I. It’s Okay To Cry
When i woke on a January Saturday to news that SOPHIE’d passed, my first reaction was something like faaaaauuuuuuuck—syllables drawn in lengthening waves of sudden grief, undulating, looped, &
that sonic response was followed by the thought that yes, of course SOPHIE died last year’s death slipping over into—
First of all—lolololol i fucking fuck w this song it fucks w me back like who says a eulogy can’t be joyful <3<3<3
There’s a bottle of poppers beside my stereo [No New York + a handful of R.E.M., Sonic Youth + Mariah Carey discs] i just opened—twist cap & sniff standing, mid afternoon lukewarm my face felt it reddening everything inside turning soft bottoming squelching static belches through dark matter cosmic FISTs i sink in oscillation
for genders at Atlantic-Barclay mall. If you could buy a new face, what would you do with the old one? My shop is the face i front. Wow—poppers get me all relaxed, whole body like dog jowl oozing ooze—brain on down ‘till my organs cum liquid, sludgy smooth.
IV. Is It Cold In The Water?
When she went up to the moon & i knew not only was she gone but understood that that’s where she was headed all along, where any number of us are destined to go & rest with each other/ from each other/ alone or more likely in some configuration beyond imagine—from there cums Is It Cold In The Water?
i see SOPHIE falling a-directionally in slow mo & think of bb imogen in their suburban bedroom—a kid listening to MONSTER hearing Michael Stipe’s voice how it pierced my skin like drug dipped nettle opened veins lakeside to moon & now other girls like me (girls of every gender) on their backs on their floors tonight doors shut eyes shut pretend world floating pretend world floating pretend world leader sure i’ve a soft spot for pop stars when they look like how i want to want & be wanted.