sofía’s Reviews > The Natural Hustle: Poems > Status Update
sofía
is on page 3 of 128
Yes, that’s right I thought: take a good
long look. Sing it, Miracles. I squinted on into
the sun and thought of Russians and death
and that Spanish lemon painter you told me
about, of how he painted lemons yellow
as the jaundiced summer moon...
— Oct 28, 2024 02:42PM
long look. Sing it, Miracles. I squinted on into
the sun and thought of Russians and death
and that Spanish lemon painter you told me
about, of how he painted lemons yellow
as the jaundiced summer moon...
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sofía’s Previous Updates
sofía
is on page 17 of 128
How do we quantify missing?
The leaves that have not yet turned.
The slap of autumn in the lung.
Requisite bite. Sharp sunslap smell.
The silk of it.
— Nov 18, 2024 07:46PM
The leaves that have not yet turned.
The slap of autumn in the lung.
Requisite bite. Sharp sunslap smell.
The silk of it.
sofía
is on page 15 of 128
... I skulked around those mould-drowned
rooms in your rotten longjohns and felt a love
for you so perfect it was indistinguishable from
mourning. My love was so much more impeccable
than any human man, you may as well have died.
One imagines how it felt, in the crosshairs.
— Nov 11, 2024 06:52PM
rooms in your rotten longjohns and felt a love
for you so perfect it was indistinguishable from
mourning. My love was so much more impeccable
than any human man, you may as well have died.
One imagines how it felt, in the crosshairs.
sofía
is on page 15 of 128
On Raglan Road, you hair started to go grey,
I want to say prematurely, except we weren’t
so young. Mature is a polite word for it; but you
might say we skipped that part, headed straight
to rotten.
— Nov 11, 2024 06:52PM
I want to say prematurely, except we weren’t
so young. Mature is a polite word for it; but you
might say we skipped that part, headed straight
to rotten.
sofía
is on page 15 of 128
I’ve got no game. Anyhow, if I did, what would
we ever laugh about? I don’t believe everyone
loves a winner, but I do believe we all crack
up sooner of later for a dirty joke, a groaner—
everyone loves a class clown, at least once,
at least briefly, because everyone loves a punchline
or a punching bag; everyone’s punch-drunk, one time.
— Nov 11, 2024 06:51PM
we ever laugh about? I don’t believe everyone
loves a winner, but I do believe we all crack
up sooner of later for a dirty joke, a groaner—
everyone loves a class clown, at least once,
at least briefly, because everyone loves a punchline
or a punching bag; everyone’s punch-drunk, one time.
sofía
is on page 14 of 128
... why am I not so fine
as that, to be sprinkled, scattered,
parcelled out among friends and eaten
by the wind coming hard over the water
tonight, coming for the lightest of us
first, the incinerated grain of that darkness
you always saw in her, didn’t you,
the fire, manifest.
— Nov 10, 2024 03:48PM
as that, to be sprinkled, scattered,
parcelled out among friends and eaten
by the wind coming hard over the water
tonight, coming for the lightest of us
first, the incinerated grain of that darkness
you always saw in her, didn’t you,
the fire, manifest.
sofía
is on page 14 of 128
Why should they? Why should anyone
do anything she doesn’t want to do,
like live, for example, survive?
Why should I survive the death
of another too-young woman,
another cracked mirror image,
headed for the crematorium floor,
a fine dust...
— Nov 10, 2024 03:48PM
do anything she doesn’t want to do,
like live, for example, survive?
Why should I survive the death
of another too-young woman,
another cracked mirror image,
headed for the crematorium floor,
a fine dust...
sofía
is on page 13 of 128
...The water and sky meld like this year’s
dead, consolidate. They are one thing, they
are everything. Grey rain on greyglass,
grey waves beyond, grey sky, grey clouds,
broken grey England one grey ocean away;
and the grey slog beyond 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕: tomorrow,
its brood of facsimiles, ashes and salt,
grey by dampening grey. And like breath…
— Oct 29, 2024 08:46PM
dead, consolidate. They are one thing, they
are everything. Grey rain on greyglass,
grey waves beyond, grey sky, grey clouds,
broken grey England one grey ocean away;
and the grey slog beyond 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕: tomorrow,
its brood of facsimiles, ashes and salt,
grey by dampening grey. And like breath…
sofía
is on page 11 of 128
Mostly it’s just quiet here,
and the light wind,
and singing air.
You might dream he wrote you a letter.
He did not write you a letter.
Look at that tree!
No one has written you
a letter.
— Oct 28, 2024 08:06PM
and the light wind,
and singing air.
You might dream he wrote you a letter.
He did not write you a letter.
Look at that tree!
No one has written you
a letter.
sofía
is on page 10 of 128
If you get far enough from the water, everything’s
so dry already it’s drycleaned; except for the liquor
store cashiers, and the dollarstore stickyfingers, and the
rich, knackered, cash-creased mothers who are as desperate
to abuse the substance of themselves as the rest of us.
— Oct 28, 2024 03:10PM
so dry already it’s drycleaned; except for the liquor
store cashiers, and the dollarstore stickyfingers, and the
rich, knackered, cash-creased mothers who are as desperate
to abuse the substance of themselves as the rest of us.
sofía
is on page 3 of 128
... yellow, and I thought of the stories
nations tell themselves, continual reframings
within which the machinations of
love death & personal politics grind on like
bagpipes or knives—Gargle gargle the
raucous tears of the dispossessed.
— Oct 28, 2024 02:43PM
nations tell themselves, continual reframings
within which the machinations of
love death & personal politics grind on like
bagpipes or knives—Gargle gargle the
raucous tears of the dispossessed.
