Saturday, November 28, 2009

live journal

December 8th, 2003

11:42 am - i forgot about it here...sometimes i forget alot
so....what happens now?

here i am....myself again. almost at an instant.
got off the plane and greeted by a shocking amount of voicemail and phone calls.

got here safe>?

home yet?

when do i see you?

how do you like the snow?

ive missed you.

smiles and smiles and smiles. more smiles as i stepped into puddles and slipped and slid all over the sidewalks.
almost forgot how to walk in the snow. almost forgot how to cross the streets and on what street cinderella falafel was on.
almost forgot how beautiful it is this time...and how amazing the people look.

the smell of the subway..and the little mice found crawling in and out of the tracks.

forgot the feeling of being crowded...always...but then you finding yourself on some cold and lonely street..and you are alone again...a walk through the park.

a phone call saying he will be where do you go? the L always takes a while. he is coming from greenpoint...i give him 30 mins.

easy...that little bar on 7th st and 1st ave. the one by the market and the neon lights.

she wasnt surprised to see me.
her hair had gotten longer. she gave me that face she always does and took my hands. warmed them up real good.
and kept on talking to that man. she is always talking to someone. and its always something interesting. and i just stood there looking at her the way i do.
finally...i get to have my jojo.
then a good kiss on the forehead and some talk.

what will you be drinking.

cranberry juice

no way..i see san francisco has changed my lil susu

no. im just trying not to drink too much..and its early jo.

that face.
a smile.
and more talk.

just move back.just move back. justmove back.
damn it all...i dont know what to do.
Current Mood: confused
Current Music: brian eno...

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

KP Poetry Journal Volume 1

Kunstprojects "Oh, Don't Get Carried Away" is first of a series of Berlin Based Journals, compiled and edited by artist Declan Rooney and featuring commissioned work from:

Are Blytt

Stefano Calligaro

Hsiao Chen

Sujey Lee Colon

Drawing Guts

Edward Eke

Edvine Larssen

Thurston Moore

Donata Rigg

Ama Saru

Antonio Serna

Susanne Winterling

Limited Edition of 200
Black and White Photocopied Zine
29.5 x 21cms
5.00 euros (excluding postage and packaging)

To order please contact:

Friday, May 1, 2009

W.H. Auden

Cocaine Lil and Morphine Sue

Did you ever hear about Cocaine Lil?
She lived in Cocaine town on Cocaine hill,
She had a cocaine dog and a cocaine cat,
They fought all night with a cocaine rat.

She had cocaine hair on her cocaine head.
She had a cocaine dress that was poppy red:
She wore a snowbird hat and sleigh-riding clothes,
On her coat she wore a crimson, cocaine rose.

Big gold chariots on the Milky Way,
Snakes and elephants silver and gray.
Oh the cocaine blues they make me sad,
Oh the cocaine blues make me feel bad.

Lil went to a snow party one cold night,
And the way she sniffed was sure a fright.
There was Hophead Mag with Dopey Slim,
Kankakee Liz and Yen Shee Jim.

There was Morphine Sue and the Poppy Face Kid,
Climbed up snow ladders and down they skid;
There was the Stepladder Kit, a good six feet,
And the Sleigh-riding Sister who were hard to beat.

Along in the morning about half past three
They were all lit up like a Christmas tree;
Lil got home and started for bed,
Took another sniff and it knocked her dead.

They laid her out in her cocaine clothes:
She wore a snowbird hat with a crimson rose;
On her headstone you’ll find this refrain:
She died as she lived, sniffing cocaine

Feburary 21, 1907 – September 29, 1973

Some images from my recent trip to Puerto Rico. Pool side at my aunts. Enjoy.

© Sujey Lee

© Sujey Lee

© Sujey Lee


Friday, April 10, 2009

Louise Bogan

Words For Departure

Nothing was remembered, nothing forgotten.
When we awoke, wagons were passing on the warm summer pavements,
The window-sills were wet from rain in the night,
Birds scattered and settled over chimneypots
As among grotesque trees.

Nothing was accepted, nothing looked beyond.
Slight-voiced bells separated hour from hour,
The afternoon sifted coolness
And people drew together in streets becoming deserted.
There was a moon, and light in a shop-front,
And dusk falling like precipitous water.

