I’ve been drinking, I’ve been drinking. Smoked a lot too, last night. My stomach aches with hollowness, and my throat feels split and wrecked, but my chest is satisfied, patient, full with a secret. Our nightly physical debauchery reminds me of other school break seasons I’ve had, but feels different too, because you’re by my side.
Two weeks sad
One week good
Scrub, rinse, repeat
No wonder I’m so misunderstood
It’s kind of bad
No wait I’m kinda good
I’m feeling great, wait
I’d just be normal if I could
You don’t want to take this trip
‘Cause I can’t ever fight the highs
Just go get a normal guy
Just go forget this abnormal guy
Say you love me;
I think I regret the Ties that bind
You should get up if you’re the falling type you’re the calling
type, but I’m always falling, right. all in, right.
Then again, you might feel me tonight
You might fall for me tonight
I made a vow to never shout in anger again. Call me an oversensitive freak, but I always dreaded getting yelled at, perhaps even more than being subjected to physical violence.
After taking this vow, there will be nothing more conducive to the creative process than being around a scumbag. Pissed drunk, or just drunk, find the words for the scorn, and scribble, hate away. You’re free!
You’re trapped. Welcome to the world of black on white. Perhaps if our eyes were better, we could see the shades of gray, the imperfections, in our ballpoint pen scratches. Remember hating the world, but being old enough to know not to scream? Like being quietly in love, it doesn’t matter whether we’ve the sound or the fury. It will all be the same in time, passing into the reality of passing.
Mod Sloot Prose turned 1 today!
that-weird-girl-lauren asked: Sorry it's weird, but is Julie a common name for teenagers in your country?
Yes, but Julia would probably be more common—
This letter might be incoherent and poorly written because of my grief, but you are looking down from up there, and have already forgiven me. One of my first memories of you is at a Virginia restaurant, Spartans. You ordered a burger and fries. I remember being awed by how you methodically ate all of your fries, and then finished the burger. Little did I know then that you were so much more than a perfect gentleman. You have always been wise and compassionate, but it was only after I grew up a bit that I learned of your history, of your legacy. You were a revolutionary, a leader, an orator, an editor-in-chief, an incorruptible hero of dignity, a reverend, an educator, a husband, a brother, a father, and my 할아버지. You gave me my Korean name, a strong, yet non-obvious side of myself. We could not walk down any street without being stopped by several who know and admire you, but your humility would never hint to that.
Many years after that visit to Spartans, you proudly saw me off to college. I’m doing well in Shanghai, learning more and more Chinese, fostering my relationships, doing well in classes, and I hope to do you proud, to live up to our name. I was about to start my second semester classes when I heard you were diagnosed with lung cancer. You passed away after my first day of classes, and a friend asked me why I wouldn’t take a break from school to grieve. In my mourning, I continue going to classes, knowing that you would want me to. I cry every other day at your passing, but in time, I will have to accept our parting, this sweet sorrow, this cruel reality. O 할아버지, my grandfather, pray for the rest of us, who are left on this world you were too good for. Rest in peace.
In eternal love, as you are in eternal life,
Francis Ho-seong Lee
in mourning come morning.
In the woods, we return to reason and faith… I become a transparent eyeball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or parcel of God… I am the lover of uncontained and immortal beauty.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature
God created Man who created gods creating man creating God—
This past winter break, prompted by my return to Los Angeles, I broke out of my two-year-long chronic depression. I was at first stricken with a hysterical manic delirium, which I hope has matured into a deeper compassion: an acceptance of, and love for life.
A week or so after my break through, I came back to Shanghai, and in the midst of an intense party week, was notified that my grandfather was diagnosed with lung cancer. He only has hours left; I just got out of class. As I write this, my grandfather is fighting death in a Los Angeles hospital bed, surrounded by my family.
Long Live Samuel. Rest in Peace.
You can’t really let me go. Don’t you know you’ve already overdosed? Out or in, either way it’s cold. It’s been sobering to tell you so, you know, I won’t hold her in nor you. I’ve been glowering for miles, burning kind of blue. Gold boy, so dope, young modern sloot: if I know love, it’s ‘cause of what I do.
You’re the master of what you miss. Girl, I can’t find no bliss. I’m your boyfriend emeritus, which is why we still kiss.
Hear that I’m here with the fear that my love was in vain. I bleed royal blue, know you can see my pain. So noble, I toiled, so cool, so royal, I was good and was the lust insane? Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn, but I understand. Text my number, take my hand, at some point I’m still your man.
It’s a boy, and he’s perfect
I invite myself through the glowing portal. A cold grasp tugs at me, and I squeal a little. When I’m out, I look around, and feel my chest heaving a bit; I’m mortal, on my own now, and ever so slightly, have begun to die. My head and body are wet. I’m hungry, and food, in a primordial shape and form, is presented. I feed, then sleep.
