16 – Tristan discovers the secret lives of tshirts

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Jennifer Aniston feels ‘sexy wearing Theroux’s tshirt,’ as if the garment,
threaded out of commonality, recreates the couple’s romance like a kiss

the same way one should remember a person by their name and face,
and love as a way of compartmentalised commitment, as if the garment

couldn’t not exist behind the realm attachment like tuxedos and designer
handbags, bound up to patriarchal desires. Tristan closes his eyes

and pictures himself as a t-shirt covering Marlon Brando’s body in grey
as slick as a cloud bulging with rain, while letting lust seep into the set

and into DuBois’ eyes (or was it in Leigh’s momentarily tolerated by her
character?) as a Warholian vision–an extension of those lingering

fifteen minutes into a centennial-long existence–finely-seamed, billowing
in the wind with Tristan’s lower-half tucked neatly around Brando’s junk,

or to exist as a million-pound luxury on some model with legs that stretch
across the runway and infinity, until chaos surges, chaos for the macho

destiny around military men stained with sweat and blood, or workers
who will never attain anything beyond casual beauty in those lessons

of humbleness. Tye-dye masterpieces behind tuxedos: a statement
for that fashion designer (played by Leigh), who in her youth

has been broken by the lust and desire of a marine, her childhood
friend, who’s died in a sunken ship, his body lost in the sea, his letter

sent before the demise: I think there’s something incredibly sexy
about a woman wearing her boyfriend’s T-shirt and underwear

(a Calvin Klein ad, though having never seen the posters,
she latched on his words by sleeping in his tshirt every night).

At 3 a.m, Tristan reads through the history of the tshirt wearing
the hiss and itch of wool–a sartorial splendour, for what garment

functions without pain to achieve high-class? Briefly, Tristan
becomes the vehicle to ecstasy, kissed with desire and casual allure,

existing in the space of sartorial silence, never allowing to be beyond
the cocoon-like fabric to prevent the collapse, the heartbreaks.

as way of procrastination, i’ve been reading a lot about tshirts and stuff. seriously. i’ve spent the last two days youtubing and reading books about tshirts and discovering the history behind them. it’s been a way to procrastinate on my studies and it’s been working really well.

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A reflection on the womanhood of Victorino Valentino

‘I guess you can say I’m half sainthalf whore.’ Victorino says Diane Keaton’ lines breathlessly

like his own, pursing his lips to draw attention at the ruby-red smile painted into perfection

at the same brand of mirror that pushes  so many to spackle and cover the smallest parts

of themselves, to smoke their eyelids  with blue dust until they are reminded of the sea.

But Victorino wears shades to cover his eyes, because they are red and dry with insomnia

and booze from a midnight adventure, from a love affair with the cocktail of lust and desire,

that thrill of discovering an invisible part of him—the most alluring—sleek as a cat, feline as that silhouette roaming from streetlamps to the dark corners of every road, darker than a rat or the night.

The other person’s words are muffled and genderless, their profile a big blob blending with the Parisian background, undeniably chic and coloured like an abstract oil painting, their departure as unremarkable and subtle as the line between love and jealousy. While Victorino himself wants to become as elegant

as the women in metro station ads, who’ve first inspired him to strut in his mother’s high heels, as they pronounce one sexy word forever, he spits words like a man paralysed at the thought of commitment; Victorino likes to blame his father’s blandness and imperfections, his father who watches TV with the blinds down low, the place featureless and cold, as if summer never tumbled the world to warmth and light, readily taking the identities of fictional characters, pantomiming love and death through leaning forward or slumping back onto his sofa, his eyes gleaming for the love of a blue-skinned alien that wore

a red suit so tight it made her beautiful and dangerous, more desirable than his wife’s beehive. To

feel wanted is to be loved the same way the flowers by the fountain attract bees with their colours,

and nothing but the honking of a metro train pushes himself back to becoming who he is again,

alone, in a disgusting, dimly-lit metro station waiting for a line to get back home, his breath

reeking of booze and smoke.

Reaching the summit of Garbage Mountain V2

Copper-skinned children in tattered clothes, drenched in grease and scum, gather around the base of the highest heap of trash. They cheer for equally squalid individuals, who race under the heat, their hair, eyebrows and clothes covered in thick sweat, for the summit of the perpetually changing mountain.

Each step reveals a new texture: the carcass of a cat, a stack of magazines. They’re careful not to stick their feet into traps disguised as plastic containers and tin cans.

A side of the mountain crumbles. Garbage rattles as substances collide, burying someone–both a casualty and an eliminated opponent. Liquids and smog spew from the new pile of rubbish like fountains. The race goes on.