Hand clasped hand
Forehead still bowed to forehead--
Nothing was lost, nothing possessed
There was no gift nor denial.

I have remembered you.
You were not the town visited once,
Nor the road falling behind running feet.

You were as awkward as flesh
And lighter than frost or ashes.

You were the rind,
And the white-juiced apple,
The song, and the words waiting for music.

You have learned the beginning;
Go from mine to the other.

Be together; eat, dance, despair,
Sleep, be threatened, endure.
You will know the way of that.

But at the end, be insolent;
Be absurd--strike the thing short off;
Be mad--only do not let talk
Wear the bloom from silence.

And go away without fire or lantern
Let there be some uncertainty about your departure.

August 11, 1897 - February 4, 1970


im sick. cough cough.

Friday, April 3, 2009

Walt Whitman

And now a little collection of poems by Walt Whitman........enjoy.

Hast Never Come to Thee an Hour.

HAST never come to thee an hour,
A sudden gleam divine, precipitating, bursting all these bubbles, fashions, wealth?
These eager business aims—books, politics, art, amours,
To utter nothingness?

Ah Poverties, Wincings and Sulky Retreats.

AH poverties, wincings, and sulky retreats!
Ah you foes that in conflict have overcome me!
(For what is my life, or any man’s life, but a conflict with foes—the old, the
You degradations—you tussle with passions and appetites;
You smarts from dissatisfied friendships, (ah wounds, the sharpest of all;)
You toil of painful and choked articulations—you meannesses;
You shallow tongue-talks at tables, (my tongue the shallowest of any;)
You broken resolutions, you racking angers, you smother’d ennuis;
Ah, think not you finally triumph—My real self has yet to come forth;
It shall yet march forth o’ermastering, till all lies beneath me;
It shall yet stand up the soldier of unquestion’d victory.

As At Thy Portals Also Death.

AS at thy portals also death,
Entering thy sovereign, dim, illimitable grounds,
To memories of my mother, to the divine blending, maternity,
To her, buried and gone, yet buried not, gone not from me,
(I see again the calm benignant face fresh and beautiful still,
I sit by the form in the coffin,
I kiss and kiss convulsively again the sweet old lips, the cheeks, the closed eyes in the
To her, the ideal woman, practical, spiritual, of all of earth, life, love, to me the
I grave a monumental line, before I go, amid these songs,
And set a tombstone here.

Whoever You are, Holding Me now in Hand.

WHOEVER you are, holding me now in hand,
Without one thing, all will be useless,
I give you fair warning, before you attempt me further,
I am not what you supposed, but far different.

Who is he that would become my follower?
Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?

The way is suspicious—the result uncertain, perhaps destructive;
You would have to give up all else—I alone would expect to be your God, sole and
Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting,
The whole past theory of your life, and all conformity to the lives around you, would have
Therefore release me now, before troubling yourself any further—Let go your hand from my
Put me down, and depart on your way.

Or else, by stealth, in some wood, for trial,
Or back of a rock, in the open air,
(For in any roof’d room of a house I emerge not—nor in company,
And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,)
But just possibly with you on a high hill—first watching lest any person, for miles
approach unawares,
Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea, or some quiet island,
Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you,
With the comrade’s long-dwelling kiss, or the new husband’s kiss,
For I am the new husband, and I am the comrade.

Or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,
Where I may feel the throbs of your heart, or rest upon your hip,
Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;
For thus, merely touching you, is enough—is best,
And thus, touching you, would I silently sleep and be carried eternally.

But these leaves conning, you con at peril,
For these leaves, and me, you will not understand,
They will elude you at first, and still more afterward—I will certainly elude you,
Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold!
Already you see I have escaped from you.

For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this book,
Nor is it by reading it you will acquire it,
Nor do those know me best who admire me, and vauntingly praise me,
Nor will the candidates for my love, (unless at most a very few,) prove victorious,
Nor will my poems do good only—they will do just as much evil, perhaps more;
For all is useless without that which you may guess at many times and not hit—that which I
Therefore release me, and depart on your way.

