Billet-doux Blackout series: 5 find out how to get involved
Dear,
I don’t expect. I hope. I hope.
Thank you.
Stay safe. Take care.
xoxo
Noah Kahan
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Billet-doux Blackout series: 5 find out how to get involved
Dear,
I don’t expect. I hope. I hope.
Thank you.
Stay safe. Take care.
xoxo
All I Want
I don't need a house or a car I don't want diamonds or gold All I want is you And a meaningful career And massive, overflowing bookshelves And a trip to India And a place to feel safe And designer clothes And accessible healthcare And chocolate danishes each day Without gaining any weight And a restructuring of the (in)justice system And a few tattoos I'm thinking of And money to give charities and shelters And money to donate to interesting kickstarters And a nearby field of clover And some expensive surgery And less meanness in the world
Pink & Blue
What is pink and blue? My knee, through the rip in my jeans. Pale pink, light blue.
Roses are red Thorns are thorny Let's go to bed Since we're so horny
Roses are red Violets are blue Drink from a cup as God intended
Rosemary bread Blueberries too A bowl of coffee All for you
Roses are pretty Violets are okay In Oklahoma City There once was a moray
Roses are red violets are blue the galaxy is vast and contains many more potentially inhabitable planets than scientists used to think or at least that's what they say now
Roses are red, sometimes It's been a while since I could identify a violet on sight I think they come in shades of blue, pink, purple, and white But that might be pansies
Roses are red Violets are blue My dog is crying Because she wants my sandwich
Roses are red Violets are blue I got a dog two months ago She's the love of my life
Roses are red Violets are blue I haven't written poetry in a thousand years and this is a pretty lazy attempt but I love writing lazy poetry that isn't about anything so Here
SONG OF DOG
Little dog who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Gave thee life and bid thee feed By the dog-bowl and o'er the … mead …? Gave thee clothing of delight Softest clothing … um, more "furry" than "woolly" … mostly white …? Gave thee such a … tender … voice … hm Making all the vales rejoice? idk abt that Little dog I'll tell thee Little dog I'll tell thee He is called by thy name For he calls himself a … well, "dog" is "god" spelled backwards, so I guess that works? He is meek and he is mild He became a little child I a child … at heart? sure let's go with that … and thou a dog, which is "god" spelled backwards We are called by his name Little dog god bless thee Little dog god bless thee (With apologies to William Blake)
Revenge
Since you mention it, I think I will start that race war. I could’ve swung either way? But now I’m definitely spending the next 4 years converting your daughters to lesbianism; I’m gonna eat all your guns. Swallow them lock stock and barrel and spit bullet casings onto the dinner table; I’ll give birth to an army of mixed-race babies. With fathers from every continent and genders to outnumber the stars, my legion of hapa babies will be intersectional as fuck and your swastikas will not be enough to save you, because real talk, you didn’t stop the future from coming. You just delayed our coronation. We have the same deviant haircuts we had yesterday; we are still getting gay-married like nobody’s business because it’s still nobody’s business; there’s a Muslim kid in Kansas who has already written the schematic for the robot that will steal your job in manufacturing, and that robot? Will also be gay, so get used to it: we didn’t manifest the mountain by speaking its name, the buildings here are not on your side just because you make them spray-painted accomplices. These walls do not have genders and they all think you suck. Even the earth found common ground with us in the way you bootstrap across us both, oh yeah: there will be signs, and rainbow-colored drum circles, and folks arguing ideology until even I want to punch them but I won’t, because they’re my family, in that blood-of-the-covenant sense. If you’ve never loved someone like that you cannot outwaltz us, we have all the good dancers anyway. I’ll confess I don’t know if I’m alive right now; I haven’t heard my heart beat in days, I keep holding my breath for the moment the plane goes down and I have to save enough oxygen to get my friends through. But I finally found the argument against suicide and it’s us. We’re the effigies that haunt America’s nights harder the longer they spend burning us, we are scaring the shit out of people by spreading, by refusing to die: what are we but a fire? We know everything we do is so the kids after us will be able to follow something towards safety; what can I call us but lighthouse, of course I’m terrified. Of course I’m a shroud. And of course it’s not fair but rest assured, anxious America, you brought your fists to a glitter fight. This is a taco truck rally and all you have is cole slaw. You cannot deport our minds; we won’t hold funerals for our potential. We have always been what makes America great.
-e.c.c.
what resembles the grave but isn't
Always falling into a hole, then saying “ok, this is not your grave, get out of this hole,” getting out of the hole which is not the grave, falling into a hole again, saying “ok, this is also not your grave, get out of this hole,” getting out of that hole, falling into another one; sometimes falling into a hole within a hole, or many holes within holes, getting out of them one after the other, then falling again, saying “this is not your grave, get out of the hole”; sometimes being pushed, saying “you can not push me into this hole, it is not my grave,” and getting out defiantly, then falling into a hole again without any pushing; sometimes falling into a set of holes whose structures are predictable, ideological, and long dug, often falling into this set of structural and impersonal holes; sometimes falling into holes with other people, with other people, saying “this is not our mass grave, get out of this hole,” all together getting out of the hole together, hands and legs and arms and human ladders of each other to get out of the hole that is not the mass grave but that will only be gotten out of together; sometimes the willful-falling into a hole which is not the grave because it is easier than not falling into a hole really, but then once in it, realizing it is not the grave, getting out of the hole eventually; sometimes falling into a hole and languishing there for days, weeks, months, years, because while not the grave very difficult, still, to climb out of and you know after this hole there’s just another and another; sometimes surveying the landscape of holes and wishing for a high quality final hole; sometimes thinking of who has fallen into holes which are not graves but might be better if they were; sometimes too ardently contemplating the final hole while trying to avoid the provisional ones; sometimes dutifully falling and getting out, with perfect fortitude, saying “look at the skill and spirit with which I rise from that which resembles the grave but isn’t!“
You may forget but let me tell you this: someone in some future time will think of us
sappho (via queerhistorypatreon)
Home Is So Sad
by Philip Larkin
Home is so sad. It stays as it was left, Shaped to the comfort of the last to go As if to win them back. Instead, bereft Of anyone to please, it withers so, Having no heart to put aside the theft And turn again to what it started as, A joyous shot at how things ought to be, Long fallen wide. You can see how it was: Look at the pictures and the cutlery. The music in the piano stool. That vase.