The Noresoup Jukebox

my sister screams at the apricot tree my mother planted "Why have you pierced through my walls? why have you broken my windows?" I sit still, others enjoy the apricots. it is the first harvest and we have been blessed giddy with anticipation as its flower falls a tree cannot bear the burden of a human's sorrows it has bore fruit, the wait has been fought the apricots are sour,  there are some years ahead before they become sweet but the apricots and the tree - with all its bothersome branches - are ours and till then, window panes will be fixed and walls be filled branches can be cut but they may sprout with glee bear flowers for bees and turn to fruit and ripen again with ease what is it then that we can do? but to bathe in its beauty, to collect its petals, to watch its leaves turn brown and to enjoy its fruits before it perils yes, it is true, i sometimes scream at the apricot tree too for why are its flowers a dull pink why are its fruits small when my family needs pl...

i ate like a starved child on January i felt there was no point any longer if i ate pork, i ate only the fatty bits if i had meat, i had 3 servings and after my meal, i wrap sugar in syrup-soaked pancake and then i sleep lipstick on a pig i was undesirable then just as i am now when food filled up to my nasal cavity  i allowed myself to dance, i sang when it went down further and pranced when it all fit in my belly and i grew and grew and it was the same then and now lipstick on a pig being a woman is such: when i found myself grounded, just as i was growing out of my skin just as i prayed and said it is enough my belly emptied itself, all coming out of my mouth and it happened in February and it happened on a Sunday when i swore it would never happen again and when i had cursed men and i had found comfort in my sloth well all my desires came back to me like a forgotten memory and then i remembered all that i had wanted for myself and that night my mother tells me she's living thro...

Ichiko Aoba - Asleep Among Endives I have not written in a while, I wonder why the last time I wrote, I wrote about love or rather I finished what I had written about love I started the poem back in June or was it July or a few months after? I'm not certain. When Ruby wrote to me and told me she liked my way of thinking I was perplexed because my thoughts had only ever existed behind my eyelids and suddenly they had transcended into their own beings; like they mattered and maybe they do, in fact, matter beyond the values I give them perhaps my thoughts seep out every now and then and people thank or hate me for it But since then I have lost money, someone stole my phone and I spilt my drink on my laptop many tears were shed and few were left oblivious to my despair I went clubbing once and regretted it; I've felt dirty ever since then I'm upset with a friend and it's been over a month now and there's a lunatic living above me I haven't been hugged in a while nor...

mitski - my love, mine all mine when I write about love it is for the girl I grew up with, it is for my father and my mother and the three guys I've known since grade five it is for the girls who met me at 15 and the two that remained till 22 if I write about love I write about the love I understand and know well I write about love for others; love I wrap with compassion love I try to contain in silly words and letters or love that I witness -  people loving despite a daughter that seems happier a mother that is still a bride a man who walks a mile to fetch flowers and then some when the florist has no iris yes, it is well known and my fate is etched on silver with gold if I write about love it is for others it is for others it is for others ~ ៷

it's already August, i'm in awe of how quick time passes when summer was just starting to warm me up, August brought rain, clouds and fierce winds And in my selfish world, my home is crying for my near departure. We are sitting in a shabby little restaurant, The lights are yellow and dim,  Christmas lights decorate the wall in front of me, Red, green and blue lights flashing against the faces of the only men worth loving. It is raining quite heavily behind us, But the food has arrived and the rain seems to do the talking for us. When we were still in our school uniforms, Willem and I, we ran in the rain leaving Mordechai's house. I remember all the laughter and the soaked sweaters.  A few years later, the eldest is seventeen. I'm crying under their umbrellas, their sweaters on my damp back, I was only 16. After another few years, they receive a phonecall I'm leaving for the next few months and do not want to go.  And then another few years and we are in a pool. Some...

The way old friends do - ABBA I'm at home for summer after a year of butchering myself. I've come home to be cherished and loved. I reach home safely, in the arms of my mother, I think, ah, you must have prayed well for me. When we share pieces of our humble dessert,  My father cuts me a bigger piece, Then he goes up to the roof to harvest dragon fruits for me. I haven't seen the guys in what feels like decades. We are sitting in a cafe and we enjoy too much. Time slips away from us, like ribbons, like silk, like sand. Our days blur into a messy abstract,  What feels like seconds are weeks that will never return. But I am there in the moment, and they last forever. The Jude to my Willem, or rather the Willem to my Jude, Sits next to me; sandalwood with hints of vanilla. Elongates our orders and makes us laugh,  He remembers most and spills compassion wherever he goes. The smell of books and old cassette tapes, Little obsessions for great writers, and even greater artists,...

Song: Grantperez - Clementine The clementine trees in my backyard bore fruits for the first time. Autumn had just ended, my soles had thickened and my blankets grew heavier. An unassuming event and yet, it brought colour. My bleak brown backyard and its wilting flowers were now graced by clementines. Sweet little things, with a glossy sheen on their covers, Those clementines were so good, I placed them in a jar for summer. When spring came, it was not the same, it was even better. For a while at least, the clementine trees wore a different colour. White fragrant blossoms, their petals gracing my now green grass. Soft scents that never left and followed me everywhere. Clementine blossoms in my pocket, on my shirt, on the tips of my fingers, stirred into my coffee, poured into my body and leaving traces on my bedsheets, pillows and lips. The turn of summer has dried out my clementine blossoms. That innocent white now wilting an ugly brown. Clementine syrup stains on my shirt and lips, My...