For Him I Sing.

FOR him I sing,
(As some perennial tree, out of its roots, the present on the past:)
With time and space I him dilate—and fuse the immortal laws,
To make himself, by them, the law unto himself.

Walter Whitman
May 31, 1819 – March 26, 1892

Thursday, April 2, 2009


We Three

My love wanders the rooms, melodious,
flute notes, plucked wires,
full of wine the Magi drank
on the way to Bethlehem.

We are three. The moon comes
from its quiet corner, puts a pitcher of water
down in the center. The circle
of surface flames.

One of us knees to kiss the threshold.

One drinks, with the wine-flames playing over his face.

One watches the gathering, and says to any cold onlookers,

This dance is the joy of existence.

I am filled with you.
Skin, blood, bones, brain, and soul.
There's no room for lack of trust, or trust.
Nothing in this existence but that existence.

Mawlānā Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Balkhī (مولانا جلال الدین محمد بلخى), also known as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī (جلال‌الدین محمد رومی), but known as Rumi.

September 30,1207 – December 17,1273

Wednesday, April 1, 2009


i really like them.

Sylvia Plath

Today someone remarked...."who is sylvia plath?" had me thinking.

well i think this is only appropriate. and let us not forgot APRIL IS NATIONAL POETRY MONTH!

Mad Girl's Love Song

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"


If you dissect a bird
To diagram the tongue
You'll cut the chord
Articulating song.
If you flay a beast
To marvel at the mane
You'll wreck the rest
From which the fur began.

If you pluck out the heart
To find what makes it move,
You'll halt the clock
That syncopates our love.

Aquatic Nocturne

deep in liquid
turquoise slivers
of dilute light

quiver in thin streaks
of bright tinfoil
on mobile jet:

pale flounder
waver by
tilting silver:

in the shallows
agile minnows
flicker gilt:

grapeblue mussels
dilate lithe and
pliant valves:

dull lunar globes
of blubous jellyfish
glow milkgreen:

eels twirl
in wily spirals
on elusive tails:

adroir lobsters
amble darkly olive
on shrewd claws:

down where sound
comes blunt and wan
like the bronze tone
of a sunken gong.

Words heard, by accident, over the phone

O mud, mud, how fluid! ---
Thick as foreign coffee, and with a sluggy pulse.
Speak, speak! Who is it?
It is the bowel-pulse, lover of digestibles.
It is he who has achieved these syllables.

What are these words, these words?
They are plopping like mud.
O god, how shall I ever clean the phone table?
They are pressing out of the many-holed earpiece, they are looking for a
Is he here?

Now the room is ahiss. The instrument
Withdraws its tentacle.
But the spawn percolate in my heart. They are fertile.
Muck funnel, muck funnel --
You are too big. They must take you back!

Interview with Peter Orr
October 30, 1962

October 27, 1932 – February 11, 1963

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Today I am thinking about Klaus Nomi

I do not know why, but I am.

Nomi Song

Klaus on TV Party

Lighting Strikes.

Sunday, March 29, 2009

san juan bautista, california

Coordinates 36° 50′ 42.3″ N, 121° 32′ 9.2″ W
Decimal 36.845083, -121.535889
Title Mission San Juan Bautista
UTM 4078687 630539 10S
Type landmark
Region US-CA
Scale ± 1:2000

© sujeylee

we took a long drive and ended up in a small town by the san andreas fault. lots of stray cats and a questionable motel room.
' i adore you so"

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Dennis Cooper

Elliot Smith at 14
an extract from 'The Weaklings'


I hug my friends until
we're bruised. I won't
quit hugging them,
not if they scream
at me to stop. Every-

thing's a machine.
Snort it. Everyone's
a ride. I won't stop
riding us until the barf
backs up my throat

Everyone's fantastic
every second. Suddenly
one of us is torn apart
by a machine but I'm too
real to care. Fuck you.


Father says when I'm stoned
shit is dumped into my brain
and then I fight my way sober
because I want to stay alive..

Mother says the perfect things
I really want invade my brain
when I get stoned, and drugs
are telling me I shouldn't die.

I say they slip the drugs into my
food and when I'm stoned they
take me to a secret room and
beat my brains in with their fists.


