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

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

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

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

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

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