blue cyjan ships sail in the clouds or maybe different colour in your mind, slowly. no one stops to wonder whether they are just clouds. someone maybe sees them in a mirror, or maybe they are clouds of vapour. ships sail far up high, so the eyes must squint, feet in the ocean water, hands reaching to the sky that almost fetch sails taut out of syntax, hulls torn from black lava. maybe dream without sound. without waves. pointlessly sailing with no heads in clouds
Your words always read like emotional code, fragments compiling into something that's both vulnerable and luminous. permission.to.remain(unfinished) is a stunning line.
I was fascinated by how you've replaced ordinary syntax with something that feels closer to perception itself. The poem doesn't ask to be followed linearly—it asks to be entered, image by image, sensation by sensation. "Permission to remain unfinished" stayed with me. It feels less like a statement than a way of inhabiting the world. Thank you for sharing such an original poetic architecture.
It was realizing you weren't writing memories.. you were writing their metadata. You trusted objects, colours, timestamps, architecture, and the body to carry what language couldn't. It felt like reading an archive where every fragment had been preserved with impossible precision.. not because one is afraid of forgetting, but because forgetting would have changed the truth. Makes the reader assemble what it means to them by themselves. Felt strangely freeing.
Metadata would be the perfect word to sum it all up. You’re absolutely right, I let objects speak for me. My method was once described as “object-oriented poetically”, and I rather agree. It leaves enough breathing room for readers to write the story themselves. And these stories are real pearls. Thank you so much S.x
This is excellent... Do you know what's not excellent? When I realised for some reason I wasn't subscribed! Huh? I spat my coffee all over my screen, and then I tipped the rest of my coffee onto my keyboard.
voltage.ready;” creates a wonderful tension. The starting and starting and flowing all at once. Very stream of consciousness, only instead of “seeing” the flow, the reader is inside the poem, “sensing” everything. This made me think of the creation sequence in Terrence Malick’s film The Tree of Life. Your poem gave me the same experience. Wonderful to read this piece.
The more I read your work, the more I feel that this coding, this systematic way of writing, becomes a form of reconstructing the self. Through pain, recurring objects, fragments of memory, and the body, everything seems to move toward an instinctive reconstruction of identity. That's the thread I keep returning to whenever I read you.
I remember reading about your thought process when you fully realised your writing style. How all the pieces finally merged into one coherent composition. The fragments of your voice, once scattered, gradually magnetised back together. That’s how I read it at the time. That’s also where I’m beginning to see myself. Reconstruction without a timeline. Thank you Jeanne x
you’re a spectrum to be reckoned with. hex coding more icy than tiffany blue. wet paint sign places the bet with a destiny you already knew. know. now. braking the brackets open, pow. keep eating those leafy greens sister. this is incredible.
I like feeling that uncertainty dangled...the intimacy between lovers or a civil war inside one consciousness. The waking self and the dreaming self waiting for each other, neither quite able to begin.
blue cyjan ships sail in the clouds or maybe different colour in your mind, slowly. no one stops to wonder whether they are just clouds. someone maybe sees them in a mirror, or maybe they are clouds of vapour. ships sail far up high, so the eyes must squint, feet in the ocean water, hands reaching to the sky that almost fetch sails taut out of syntax, hulls torn from black lava. maybe dream without sound. without waves. pointlessly sailing with no heads in clouds
Or maybe a regular Tuesday in Tenerife. 3•
3 stops at Buenavista del Norte. Saturday paints canvas on Tuesday. 3 colours. Blue.
It’s always Tuesdays with you ✨
Your words always read like emotional code, fragments compiling into something that's both vulnerable and luminous. permission.to.remain(unfinished) is a stunning line.
My favourite line too. Thank you UpsilonA x
I was fascinated by how you've replaced ordinary syntax with something that feels closer to perception itself. The poem doesn't ask to be followed linearly—it asks to be entered, image by image, sensation by sensation. "Permission to remain unfinished" stayed with me. It feels less like a statement than a way of inhabiting the world. Thank you for sharing such an original poetic architecture.