I've drugged myself to your place
because my life is all fucked up.

You mistake my life for yours or
take the life you had imagined.

I'm so stoned yours seems real
but you were too fucked up to live

I wish I was dead and you aren't
because there's no place on earth.


She was perfect
and licking a guy's
dick, blonde and
hot and I wanted
her, not to lick my
dick but my life.

Her eyes were
burnt wood brown
like a dog's, and
drugs screwed up
our opinions, and
she limped to me.

She shined up my
life in my head
and I thought it
was love licking
me, not my dick,
but It's still hard.


I remember fists hitting my face,
golf balls lodged under the couch
and cold blue eyes I couldn't heat.
I wasn't stoned when he was that.

I see my mother every day now.
She's the drunk and I'm the druggie,
sans a husband, dad, soggy, fried.
He's a hum through the proceedings.

Today in my stoned exploration of
a corner of the crap I used to love.
I find my father in a faded photo
with the Presidents, smiling at me.

The flashbulb's glare hides his eyes
now, as permanent as the irises.
The Presidents are Nixon, Ford,
and Reagan. I don't know my father.


A led pipe makes
Jeff look like Luke
in the end, same
build, reddish hair,
crushed mean face,
could fool anyone
taking photos, then
get high and bury
Jeff so deep inside
your head you make
believe he's Luke,
and deserved it like
Luke, then shut your
eyes and drugs can
answer any question
about Luke or ugly
Jeff, but at the same
time not as perfectly
as murdering myself.


When drugs hit me, they
spotlight a little cell that
recreates my bright idea
inside the mixture of us.

I wish I were younger.
I know it was stupid then.
But now it's a drug in me.
Why fuck with the truth?

Maybe it's never my idea
being lit up by the drugs,
or they have shined shit.
Whatever this is, I rule.

buy this book. poetry is good for your skin and sexual drive. promise.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

James Schuyler

Faure's Second Piano Quartet

On a day like this the rain comes
down in fat and random drops among
the ailanthus leaves---"the tree
of Heaven"---the leaves that on moon-
lit nights shimmer black and blade-
shaped at this third-floor window.
And there are bunches of small green
knobs, buds, crowded together. The
rapid music fills in the spaces of
the leaves. And the piano comes in,
like an extra heartbeat, dangerous
and lovely. Slower now, less like
the leaves, more like the rain which
almost isn't rain, more like thawed-
out hail. All this beauty in the
mess of this small apartment on
West 20th in Chelsea, New York.
Slowly the notes pour out, slowly,
more slowly still, fat rain falls.

This Dark Apartment

Coming from the deli
a block away today I
saw the UN building
shine and in all the
months and years I’ve
lived in this apartment
I took so you and I
would have a place to
meet I never noticed
that it was in my view.

I remember very well
the morning I walked in
and found you in bed
with X. He dressed
and left. You dressed
too. I said, “Stay
five minutes.” You
did. You said, “That’s
the way it is.” It
was not much of a surprise.

Then X got on speed
and ripped off an
antique chest and an
air conditioner, etc.
After he was gone and
you had changed the
Segal lock, I asked
you on the phone, “Can’t
you be content with
your wife and me?” “I’m
not built that way,”
you said. No surprise.

Now, without saying
why, you’ve let me go.
You don’t return my
calls, who used to call
me almost every evening
when I lived in the coun-
try. “Hasn’t he told you
why?” “No, and I doubt he
ever will.” Goodbye. It’s
mysterious and frustrating.

How I wish you would come
back! I could tell
you how, when I lived
on East 49th, first
with Frank and then with John,
we had a lovely view of
the UN building and the
Beekman Towers. They were
not my lovers, though.
You were. You said so.

November 9, 1923-April 12, 1991

One of my many nights in Berlin.

© Sujeylee

Saturday, January 10, 2009

I am exhausted

‘I want to dream of you’ seems such a simple request
I want my memories too
heads ready and open to wide pillows waiting to hold treasures of your face
a gaping, laughing mouth spitting out into the fine air around you. magic sparks
breathing in and laying in tubs I suddenly miss you

By Sujey Lee