The Noresoup Jukebox

mei ehara - 悲しい運転手 I feel it with every fibre of my being— like the flesh that clings to the bone, not knowing about the marrow within, not knowing it is what keeps them alive — That life means something— Whatever meaning I choose to give it. Not as a god or a guru, but as someone trying, as someone clinging to the bone, believing in the marrow — that sweet, supple softness. And should the time come when I find that the bone is hollow, and that the marrow was a feeble thing to believe in like pinning hope for a better tomorrow. Well, it should only matter then that I had something to cling to. And I must decide that that is enough to die with to let life go.

Mr. Eclectic - Laufey Soft friend, you give in so easily. Like all the softer men before, you pine, you yearn, you mourn. You dispense all the love you know - to compensate for my empathy, and your lack thereof. Soft friend, you’re ugly when you perform. You whine, you boast, you moan. Your hurt is all that you know. You wish to be seen, but only in a certain light. You want your pain healed, but never with your own might. Soft friend, you’d be an awful lover. You lie, you taunt, you groan. Love given could fill theatre halls - but love received is never how you paint it. A split second for the curtains to fall, for you to claim the love-tainted. But most of all, soft friend, you should know - Life isn’t what you’ve made of it. Thus far, the love you’ve allowed is the love you only wished had been created. For you to relish, to feast on, love has been a thing to consume. And your life - full of greed, of people who used and tricked you. But you - you l...

June came in gently - like the breeze caressing the lace curtains in my bedroom. Sun streaming through, patterns on the wooden ceiling, eyes not yet used to a sky so clear and blue. June was a gentle lover. Love in June was true. In sunny summer did i meet You - entity I must call Father God who has a Son. I saw You in my brother, and all the quiet ways  my hometown loved me. and the showers that came -  sometimes gently,  most times fiercely dreaded nightfall now  with good company. I enter July with hesitation for I must now prepare to say goodbye. and God - how time flies when you do not have to survive the hours that crawl by. I can feel the winds of change passing through my childhood tombs, and all the columns of trees i climbed. new neighbours and their porcelain white walls; farmland now facing  a grand "unity mall" and all the evening walks - now muddled, from the earth they dug up. In August, I realise that despite my praises, my people are no ...

After the storm that kills, the sky remains an awful grey. And as I huddle beneath the rubble, I dream of a quiet day. My mother hums in my ears— melodies that match the beat of drums playing in the sky, falling from the sun. She thinks I do not know, but the melodies tell me she loves me. And so, I pretend to remain a child, even though I have grown used to the heat of the fire. In consequences dire, I put on my father’s cap— his spirit on my head, alive in me: my eyes, my hands, although he is very well dead. And the dream that I dream— of a blue sky, white clouds, the return of dragonflies— seems to wait for me only in the afterlife. Whichever God I meet, I will not ask why. For no reason is good enough for this decade-long demise. My tiny arms are tired. They were not meant to carry bodies— or the head of my father, before his body was buried. And my eyes were meant to see greater things: not red, not rubble, not grey skies or burning trees. My ears no longer hear laughter, or buzz...