The Noresoup Jukebox

oh dear Ruby  its this world and then you and then me courage has a face courage is you when you knew you wouldn't stay not so much with him more so with that version of you she was kind full of love she was you, she was you but no longer Ruby no longer perhaps amethyst perhaps hues  different colours in different light but what matters is the sun shines on you you as someone new you as Ruby no longer  you who now understands what it means to be cruel to have conquered humiliation and pain and to stand up to life with all your might and to be stubborn and assert that you will love and be kind despite to shed your skin to be grateful for the warmth it gave to know it is no longer what you need you as bell tower,  lighthouse  muse you as strength personified you as my pillar you,  living your truth.

happiness is in the knowing for lucy for lucy who's seen it all the sun may set more vibrantly tomorrow  but with every sunrise, the setting must follow knowing means preparing for what may come and when they will go knowing is the philosopher's stone knowing is cherishing before you lose it all. suffering is the baseline for lucy for lucy who's lived through it all and if the suffering persists so do the pockets that carry warm bliss, unexpected joy that one falls into - knowing or unknowing only putting faith in the way of the world for even if suffering lasts a lifetime  so will death come and soothe it all.  

the sun rises every morning - it is rarely late and I wake up to its warmth,  rays carressing my mother's new curtains my mother says the sun rises because God wakes her up my father does not refute but, he says, it is because the earth rotates on its axis we are all part of a cosmic struggle bigger than us my sister charges her tarot cards under the moon the sun does not possess the same celestial power my therapist tells me to see the sun every day something about vitamins and minerals and happiness i was trapped in my room like a prisoner in May falsifying June, recreating July in that dark apartment I woke up and the sun did not know my parents could only ever hope hope that the apartment was kind trust that the food was warm and plenty but a prisoner does not live comfortably there are no sins or virtues, he borrows no meaning from others for what is life if owned by what yields the sun? what is life if abandoned by this power? yet the sun rose and it was rarely late and when ...

i met a man in the spring, in dire need for company  a man who couldn't see pain beyond his own foolish me, curious cat, had grace and empathy i do not know what to believe  the man i met or the man he used to be but my mother says men do not change and back then, i agreed. how long do i have this music before i find out a man is a man no matter how overt they are with their concern  how careful they are with their desires how soft they are with their selves how bitter they are with their past and how foolish they are with women and oh, how they lavish  with the ways the world bends for men and him, feigning pain and suffering  for want of the mother's touch from women  and the bitter irony,  the laugh of the century, their desire for love triumphs 6 months, then 6 days after,  they desire fresher company  and, the cruelest secret  in the pocket of their youth always hides a woman they tainted a woman they could not respect  an...

i was silent all May my voice must have passed with the spring  i believe it will continue into June be it summer or monsoon  heat or rain with their tangible fury all the love that kept me warm November to April autumn to winter were all a farce, a cruel ruse disguised as formidable lovers loyal to the pretense  leaving just as expected  my voice ever so coddled by the spirit my faith could not satiate in that abyss of solitude  north wall of my apartment  bleak was the future before me, near and far and speech could not convey to others the aching - long were the silent conversations on my bed quiet was the hope that gets one up loud was the silence

i know it is like the sight of mangoes before you get your hands on them lovely, yellow, bright, desiring, yearning, longing to take a bite like the  pot my grandpa used to brew red tea, redder tea and the occasional arbi stew like the  tombstone white from fresh carving, dust on my hands from the touch colour darkened from the crying i know it becomes the  rush of joy, first bite, juice dripping down the hands hands full of something holy like the pot that holds the stew for a family, the tea for after the stew the pot washed and dried on the rack like the touch  that keeps the mold from flowering smoothening the rough edges weeds pulled, thrown to the side. i know how it can be when the hand is empty and the not knowing settles in -  left alone to deal with the stickiness it leaves behind it could be the pot collecting dust, collecting dents now used to keep old trinkets no longer heated, only stains remain from the brewing, the stewing it could be like the st...

  on this week's blasphemy  i cannot un-fear death it is too deeply ingrained in me on today's existential dread this meaningless treachery today's menu, yesterday's ramen  tomorrow's sermon for better servants  i lay on the highway behind the pews on tonight's agenda a slight delay coffee spilled on my laptop, the start of my sombre decay