'Pages from a Notebook' / Jason low

'Pages from a Notebook' / Jason low

Jason Low is an emerging writer currently studying at RMIT. He hopes to follow a trajectory analogous to the likes of Anne Carson and Maggie Nelson. You can find his photography on Instagram at @phallo.centric and his poetry at @pagesfromanotebook. 

 

 

Untitled #1

Fingers entwined, walking the same familiar roads,
this must be a dream
our reflections in the shopfronts distorts

If one could touch the skin without leaving prints

We are split in two, casting our own shadows
they trail longer and longer,
then soon, like a painting,
they'll vanish into the distance
so close together, 
but never             touching

If one could touch the skin without leaving prints

walking the same familiar roads,
the visions are tinged with red
my shadow holding hands with yours
they just want to let go

I had to tell you this. One night after jumping the fence I fell on my hip and ran down the alleyway ripping off posters. My flesh was burning through the icy wind and for a second the shards in my hands and in the bottom of my feet just didn't matter. I fell in the gutter setting fire to myself, thinking I was burning, but i opened my eyes and saw a shivering body, wet and afraid, goosebumps glistening.

If one could touch the skin without leaving prints

 

Untitled #2

I

We hold hands, melting into
eachother.
                 Our wet clothes cling in
the breathy air on the kind of day
where the sun kicks its languid feet up
and stretches across the couch like a lazy dog.
We wonder why we're here but being together
solves most of it.

                                                                             II

The gallery is a maze leading into itself.
It's like we're walking through ourselves,
painting scenes like they've never happened. The
light finds me and you paint it yellow, painfully
but lovingly brushing me into yourself - or outside - 
I don't know.
                     meanwhile you eyes smile like
a crack between clouds and I jot it down
for later.
              You are morphing hues into my skin
while I morph you into the object of my being;
these words won't take your shape or frame you,
for you're water running through my hair.
Art feeds like an ouroboros

 

 

Untitled #3

Somewhere between the leaves
the music fills the spaces like
fat drops of rain

Somewhere between one destination
and another
I will exist only to myself
and never remember it.

Our drive out to the country
with the gaps between our hands
filled by eachother
means we exist in a vacuum

Recalling is viewing a constellation from
the wrong angle
and the little red light, you call me, 
means we need to change oil

Somewhere between my neurons
your face is calling back to me
and it exists only to myself.

 

Untitled #4

Your eyes spiral, shimmering like a hurricane
glassy and veiled, pouring
into the fields of my neck plowing deeper

I am absent, turning cresent
my breath caught like glass in the throat
it rains softly on us

I always thought I was empty
I've been heaving dumpsters through supermarket aisles
through sunsets and rain,
nothing has the courtesy to say goodbye
when it leaves

Nothing else feels so abrasive to the skin

I wish you could just pass through me

A season passing in your eyes
nothing changes outside
I swear one day I'll change

But please god don't let it be now

 

Untitled #5

The rain brings us together,
doesn't it? here, huddled in the shelter of your
chest, we
rub our
hands together
to start a fire.

I feel myself smudging into your skin, 
fading into and between the cosmological weave
I am sinking into you.
Swimming in a sea of your tones
where I can bleed safely
and the flies don't come.

 

 

Photo by Jason Low

'I swear I'm not posing' / Michelle Martland

'I swear I'm not posing' / Michelle Martland

'An Interview with Moonlover' / Jared Gibson

'An Interview with Moonlover' / Jared Gibson