The Paper Diver

Did you know that a Marshmallow is a flower? Me neither.

[cowzsa]

Anime Hamlet OST

[cowzsa]

Anime Hamlet Story Boards

These are horrendous. It just gets worse and worse. That’s why I love it.

[cowzsa]

Anime Hamlet

[cowzsa]

moth eyes

it was on wednesday night when i realised the words had barely left my mouth. the conversation hung like a thread: three months, it spun round and round idly in the wind - like when you hang that one christmas ornament that doesn't fit anywhere on the tree. i don't know if it was the discomfort or the creeping anxiety, but i grabbed my keys and left the house. i drove down towards the port, cutting through an amber veil. the roads were bathed in a piercing orange glow, like dark runny yolk. it was almost disarming, dreamlike. if i had moth eyes I'd plaster my limbs to the street lamps. you'd see my monstrous shadow spread itself out, stretching itself across warmly lit housing blocks and worn-down shopping malls. i'd bounce from brick to brick, beating my wings between alleys and back lanes, flitting through the gauzy exteriors of derelict terraces. my body had molted and broken free, detaching itself from the steering wheel and the vehicle's metal frame. the car i left - that useless shell, a chrysalis shed of fearful doubt. the roadside, the street was one with me, i grew with the wind the sand and sea. for now i see the shipyard and its vast container belt: those imposing rows of cosmic grief, of alien giants fast asleep that stalk around the pitch black night, that yearn and screech to fight, to bite. and i, a bird, i fluttered off, a butterfly to scenic north. from lamppost light to busy creeks. i stayed awake for fear of sleep - my shadow loft: escape my thief.

[cowzsa]

the gentleman

morning, hello - goodbye dense conversation. i'll save you for the evening, for suppertime: for drinks and for her. the quiet overtones of joyce, kerouac they slip from my lips. like a tiger in the stream, the wine it stains my soul, it sells, it's sold to name-drops and gold. my blood, blush red, it prowls to enchant you - are you impressed? we eat up cultural capital like fast food, like convenience store slushee although we hold it like champagne. we exchange it like cardboard bricks to build an impractical frankenstein house - an aesthetic preference for relational intimacy. i'll save up esoteric quotes to befuddle and engross - we'll make up new authors, new stories, new places, and then leave for the night. but now i am hung, over and out. strung like a corpse, a crumpled animal carcass on the road at dusk. i am the leaf in the park, a twig in the stream - an office of my own making. blown by the gust of facebook feeds and new yorker articles, i am the suit and tie from that unpronounceable boutique, the keyboard in the fourth cubicle from the expresso machine, the monitor that hangs every twenty-minutes. and then i remembered, i keep a paperback of austen (was it sense and sensibility?) in my drawer - i swore i would read it. i'd read it for you.

[cowzsa]

My quote-unquote “band” has a new song.

[cowzsa]

stones

the stones hide the crowd. their baseball caps and fanny packs, cargo pants and polo shirts, plastic fans and selfie sticks make up the monday noon parade. pushing past several avid cameraphone photographers and carefully dodging waves of rowdy children, i squeezed through a crevice to catch my breath. i stumbled into a clearing, finding a lake not unlike the rest. leaning on the railings, i pulled out my phone and took a fuzzy picture. i thought, why not? clad in a plain t-shirt and jeans, i was no different, i was one with the crowd - i was a tourist.

[cowzsa]

feather

camera shy, the light bends across your face to break the lines scattered round your eyes from a sleepless day. you ran and you 
 caught a feather by its tip - it drifted down from the clouds 
 and into your study. your eyes, they run: from up in the rooftops 
 to the street down below, where the cirrus wisps pour forth their rain 
 onto the clayey soil, watering both the dying weed and the crop.

[cowzsa]

clouds

the clouds they say - they hide their treasure in the clouds. a rabbit hole to wonderland, a space beneath the stars, they reach for motion pictures, fumbling in the dark.

they warn of phantom lock picks, of thieves who run by night. they cut through tiny window panes, their ghost hands in a twist, they stretch across the ocean's width to snatch you like a kiss.

and there it is you see, your vain identity: i can snatch it from the sky, drink it in the rain, and yet my thoughts may never guess your never-ending pain.

[cowzsa]

The Boy

"He told me he named his goldfish Billie Jean. I know he loves Michael Jackson, but this is too much."

Alamein stubbed out his cigarette, the smoke swirling round the curls of his hair, thick like the mud caked beneath his boots.

"You told your boy to call you Shogun. Now that's too much."

Alamein gave him a funny look, then he reached into his jacket and fumbled for another cigarette. In the process his lighter slipped out of his hand. It bounced off his lap and slid underneath the glass table.

"Goddammit," Alamein bent down, reaching for the lighter he stole from Gracey's convenience store. As he got up, he knocked his head against the table, sending a shower of beer in all directions.

"Shit."

Alamein noticed that the bottom half of his shirt was now wet. It made his tummy cold.

