Saturday, January 31, 2026

coffee and cigarettes.

coffee and cigarettes 

cigarettes and coffee


i'm sitting in the bath softened with a lush bath oil that will later fuck up my vagina's ph level  leaving me dreadfully itchy. i leave dark marks on the walls and the edge of the bath with a dark liquorice conditioner. it's supposed to make dark hair blacker, not to dye bleached hair black but i know what it takes to bleach out a black box dye and i'm not going to go through that again. 


picked up smoking again recently trying to embody that meme about spirituality from years ago. after all i'm 6 months into my 30s.

i'm currently rewatching jim jarmusch's catalogue. this time it's "coffee and cigarettes". i need me some awkward and adorable cinema loving disjointed dialogues to soothe my wounded soul after another rejected university application. and i have to avoid crying at all costs. 


i adore "coffee and cigarettes". seeing bill murray drinking coffee out of the pitcher makes my soul dance with post-punk joy. and late Renée French who just wants to flip through a gun catalogue while sipping on her coffee of perfect colour and temperature in peace leaves me melting in all the right ways.

so here i am in the bath drinking the second black pour over of the day, smoking rolled fags one after another while refreshing the inky blackness of my hair and swaying to the poetry of "coffee and cigaarettes", nicotine always makes me dizzy and nauseous. but i'm no stranger to ignoring my body's protective signals for the sake of mundane melodrama. somebody has to keep this cinematic coolness alive. 



cinema.

an open-roof drive through this homely hell

seeking beauty amidst anxieties and instabilities

exchanging colourful shards of dreams

unexplainable treasures of seeing and being seen

leaning into cinema

all encompassing sweet drama of existence

it's sweeter next to you



Friday, January 30, 2026

the abyss.

stuck on the side of the toilet bowl

only slightly grazed by the spiralling water

dangling awkwardly

on the edge of the abyss






Wednesday, January 28, 2026

glimpses, darknesses, inks.

a naked tree invisible against the night sky

strange loss of agency through day cycles

demoralising yet safe

i guess the tree can't care

its alignment is unquestioned and effortless

it's not against the night sky


a glimpse of inky branches brought by a passing cloud

a disconnect between visible reality and visual metaphors

glimpses, darknesses, inks

incoherent beauty of uncaring co-existence

somebody probably cares about the tree


streamlined nervousness between undefinable boundaries

neurosis is not a sufficient theme of artistic inquiry

yet it's here regardless of the time of day




Tuesday, January 27, 2026

wallowing.

ten fags smoked

twenty nonograms solved

countless youtube videos watched

200 quid spent 

not a line written

is it time to go on ozempic

is it time to give myself face tats

this cannot count as a poem

but this me me me wallower has to go to bed eventually



Monday, January 26, 2026

what else is there.

an essential yearning for drama

for brutal catharsis 

amidst continuous uninterrupted sludge


clouded judgement leading to the most mundane wrong choices

a proper burst requires a fundamental break in repression


so what else is there then

if not self-perpetuating disappointment

if not barely detectable fall into abyss


too healthy for suicide

too repressed for art


life passes by

a roadkill rotting on the kerb




Sunday, January 25, 2026

seabed party.

mouth full of laughter and cigarette smoke

the pit in the throat retreating unnoticed

bossing loved ones around lovingly

caring and being cared for

making plans to share more joy

the soft caress of music in-between coral reefs

you can find me in da club on the seabed



boring.

vision at twelve bright pink frames per second

one elastic shape behind closed eyes stretching and contracting to the bit in all directions

the joy lasts just about 10 minutes before the surroundings invade my world

wtf you're doing in sneakers here, lad?

boring, all boring, everything boring

this pleasure fountain is drained





Saturday, January 24, 2026

"boy parts" by eliza clark

There's a soft part of your brain. A place where you're still just a child. Once someone's poked the soft spot, the dent doesn't go away. Like sticking your fingers in wet concrete.

I catch my reflection in the wing mirror. There she is, with her smudged eyeliner and her messy hair, the tracks of her hair extensions on display, lipstick on the tip of her nose and her chin. She's wet concrete gone hard, full of dents, reshaped into this *thing*, which burps and pisses and has to be washed and fed and fucked.