Thank you for a beautiful comment Antonio x
"spine.bent(concrete.stapled);
moral.collapse(head.nailed);
reduced.to(bathroom.mirror);
examined;
restrained;"
loveeee :)
Thank you so much Lia x
“self-inflicted.re-rapture;
opaline;
permission.to.remain(unfinished);
brush.oiled(indulgence.soaked);
voltage.ready;“
“paint.wet;
i.too(refuse.impatience);”
“wine.alcatraz(aftermath);”
“you.sleep.little;
i.dream.less;”
A few of my favourite parts (of this)…
A lighter darkness?
Boom!! Excellent, as always, M 🙂 x
The enigma continues…
Soft girl era might last a minute or two. And so it continues:) Thank you so much M.🙂 x
I look forward to seeing what it produces…
Indeed.
You’re most welcome 🙂 x
This feels like a poem written in another operating system, part code, part inventory, part confession. Congrats on making Ray's Coolest list! <3
Flattered, thank you so much Petra x
It was realizing you weren't writing memories.. you were writing their metadata. You trusted objects, colours, timestamps, architecture, and the body to carry what language couldn't. It felt like reading an archive where every fragment had been preserved with impossible precision.. not because one is afraid of forgetting, but because forgetting would have changed the truth. Makes the reader assemble what it means to them by themselves. Felt strangely freeing.
Metadata would be the perfect word to sum it all up. You’re absolutely right, I let objects speak for me. My method was once described as “object-oriented poetically”, and I rather agree. It leaves enough breathing room for readers to write the story themselves. And these stories are real pearls. Thank you so much S.x
This is excellent... Do you know what's not excellent? When I realised for some reason I wasn't subscribed! Huh? I spat my coffee all over my screen, and then I tipped the rest of my coffee onto my keyboard.
Absolutely ridiculous Buzz, get your shit together x
I fixed it. But I’m still atoning.
The form of the writing: “self-inflicted.re-rapture;
opaline;
permission.to.remain(unfinished);
brush.oiled(indulgence.soaked);
voltage.ready;” creates a wonderful tension. The starting and starting and flowing all at once. Very stream of consciousness, only instead of “seeing” the flow, the reader is inside the poem, “sensing” everything. This made me think of the creation sequence in Terrence Malick’s film The Tree of Life. Your poem gave me the same experience. Wonderful to read this piece.
Flattered, thank you so much Sam. Will make sure to check the film too x
The more I read your work, the more I feel that this coding, this systematic way of writing, becomes a form of reconstructing the self. Through pain, recurring objects, fragments of memory, and the body, everything seems to move toward an instinctive reconstruction of identity. That's the thread I keep returning to whenever I read you.
I remember reading about your thought process when you fully realised your writing style. How all the pieces finally merged into one coherent composition. The fragments of your voice, once scattered, gradually magnetised back together. That’s how I read it at the time. That’s also where I’m beginning to see myself. Reconstruction without a timeline. Thank you Jeanne x
self-inflicted.re-rapture;
opaline;
permission.to.remain(unfinished);
brush.oiled(indulgence.soaked);
voltage.ready;
don't know why ... these lines sort of stuck to me ... master piece of juxtaposition ... can't really tell ... just a hunch ! 🦋💕
Maybe the painter in you is voltage ready too André. Thank you x
yes …. you’re right … in the past few days, I was actually thinking of painting a bit again … hadn’t done it for a long time … xx
you’re a spectrum to be reckoned with. hex coding more icy than tiffany blue. wet paint sign places the bet with a destiny you already knew. know. now. braking the brackets open, pow. keep eating those leafy greens sister. this is incredible.
fearing open brackets, syntax escaping, noooo. bring your sage pen.n x
I like feeling that uncertainty dangled...the intimacy between lovers or a civil war inside one consciousness. The waking self and the dreaming self waiting for each other, neither quite able to begin.
Always eager to read your take, Jaap. Thank you so much x
The hand never reaches the horizon.
The horizon never reaches the hand.
And so it goes.
When you know you know x
Yes. Lana says so.
our girl x
I'm grateful for you sharing this. Your syntax holds secrets in its screams.
Glad you read past the screams. Thank you Mahdi x
This is poetry! Thank you very much! Loved it!
Melting here, thank you so much x