I am the seafolding you in.


'Four Sexts'
by Conor Harris

1. sext: you are a super-dense train accelerating toward the sun and I am the comet you happened to pull out of orbit I will watch you burn then implode and become something that people who live forevers away will look to for answers but all that will be left is your gorgeous broken littering the universe and I will pick up the pieces of you as I make my way to crash into the earth and end all chances for memory or hanging out either of us ever had. choo-choo

2. sext: at my state line there is a bridge between one state and the other and every time I cross is I hold my breath and think of kissing you until the river dries up beneath t and there is no longer a need for a bridge to bring people together between far away places and lines this land is our land so hold my fucking hand already and we can make the landmarks jealous. crumble crumble

3. sext: eat an orange with seeds, kiss me, put the seeds in my mouth, and I will take a vow of silence until I find a perfect coastline where the water crushes the shore gentle, like a stone on your chest that slowly gets heavier; here I’ll spit the seeds out and they will grow and thirty years from now somebody’s children will eat oranges grown from our saliva and our love and this is how we will follow the biological imperative to reproduce

4. fate is not real and neither is the universe and I am not a waste of your time


Conor Harris called us from Boise, ID.
More about Conor.



Blood Moon: April 15, 2014 in Los Angeles


Listening to British vowels spinning love stories and plucking sad melodies in the tropical city heat.

My preferences are polar opposites of two aesthetics - we have the clean, (literally) chiselled incarnation of every drawn bishounen, young and suggestive, young and naive (and potentially ignorant), a walking wardrobe, with limbs designing movements, body arching out sultry accents, Korean (and some non-) boys. 

We also have the rough edges of his unkempt stubble, the sharp bones jutting out from his jaw as he clicks his tongue, the lips chapped by cigarette bums, the voice cracked with age adulteration. Ah, rockstars. So well accessorised. From the rehearsed lines and dolled up grace to the facade of guitar strings and romanticised gauche. Both are deceitful. Both are mirage of desires. Sins.

But even if they appear less appealing as time goes on, what remains is the sounds they left at the doorstep of my stereo. 

Warning: will induce sudden crave for sushi. 

To the eye of an (ignorant) foreigner, this could be mistaken for Japanese quirkiness. Different from the stale shot-in-a-box K-pop MVs, Orange Caramel's Catallena caught my attention because I needed something fun, unconditioned, and not pretentious. Sampling a Punjabi song? Check. Shamelessly sings about having a crush on a girl with visuals of eating? Check. Performing with actual food and drinks on their heads? Check. Nana being gorgeous? Check. 

Poetry is the Art of Not Succeeding


by Joe Salerno

Poetry is the art of not succeeding;
the art of making a little ritual
out of your own bad luck, lighting a little fire
made of leaves, reciting a prayer
in the ordinary work.

It’s the art of those who didn’t make it
after all; who were lucky enough to be
left behind, while the winners ran on ahead
to wherever it is winners
go running to.

O blessed rainy day, glorious
as a paper bag. The kingdom of poetry
is like this — quiet, anonymous,
a dab of sunlight on the back of your hand,
a view out the window just before dusk.

It’s an art more shadow than statue,
and has something to do with your dreams
running out — a bare branch darkening
on a winter sky, the week-old snow
frozen into something hard.

It’s an art as simple as drinking water
from a tin cup; of loving that moment
at the end of autumn, say, when the air
holds no more promises, and the days are short
and likely to be gray.

A bland light is best to see in.
Middle age brings it to flower.
And there, just when you’re feeling your weakest,
it floods you completely,
leaving you weeping as you drive your car.

'beautiful forms' ph. federico ferrari for used.

'beautiful forms' ph. federico ferrari for used.

Go straight to the place where you first lost your balance
And find your feet with the people that you love
And bring us in an indigo dawn with the lovelorn and renegade
Yes you were the eyes of a men not forgotten
Get hold of the night that rises in your blood
Focus on your pulse, focus on your breath, know that we’re never far away