(For you, bb—)
'Cause like, supposedly, “brain works better when you work out”
Feel you only know my name when we’re together, I have my doubts
Bee bee, buzz my shame with the busy busy happenings of your daily life
I’ll chase my fame, you’ve got your routine, I don’t even know what we’re about
Maybe ‘cause you’re girl
I’m your bb, in a crazy world
Baby, ‘cause you’re girl
You’re my lady, in a lazy world
Did I hit up our best mutual best friend?
I’m so afraid, I’m so stressed that it’s all going to end
What were we even supposed to read during this break?
I love the drama of the whole thing, it lets me write; you really are a godsend—
When I text you and try
To ignore what I didn’t type
I like you, what’s more, this is just one line
Of many more sweet nothings that I couldn’t say
So I”ll see you when I’m back from LA, back from LA, oh bay bay, back from LA…
Maybe ‘cause you’re girl
I’m your bb, in a crazy world
Baby, because you’re girl
You’re my lady, in a lazy world
You haven’t been responding through emails and this is the second favorite place I visit. And note: please ignore my recent email..I don’t know what’s going on with me and what I feel. Perhaps it’s the doubts and lamenting my father says about love. I’d just like to share this flighting memory.
December 18, 2013
I’m so sorry that I’m being fickle. I say that I’m falling out of love, but at the same time I’m falling deeply in it. I remember the day before I met you. I was taking the placement test for Yonsei. I remember the frustration I faced when I didn’t know the answers to any of the questions. I remember yelling on text at my brother who didn’t wake me up for class. I remember the confusion I had asking the maintenance worker for directions. All was worth it when I opened that classroom door and you were the first person I saw. Being assigned in that class and making an entrance couldn’t be done if I did something differently. I remember you looked like Bender from The Breakfast Club because of your haircut and that sweeping jacket that you had. You disrupted class with your jokes and charisma and I loved it. That was the very turning point of my summer. Opening that door and meeting your gaze. You didn’t even know my name when you met me.
You lovingly termed our state of being as “just enough” as you, with your two arms like smooth ribbons of infinity wrap me while occasionally and casually kissing this knowledge into my skin. Desperation riddles our existence with our own form of deeply felt necessity as we implore each other to donate security like old blankets to the Good Will. I respond to your normal kindness with my usual digging. I push my dirty hands deep inside of your salt soaked wounds and pry you apart despondently trying to plant the understand that you matter deep below your hellish and shelled exterior.
Yet, you still feel like talcum with the coloring of whole wheat flour and almonds. However beneath a layer of burned skin, I’ve found you exist. Like cheap red wine your primary layer is burned with the fire from too many lovers’ fingers. The more intimate, real you lays beside me at night, lays beneath a layer of barbed wire like chain links like the necklaces that hang from your neck like nooses from dead branches and dead bodies from well hung nooses. Still, on our death bed you kiss purported beauty into my shoulder blades and I cut and slice at the part of your forearm that finds my lips most comfortably. I bite down with an open mouth like french doors before an open ledge. Some nights I ponder stepping off, knowing that if I were to fall it would be wrapped in you like the most defective, tangled parachute in an aimless mess of uncoordinated mixing, two bodies sustaining each other on the most sure journey downward. Other nights I know that our entanglement would dutifully lift us out of our blanket consciousness, make us clean of our sins while damning us at the same time.
You sleep with one arm under my neck and I rest my being in the crook where extremity meets necessity, where clarity meets confusion, and your denial meets action. Your bones bend to accept me, your open palms lean outward as if to beg God for a blessing. The sound of your prayers echo inside of my barren walls and together we lay crushed nightly by the realization that God abandoned to each other and half salvation like we could ever bring ourselves full vindication under the covers of youth.
I can count my sins on full sheets of paper scrawled with my neurotic handwriting. My sins sit on your shoulders, borne on your lips’ tips. Some moments you have the audacity to apologize “for us not working out” like we’re broken in any context, as though your unconquered ribcage kneeling before my siege could signal any sort of clear victory. I don’t want to crack you with an axe, or crush you between my jaw bones until the weight of my being bears down and breaches your shell. The sound of you splitting brings me no imagined pleasure and how you could ever engender our relationship in the context of a settled commitment settles in my stomach like a lead weight. Some nights after we spend ourselves like cash currency, borrowing and buying parts of each other bartering for safety and care, you decide to apologize for us, as though I am an action you can repeal, a synapsis you can clear. We dance around the edge like skeletons going home to the afterlife. The mornings where you regret me live beneath my skin only to remind me of what it is to be the affair, reminds me that I’m the best secretary a man will ever have and never promote. I take no dexterous pleasure in existing as laundered currency, yet it’s all I know. By all means keep me as a sin to carry on your shoulders and I’ll immortalize you and manifest the dirt of our existence the only way I know how.
I feel all dead inside—
I’m a wake
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