I don’t want to be anyone anymore. I don’t want to be crammed into boxes built on social constructs and preconceived notions. I don’t want to adopt the characteristics I’m expected to already possess. I don’t want to be put on display, a stupid object placed behind cheap plexiglass for the consumption of insipid, salivating cannibals. I don’t want to be similarly simple-minded and rotten, eagerly branding human flesh and soul with grotesque spectacle.
I don’t want to be anyone or a somebody. I’d rather be nobody.
So tired of people who make promises they never intend to keep.
So tired of falling for it time and time again, only to come running back to my little, angsty tumblr to complain and wax poetic about the shitty relationships in my life.
So tired of remembering people I wish I could forget.
So tired of being alone out here.
So tired of trying.
If only she would let me trace her anatomy—
trailing my fingertips against
the curvature of her spine, her lips,
her neck, her thighs—
then perhaps I could
commit her loveliness to infallible memory,
transpose it onto empty lined pages
with accurate homage.
Every line I pour out now feels misaligned,
words out of place, utterly wrong in describing
the way the sun kisses her eyelids or
the way she moves at night with the inky black shadows.
The sound of her voice, snow crunching
beneath her patent Doc Martens,
the overgrowth of her lashes, like the awakening
stretch of petals at dawn,
the fury behind her tiger lily eyes,
and the theory dripping from her tongue.
The way she speaks with her entire body
beautifully, expressively, wickedly, wildly, brilliantly
(oh, she’s a genius and a goddess, but even
those terms feel incomplete).
If only I could dive deep into the undertow of her soul,
swallowing the saccharine overflow,
hold onto her fingers and memorize the ridges
before I’m forced to surrender it all.
Then, perhaps, I could finally sleep with my eyes closed,
heart ripped open across the blank page,
scarlet outlines of her brilliancy
illuminated by the flickering streetlight.
My fingers mourn the empty half of the bed.
Haruki Murakami’s first two novels Hear the Wind Sing and Pinball, 1973 are being re-translated by Ted Goossen and set for release in a single volume in September or October 2015.
With the current editions of each book only being available in Japan, this will make these works accessible to Murakami’s international audience.
NO FUCKIN WAY this is the best day for Murakami news
daughters and sons wet their beds.
Fathers smile at their reflections,
blind to the veins bursting in their eyes,
the contrast between raw crimson
and violet blossoms.
It is unnatural
for flowers to grow beneath the skin.
Quick sketchbook blah
I would die to hear you say my name.
Beautiful girls in tortoise-shell frames,
do they know how bright they gleam,
leaving shimmering waves in their wake,
leaving us stuttering woefully behind them?
My path was darkened before you came.
Fingers outstretched to catch even
a tiny brush against the hem of their skirts,
our lungs lose the capacity to breathe,
and we gasp in pathetic, silent bursts.
To follow you, I utterly reject my shame.
Lipstick stains left on the rim of coffee cups,
pens twirling between dexterous fingers.
Their lovely minds are unlocking, shocking,
destroying the notion that they are anything but brilliant.