering blue-mapped body drifting in a pale echo of the life denied to them.
I do not deny they are vicious creatures. But it is not viciousness that makes it impossible for them to survive in the aquarium. The old fables and new films, the man-eater, the blood-frothed wave, the lurking fin, have all mistaken the matter entirely. The thing that kills the great white shark in captivity is the billowing cage: the narrowing circle of water, no current to guide their gills, the confiscation of the horizon. In captivity they turned to self-excoriation, scraping themselves to ribbons on the glass, starving in protest, dragging their bodies into stillness. As if potential had been so thoroughly written into their marrow that the denial of it was a kind of murder. What we mistake for noble resilience is in fact the beginning of a long derangement. A creature built to know the endless universe, driven into madness by the closing-in of incomprehensible walls.
And so we, in our hunger for marvels, have reduced an oceanic immensity to an ornament, a sole symbolic bangle on a slender wrist, a riddle turned spectacle. In that act of enclosure, the essential vastness of the creature is stripped away, its thousand-mile wanderings and salt-scored pilgrimages compressed into a parody of itself in a ghost story projected on glass.
What is offered to the crowd is no shark but the space where a shark once was: a wonder gutted and repackaged, its enforced silence masquerading as our unspoken understanding even as a scream writhes in every bubble.
As we behold the captive great white shark, Arwen, we do naught but applaud its absence in our lives, gild the blade which vanquished its truth, and heave a sigh of relief for the barrier between ourselves and the beast. We build shrines to the wonders we swallow whole. We raise gardens tomorrow from the cities we raze today.
But perhaps there is light on the horizon for humanity. Perhaps one day, we will learn how to keep the great white shark in a cage. And in turn, maybe it will learn how to rasp itself down for the onlooker and pace circles into borrowed water, each turn narrower, each wall closer than the last. What is witnessed is not the beast but its mutilation, a spectre stripped of horizon and turned inward on itself, a hollow spectacle mistaken for a radiant life.
The tank allows for neither possibility nor invention, and so the tale of the great white shark contracts into a pattern of bruises, the persistence of a body against limits it was never meant to know. The water becomes a neverending sentence, telling the story of a ruin that can only end in its own undoing. I wanted to be a writer, Arwen. I have always wanted to be a writer. You know that. You have always known that. And yet anything I ever write will only ever be an un-writing of the things other people have already written of me. Even my letters to you.
It is amazing, now that I think of it, what desperation can do to a story.
Every time a guy writes a song, he's a cowboy, a sailor
Playing with the world in his palm like the first pioneer.
Every time he opens his mouth, it's a loud movie trailer
Clipping every image and sound he thinks proves he was here.
A hand, a spike, a physical fight,
A flash of light, a curtain,
A toll, a tithe, the passage of time,
A height, a dive, a burden,
A girl, a night, a typical type,
A siren in the water,
A scroll, a nod, a message from God,
A son, a Holy Father.
Every time a guy writes a song, he's a sailor, a cowboy
Holding out the world in his palm like he made it himself.
Every time I open my mouth, I think, "Wow, what a loud noise!"
Still on the soapbox, just hoping I seem underwhelmed.
The hand, the pen, the writing again,
The Wind around the Willow,
The felt, the ice, the passage of time,
The melting down the window,
The ‘now’, the ‘then’, the thinking of "when",
The bottle in the ocean,
The strike, the pause, the message from -
God forbid she shows emotion.
This isn't rage, it's worth a mention.
This is a fake internal tension.
Sometimes, I spread out one opinion
And stand on its back to gauge attention.
This isn't rage, it's too specific.
I like to hate symbolic limits.
This is no statement, I'm complicit.
This is a dream, GOD put me in it.
A hand, a spike, a physical fight,
The Wind around the Willow,
A toll, a tithe, the passage of time,
The melting down the window,
The now, the then, the thinking of "when",
The siren in the water,
The strike, the pause, a message from God.
Does that make me His daughter?
A hand, a shove, a valley, a jump,
A score under the wire,
Just sweep me up, just sweep me up
And take me somewhere higher,
Just sweep me up, just sweep me up
And take me somewhere higher,
Just sweep me up, just sweep me up
And take me somewhere higher.
dededos
prguitarman
romaincrisis
gummygunk
discoholicmusic
stormborns
dailybridgerton
theartofmadeline