I look in the mirror and think: who the fuck is that? Who is she?


i borrowed a couple of books from my housemate before (in particular nora awad's "bunny"). the other day she left for a week (or five, you never know with her) and handed me five other books she thinks i might like. which is an incredibly confident move, but i accept it enthusiastically. 


this one is the first out of five. (actually she also recommended me "my year of rest and relaxation", but another housemate handed me their copy, isn't it great to have 20 housemates?)


this is yet another story narrated by an alienated creative youth. this time we're following Irina Sturges, a photographer who studied at CSM and RCA (a big fucking deal), but had to move back to Newcastle. the bitch is crazy, she is mean and manipulative, she starves herself skinny, she goes through a gram of coke in 12 hours. i absolutely adore her. as i said previously in my post about "the boys" i love a psychologically broken character who doesn't hold back their anger and violent urges. i've been drawn to people like this in real life as well, until they unsurprisingly hurt me too. but i digress. 


she carries around business cards and gives them to men she meets on her way: a suit on the bus with a dad bod, an effeminate bartender, a soft shorty behind a tesco counter. if they get back to her, she takes them to her garage studio and photographs them nude and submissive. occasionally she has to defend herself from them. often they should defend themselves from her but they want her just a bit too much to have any sense left. 


it all goes downhill (as much downhill as it can go for such a person) once she is invited to exhibit in london. we discover her history through unpacking her creative archives, while she is making new work with Eddie from Tesco. with him she violates one of her only rules: don't touch the subject, don't get handsy. 


it's a story of addiction to pain, of desire to be seen and recognised turning her inside out and leaving bloody streaks all over the country. i would definitely recommend it. 


the only criticism i have now is that the author kind of drops Irina's friend's blogs as a narrative device half way through the book. i wish there were more of them. 


otherwise i had an incredible time reading it. is it bad that it makes me horny? the last few pages coincided with friends setting up the soundsystem in the living room for tomorrow's party playing wavy dark ambient in tune to my body waving with the intensity of the resolution. 


i love irina, i love this book, i love violence. 


I look at the photos again, the ones I didn't delete. I look at his purple face, his bloody chin and nipple, his swollen cheeks. I wonder what the fuck I have to do for people to recognise me as a threat, you know? It's like... am I even doing this shit? Have I even fucking done anything? 

Like, do I have to snap the wine bottle inside him to get him to stop sending me sad emails? Do I have to cut his nipple off for him to realise he should probably ring the police? Do I have to cave his head in with my camera, rather than hit him the once? Do I have to crash his car? Do I have to smash a glass over the head of every single man I come into contact with, just so I leave a fucking mark? 



 

Friday, January 23, 2026

thank you.

your kindness startles me

otherworldly softness 

from beyond my known reality

a challenge to daily movements of regurgitating all the reasons why not

why not warm why not stable why not loved or loving

struggling to believe it yet faced with absolute necessity to do so

convinced this is my best

knowing that it's not

i stumble clumsily between shallow sorry-s

to obfuscate a candid thank you.


thank you. 


worry.

misery loves company

dreams where you keep yourself awake

sunny days behind

only wet thighs of jeans

dog hair stuck with dirt

right after grooming

why do i care so much about microfailures of interhumanity

my failures

too much worry

another day in excessive worry

constant worry

when i appear before god i would ask him why did i have to worry so much about the littlest things

anxiety is unrealistic

punishing

unforgiving

torturous little critter crawling in-between nerves

biting on neurons making them fire in all the wrong directions

worry worry worry 

it's ok




let it burn.

burn it all down 

old new

inside outside


burn burn burn

interreach with fire

melt down the edges

watch your blood sizzle


burn

spill your waxy body

all across the room

see it seeping in-between the floorboards


burn the buildings

burn the cities

catalog all tonalities of grief 


raze it all to the ground

in the orchestral victory of rage

let it burn


Wednesday, January 21, 2026

no revenge.

