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