The Noresoup Jukebox

 One of the toughest things to do in life is to abandon or question your faith. One of the bravest things you might do is assert your position as a sceptic, or worse yet, a non-believer. For what that would mean is committing yourself to lose all your privileges - the kinds that keep you floating. And not only have you sunk your ship deliberately, no boat will take you, and you will have no God to help you grow gills as to survive in the water. And how ironic is it for the community to ostracise a person for doubting when they preach about love, generosity, and acceptance in the church's pews? Were they alcoholics, recovering addicts, or perhaps an adulterer or someone who violates women, oh if the fates had been kind enough to make them turn to actual sin and not the man-made construct of sinful intellect! Well, the boats would have taken them before their fingers pruned from the salty water.  For those sins can be masked with poetic and enthusiastic spiritual rebirth, and on...

Oblivion - Alice Phoebe Lo Well, October was an awful series of events, and I do not wish to revisit most of them. To fool myself into remembering a better autumn, I have counted October's pocket pennies. I have worn out my juttis just as I had hoped to. One is made of cloth and lined in gold, like lace. The other is leathery and tough, and though it hurt my feet for the first 30 wears, the thirty-first was ever so lovely.  The soles have darkened; my love for them has deepened. Juttis can be a steady source of happiness - till they break, of course, but that is then, the loving is now. Yes, my phone did break, and the replacement is awful. However, I now appreciate conversations better and have become far more interested in the stains on my wall. Toothbrush, soapy water, and Alice Phoebe Lou in the background (only because her songs have become happier, and I like to imagine that I have too). My father's visits and my sister's stay kept me busy, and even more so when Salu ...

Alice Phoebe Lou - Pretender silent reader of awful girl poet, I hope your days have been better. recently, I lost 2 sets of keys and the washing machine needed a new motor. my social demise  came on a Sunday when the church could not remember my name. then my phone broke after the 100th drop and the laughter that escaped made me look insane. I positively despise all the company I keep in this God forsaken academic space. I have a male professor I abhor and a female supervisor who I cried to once and now locks her chamber away. silent reader of awful girl poet, I hope the breeze caresses you  dearly perhaps reading about my awfulness, and the unlucky life I'm leading, could help you look at yours and realise  that yours might not be worth leaving. then perhaps I could use my silly poetry to lasso your newfound desire; to live a life that is less awful than mine to spare my thumbs from growing drier and drier.

I Guess The Lord Must Be In New York City - Harry Nilsson When you wake up to skies so blue Sun streaming through white lace curtains weaving patterns on ceilings made of wood - The eyes are not yet used to the light let in but are hopeful of a future certain. The cushion that you land on - escaping Delhi's summer heat for the hills. Well, God is a funny thing. My first morning home, a sparrow entered my room. 7 windows and I opened 6 of them - one stuck from the lack of twisting and turning over the years. Well, the bird made its rounds and flew about. A huge loud thud, and would you have it? The sparrow flew into the seventh, broke its head and fell down. Toy for our dog Sandy, Anguish for the sky that has lost part of its family. Even in death did the sparrow serve a purpose, for play, prayer, and poetry. And like the sparrow, had I driven myself to the only closed window before spring became summer. Stubborn to find if my mind could break what had not yet been broken. And yes, ...

Steely Dan - Only a Fool Would Say That "Winter is coming," Mordechai says — grim and dull. Wound with despair for what is to come, Mordechai feels handicapped when all he wants to do is run. "That cold dusk is dawning on me. I must leave. I must go." But Mordechai does not realise: if he runs, all he will do is fall. Because the journey is to be walked, the pain is to be felt intensely. So does suffering come and make its home, like an old wound reopening. Perhaps this will answer the ambiguity that life has been to you, Mordechai. Release your fists, open your palms, and allow these eager hands to hold you. Winter has been unkind and cruel — and I won’t argue. You have been frostbitten, left thirsty and without gruel,   and yes, often, there was solitude. Remember, Mordechai — you told me to jump even though I was convinced I would die. You told me I wouldn’t, and though it took some time, I held my breath and did as you said: I jumped, I fell, and underne...

My Baby (Got Nothing At All) - Japanese Breakfast I miss Misty May on days like these. The air is not so heavy with rain and cloudy heat. There's a breeze in the air, like Yepe says, as she sits with me in an old, red rickshaw on our way to my new apartment. I remember Misty May because he is, to me, perhaps the only stable thing when seasons change. I miss the show-and-tells, the freshman rigor and apprehension, and the movies—the terribly good movies. I still remember him as a 12-year-old—how much we’ve grown since then! So quietly, so naturally. I find that Delhi has the capacity to be kinder, but that I must seek it. So, I have not yet argued against plans being made and no longer reject the prospect of another year here—not as vehemently, anyway. I attend Bible studies like a little devilish imposter, but I have faith in their amens and hallelujahs. I should say, I have faith in people’s faith, but I do not know that I have some of my own. They talk about the Rapture; I do not...

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.