concealment is a fraught strategy

outwardly effective

inwardly suboptimal

how much calories did you spend plotting revenge

that you would never follow through

death before embarrassment

but it's too early to die


Monday, January 19, 2026

unfounded.

unfounded one is left to find 

foundational myths for others 

ungrounded and unlatched

floating through woven stories

blown by the littlest gust of bitter winds

hope is good for traction but is a dangerous thing

for a woman like me to have 



Sunday, January 18, 2026

"my year of rest and relaxation." by ottessa moshfegh

I took the garbage out into the hallway and threw it down the trash chute. Having a trash chute was one of my favorite things about my building. It made me feel important, like I was participating in the world. My trash mixed with the trash of others. The things I touched touched things other people had touched. I was contributing. I was connecting. 

a curious parable of a person alienated and isolated, brought up in cold privilege, lacking any direction, meaning or drive towards a better life. 

to reset she decides to pursue the pharmaceutical magic of sleeping pills giving herself a year to sleep it out. we are reminded of a common treatment for hysterical women widely practiced at the outset of psychiatry. it doesn't always go as planned, but at least now she is determined. 

she is a gorgeous blonde thin new yorker, who studied arts, whose both parents are dead. has a friend who cares about her, but who she struggles to sincerely care about without a touch of disgust and irritation. in the background the year 2001 steadily taking its course, day by day, month by month. 

the language is a bit simplistic for my taste, it has a diaristic quality to it, a certain lack of refinement. but it didn't stop me from often deeply empathising with her inability to belong, to feel human, with the desire to fall asleep hoping to wake up a renewed better person, fitter, happier, more productive. 



self.

self hate is self absorption

self soothing with self deception

self made selfhood 

taking a selfie of oneself

straying into selflessness

for self satisfaction

self preservation through self loathing

through self harm

self obsession

self self self self self

tear the self away 


Saturday, January 17, 2026

infestation.

stink bugs riding back and forth between the throat and the diaphragm 

sucking out the juicy red

leaving the crispy wrapping of a bloated ego to shatter with the tiniest vision of threat

eventually ones has to give up on gentleness 

it’s been three decades 

burn the host down


Friday, January 16, 2026

books i read during my winter scotland trip.

Émile Zola "Nana"

a story of a parisian sex-worker rising from a street walker to a high-class courtesan during the last few years of the second french empire. she is a myth, she is a legend, she is an ancient pagan deity whose overwhelming sexual force burns through the masculine establishment. men's undisciplined decadence and vain lust destroys them and the republic while Nana in her unconscious act of class revenge feeds on their finances, status, and self-respect. 

i loved all the situational prose: dates, vain conversations in salons (mostly about Bismarck), detailed descriptions of the weather. there is also a strong queer undercurrent among sex-workers, however tainted by the competitiveness of the field. 


Anne Carson "Eros the Bittersweet"

Anne Carson's first book, her dissertation on how eros is portrayed in Ancient Greek literature reworked into a non-fiction literary masterpiece. starting with portrayals of love between people, the lover's chase of the beloved and the unbridgeable distance between them during the adolescence of the written language, she applies the same geometrical analysis to writing and philosophy, to the pursuit of knowledge itself. 

it was a bit of a hard read being focused on the Ancient Greek and detailing the particularities of language that i cannot understand, so i can only conceptualise the flavours described by her rather than experience them. but it is an incredibly helpful text to have a better grasp on all her following writing. 


Anne Carson "Autobiography of Red"

one of my favourite books of all time. this was the first book of hers i read a couple years ago. but this time i decided to re-read it together with its sequel ("Red Doc>") and "Eros the Bittersweet".

a myth of one of the Heracles's labours reworked as a beautiful and heart-breaking queer story of two canadian teenagers: Heracles and Geryon. Anne Carson has a gift for keeping multiple contexts overlayed without fusing them, mixing but not shaking. in this book the myth coexists with the modern story. Geryon is still a red-winged monster living his relatively normal life and reading Heidegger. 

this particular book is so abundant with unexpected metaphors and ripe comparisons, leaving mind soft and receptive to the beauty of the mundane world. 