"You're slipping boy."

"Yeah?" Rubbing his head, Alamein's eyes looked wild, blackened by bruises from a fight the night before, "I just need to find the money. That's all. Then I'll be back on track."

His pride was hurt. Alamein looked like a young boy, wanting so much to be macho but looking too weak to be convincing.

"That's not what I'm talking about."

Alamein looked puzzled, still rubbing the back of his head. He lit his fourth cigarette. He was about to reply, but the smoke sent him into a coughing fit.

"Your boy, what are you teaching your boy?"

"My boy? You mean my boys?"

Almost choking, Alamein gave out another loud cough, nearly knocking over the remainder of his drink. He composed himself and replied, "you're a drug dealer, why do you care?"

He gave Alamein a disapproving look and then sipped the last of his beer.

"Look, I'm going to have to lay you off."

Alamein was stunned, "What?" Furious, he took off his leather jacket and tossed it on the ground. It was the one that said “Crazy Horses East Coast” in a big, bombastic font.

“Two days ago, your son - the one with the odd haircut, he came to my doorstep.”


Alamein’s faced turned pale.

“He delivered weed to me. Personally. With a smile.”

Alamein mumbled something incomprehensible.

“Your Crazy Horse friends weren't around, so he took it on himself to deliver it to me. He even showed me a crayon drawing of you dressed like Michael Jackson in ‘Beat it'.”

“That- that goddamn kid, he’s gotta know his place. I’ll make sure I'll teach him a lesson when I get back. I assure you, I’ll-“

SMACK.

Alamein found himself lying on the floor, the right side of his face so numb he could barely speak.

“Get your drunk ass home Michael Jackson. Get your shit together.”

Alamein got up. Cradling his face like an infant, he dusted off his jacket and sat up straight. That was when he realised that he was left alone to pay the bill.

“What an asshole.”

[cowzsa]

rinse, repeat

doe-eyed, chrome sheen, incensed - deathly still. badge-born, unborn, rotten, thin spines - undergrowth. arrowhead, hunter, nighttime, stalker - heartbeat. fear bound, foliage , choke me, no breath - choke me. dead-eyed, runner, concave, thunder - hold me.

[cowzsa]

fake plants

tumble-dried tumbleweed, grace me with your wit. race the plastic dandelion down the path that’s split. uncanny, valley born, lily of my youth, since 1999, my sink top you’ve adorned. roses how you’ve lost your prick, polyester: glue to stick. my smycka by the fejka racks, for now you’ll do the trick. by the shrubs, in the wind, you look just like their kin. although your leaves may never wilt, i found you by the bin.

[cowzsa]

tin born

backwheel - tin born. ape flesh, sun torn. scatter the water, dead terracotta. flowers beige, stain the page. sculpt glass, monkey mask.

[cowzsa]

field

"Emmanuel," the people sing, although throughout the chapel rings, no lofty sounds of cherubim, but of the cries of newborn hymns. "Behold the Child, the Prince of Peace," it echoes to the roof to ease the vicar's son, the elder's niece, who crawl and sprawl St. Martin's lease. We often dream Him fast asleep, as angels watch and shepherds keep their gazes on their flocks of sheep within the frame of glories deep, But if the Son of Man would see His children cry or squeal or scream, no look or glare of firm distaste would ever dare to cross His face. For once a baby born to earth, in mud and soil and manger dearth, this child, He too would wail at birth that Christmas Day in the morning.

[cowzsa]

opera

red ribbons rise up round the stretch of greens and blacks that colour your eyes. white on your nose, pink on your cheeks, they draw your lack of fear - your guise. from clanking metal and rhythmic beats that loudly signal a shift in your feet, to amplified bouts, ecstatic or pained, all i recall from VCD grain are grandmother's hands that held me at rest, by letter and print, she sang to your dance. while her irises grey, and her veins grow more blue, she still remembers when she was you.

[cowzsa]

raptured

i see your canopy, your vast silhouette by night: your branches grew like arms, stretching up to hold the sky. twisting, turning down the old jogging path, i saw the bright white of the new industrial fence, the ground split by imprints - footprints. shoes soaked, soles worn out by sediments, i feel the damp soil after the rain, the dark forest trail at dusk. like a sparrow's first song long lost to the night, i held your still small voice in my arms, a baby's coo muffled beneath the dampened chatter of crickets. like at the coming of the Lord, as fresh dew disappears by noon, the wind takes you home.

[cowzsa]

relief

the roof you sit on weaves between the sullen streets to meet its maker. my arms are folded as the traffic lights flicker - they splutter noises that bounce back and forth across the street. though the walls seem thick, you hear it creeping up your sill, seeping through the red bricks that barely divide your room from the main road. i am one with the herd. with my eyes to the ground, my feet ripple through puddles and faded footprints on the concrete. with a breath in the air, and a dead nervous tick, i breathe a sigh of relief.