Tropical sunlight pierces leaden clouds bulging with rain, entrenching into the heap of trash covered in grime and detritus like brass prison bars. Metals glint through the monochromatic wasteland in the prismatic hues of a diamond.

Only two are left. They haste, while assessing, through their acute perception of the physics of the place, every step and everything they grasp. They remain unscathed, observant of glass shards and slabs of wood on which nails are pointed.

The crowd cheers, among them the eliminated. The remaining two are neck-to-neck on opposite sides. One group argues how the other side is less steep, and the other argues the same. They hoot, chant and shake bottles with sand as makeshift maracas.

When the winner, a black-haired girl covered in lice and maggots, reaches the summit, voices are raised; fists are out; these are habitual actions which define the race as a competition. The girl raises her hand toward the setting sun, as the mountain surreptitiously clings around her feet, eventually devouring her.

 

your love for me
tastes like cinnamon rolls
under the summer sky
in that sunny daze. I remember
our first date in that Portuguese
patisserie when I spilled chocolate
milk over your white dress, and
you laughed, and back then we were
14.

Now, my love for you
is like that coffee stain on
your white robe, which, whilst
fashionable in a modern-art perspective,
had to be thrown away.

Finding inner light in dyes

The arteries on her arms glowed green after licking on ink as a child,
her mother reckoned.They intersected like scriptures,
vanishing around the extremities of her elbows and shoulders.

She loved her light as a kid and hated it as a teen,
covering makeup on each line with a prodigious
accuracy.

She married a Chemist, who died after
she grew fat and pregnant; she bought a
house beside a printing factory
and aged until her light was lost

Her son didn’t inherit that glow she possessed, but had a
predilection for makeup.

As a child, he’d mix milk with yellow ink and sprinkle rice
with eyeliner shavings. After all, he hoped
to reproduce his mother’s gift.

Day in, day out he formulated chemicals like his father;
he drank solutions until his mouth gummed in a color
he disliked, yet he never acquired her inner light.

He died wifeless in the darkness of his living room. The
shutters were down, the door chained, the police had ruled his
death as accidental, until a coroner traced ink on the
linings of his skeleton.

When he looked at his mouth, he would see his mother’s smile,
reckoning a hypothesis for such inner light.

Wishes and dying fireflies (edited)

Suppose that wishes are like dying fireflies, faintly glowing
……..in the midnight rain
that………………
………………..Pours,
……………………Trickles,
………………………….Flows,

and

stabs flies like butter knives,
with dull, old, rusty blades—
cold to the spine.
Like wisps, as they waver along,
so fragile yet stubborn to live.
Only a handful survive,
while others die,
cast away through streams,
engulfed in torrents
and eaten by fish.

Children would trap them in jars to protect them,
with holes poked out in lids
to keep the precious souls alive;
hide them in gardens and beaches
from the prying eyes of mothers—
only to kill them,
through fault of age
and forgetfulness,
through starvation—
green, lightless body and fairy wings—
translucent as glass—
testaments of their insectoid existence.
__________________

————–

Arf, I am so stale and rusty, and I’ll prolly remove this.

Changing blogs

Hey!

Some of you may know me as the blogger of the site http://booksandpenguins.wordpress.com and while I still haven’t deleted it, I will, soon.

And as to why I decided to create a new one to replace Pengu, let us simply put it this way:  I found that specialised blogs do not suit my blogger preferences, and thus Pengu being centered around literature and language made me feel constricted; it kept me from posting some non-literature ideas, and bin them altogether.

Nevertheless, because literature takes a huge portion of my life, this blog will maybe predominantly about books, writing and such. However, this time I may include other things such as music, art, fahsion and science, because these are the things that really interest me in life–and basically this is another way of saying that everything basically interests me.

I blame my ADHD.

Oh, another reason as to why I decided to change blogs is because of my blog’s name. Anyone with a blog name of Pengu can never be taken seriously. Of course, unless there are some other penguin lovers out there.

I’ll also post my short stories and poetry, here.

And, yeah…

Anyway, for those who do not know me, I am Julian. I am 18 years old, and I live in some part of the French region of Switzerland. Hence, logically I am fluent in French, but I am more fluent in English, in the sense that I am more ‘well-spoken.’ I am still in high school, as like any other Swiss teenager living in this area, and we graduate at around 18 or 19 years old. It’s really late!

Anyways, I am a fan of literature, music and language. I am interested in Asian culture–I am Filipino in origin, and basically I am a very overt person.

I shall hopefully keep updating you guys and such, so yeah.

Toodles~~

 

Ugh, this isn’t structured at all!