Anne Carson "Red doc>"

sequel to "Autobiography of Red". Geryon is now G and reads Proust and Kharms. Heracles served in the army and came back as sergeant Sad. he suffers from PTSD. here we finally see G's red cattle until Sad takes him away on an adventure, ending up in a psychiatric clinic/auto workshop based in a glacier. 

Carson experimentation with styles and forms is in full force here. she accepts the formatting accident making the text a mere three words wide column. what is poetry after all? and here we hear explicit chorus named "Wife of the Brain". 

i read it once before, about a year ago, but it was hard to follow for me at the time. as i submerged myself in Anne's other writing this trip, i could finally feel the extent of surreal imagery and human grief and care this book offers.


Mona Awad "Bunny"

an incredibly delightful magical realism novel following Samantha, an mfa creative writing student in Warren University. the workshop she attends is populated by a clique of saccharine, annoyingly affectionate girls from a wealthy background. at first she keeps her distance, hating their high-pitched mutual cooing, until they invite her to join their Smut Salon, where she discovers their dark extracurricular activities and gets engulfed in them. 

to say anything else would be a spoiler. this is a story about the power of imagination and how it is informed by life experience and intellectual rigour. who can and who cannot create convincing characters. it's a story about the writing itself told in the horror mean girls shutter island terms. 

i ate it up in two sittings, just couldn't stop. definitely going to read more of her. 

Thursday, January 15, 2026

no stranger to jealousy.

i am a jealous person. envious person as well. i get possessive and obsessive. i cling tight to people to avoid loneliness. push away those who seem enthusiastic about being around me. 

anxious-avoidant. avoidant-anxious. anxious-avoidant. avoidant-anxious. 

i hate this about me. i can't escape it. 

i see people doing what i want and could do, i get bitter. the poison bubbles up and sits in my throat. i see people loving each other lightly and tenderly, my eyes tense up and get peppery. 

i got all sulky seeing my bestie having more success feeding pigeons than i did. we were seven. 

my grandma complimented my cousin's hair, i took it as a critique of mine. 

over and over and over again any sign of goodness in the world reminds me of my own shortcomings. 

it's a type of narcissistic behaviour, the most unproductive kind of egocentrism. that's how people become incels after all. stewing in their own saltiness. rotting away the days. 

i just need to get my sleep schedule back to normal. 

    





Wednesday, January 14, 2026

i love on-screen violence.

finished watching the fourth season of "the boys" just now. ate the whole shit up in less than a week. hate that i have to wait now till april to see the last season.


i love it. it's silly at times, of course, and the political conversation is less than subtle, but the whole drama is honey to my heart. i would forgo being vegan and being sober just to eat some of frenchie's dishes while hign on a melange of hallucinogenics. mon coeur, there is no one better than you. 


i often think whether i should psychologize my fascination with media portraying the violence of emotionally unavailable men. out loud i said "he is so me" when watching "drive" with ryan gosling. then i slurped up "the sopranos" empathising seemingly a bit to much with the cast of characters and often reproducing their inflections in real-life conversations. 


sometimes i ascribe this to being brought up as heavily emotionally stunted woman, who primarily pours all of the anger back into herself. it rots inside and leaks on others slowly, spreads a stench all over the shop. oh how i wish sometimes to just be a man prone to anger, getting into fights, receiving and giving scars rather than pursue my pathetic strategy. 


obviously would be nice to be properly emotionally regulated, grow up stable and well-rounded, brave but not reckless, assertive but not violent, forgiving but not a doormat. 


oh well, in the meantime, serve me up some of that ultra-violence, baby. 








Tuesday, January 13, 2026

lilly mothcub made me do it.

 first post to seal the deal. 


i've been thinking of creating a blog for way too long. always overthought the project, the subjects. overestimated how developed my thoughts must be to be published. 


oh well, may be i'll never be a "proper" enough writer to have a blog, but i'll still have one. 


current concept is to write down the conversations i have in my head. recurring opinions, thoughts and stories that haven't found their way into a face-to-face engagement.


thus welcome, everyone, to "tails of conversations" brought to you by da:ze.