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up all night, reading poetry

by Samiir Saunders

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1.
LYRICS: Drank coffee. Screen gawking. TikToking ‘til 6 in the morning. Steeped all in peak boredom. Keep scrolling like sleep ain’t important. Seems awkward, my familiarity feeling this nauseous. I should stop scrolling. Shit, in truth this is really appalling. Not used to caffein. Don’t drink it. This ain’t frequent decorum. I don’t sleep well at best of times. I don’t need these endorphins. I made my mum her coffee, messed up the sugar proportions. She’s diabetic, so I told her I’d drink it all for her. So here we are, I’m shaking so much I feel all my organs. I’m hitting triplets and polyrhythms with my aorta. I'm meant to meet my friend at 10, if I cancel it's awkward. But if I Zoom exhausted, then Imma move like a tortoise. Drank coffee. Screen gawking. TikToking ‘til 6 in the morning. Steeped all in peak boredom. Keep scrolling like sleep ain’t important. Drank coffee. Screen gawking. TikToking ‘til 6 in the morning. I should have drank some fucking camomile as a precaution. Ugh, fuck me!
2.
buddy 2.0 02:15
LYRICS: Yeah, yeah. If the crown’s too cracked, then the gang come, slaying every demon of the brain with their affirmations. Ain't the same without mates whose devotion is patient, to guide our ghosts from their self-erasure. So, good evening to the girls and the goths and the gays and the gamers and the gremlins. My Gs. Good evening to the cool kids, the cute chaos demons, the soprano sonneteers sailing high seas. Aight, please listen. I been in the screen spitting frees over- sweet riddims. I been on the server with my Gs, and the- heat’s hitting. Open up the window let my ego breathe. Exact middle of the night when I need sleep- -is when I’m most creative. Motivated. These midnight writes are so awakening. We got- prose in main. Jokes in mentions. So elated, I’m numb to the fade of senses. Creatives can twist the heavy tension of stress- into needlessly dense and quick-witted invention. The ghosts of escapism slain by confession- are reformed and reborn as connective obsession. The renegades don the wavelength, finger guns trained on the keys like a stainless, braincells empty except for the love that came with- connecting to those who we share this plane with! Ok, the crown may crack, but the gang come, slaying every demon of the brain with their affirmations. Ain't the same without mates whose devotion is patient, to guide our ghosts from their self-erasure. So, good evening to the girls and the goths and the gays and the gamers and the gremlins. My Gs. Good evening to the cool kids, the cute chaos demons, the soprano sonneteers sailing high seas. Yeah. I couldn’t do this without you. (x4)
3.
LYRICS: Lonely. On my ones, so I meditate. Only on the wall when I levitate. Warping like a face through a filter. Awkward. Feel naked and filthy. Worried ‘bout us all going out again. Sorry if I move like a paradox. Haunt me. You’re quiet like a poison. Formless, like the space in-between. One… with my thoughts when I meditate. Too… in the zone when I tessellate. Free… from the prison of the same place. Forced… to the forefront centre stage. Slowly, coming back but the world ain’t calling. And my phone is alive. You saw me, through the crowd’s tessellation. Formless, like the space in-between.
4.
eureka! 01:00
LYRICS: I sink. I float. Eureka! You been in the speaker! I speak. I grow. Eureka! You been in the- You been in the- It’s the messy effete poet you'll never defeat. So, if you’re messing with me, hastily hand in your resignation. I'm effortlessly shitting on bitter emcees. Slick when I drip on a beat. Wet when I'm shedding a tear testament. The freshest at the open mic, dressed like a star. An abolitionist (What!?) I'm dropping the bars. On par with the sun for hotness. I'll son you soft, so, you don't fall and stun your coccyx. Conscious. Confident. Calm and collected. Sweet as confections. Cute as heck. I keep cool in the chrysalis. Quiet like ellipsis. Listen for the flutter of the sprouting wings. I fly. I sink. I float. Eureka! You been in the- Yeah! I speak. I grow. Eureka! You been in the speaker!
5.
LYRICS: I always used to feel like the train was a spaceship. I was in the green seat, weightless. You were on the opposite, doing the paper’s sudoku and facing the light that we rose to. All other paths dissolved. After the afterlife, that was home. That was the temple. That was the ritual site of tranquillity, staring out the window at faded graffiti. Wake up at six, get the train into Birmingham. Mum sat opposite, to make sure I’m early and- walk with me to Digbeth. Coach left at seven. Seven-hour voyage in a quiet little heaven. I was on the coach on my own. I was chillin’. Birmingham to Plymouth. I was disappearing. I would change at Plymouth to get a train to Truro, then change at Truro, last train to Falmouth. The whole day melts in the water. So being on my ones was a language spoken fluently. I chose this wishbone, a path I ain’t thought of. Didn’t know that this was a comfort I’d come to rely on. I guess it’s all bound by the routes you travel. I guess it’s all about getting used to unravelling. An empty train ain't the coolest mind palace, but it’s mine and I’m glad that I have it. No way home. I cracked the wishbone. Where do I go? Know that zone. I chose the wishbone. Nowhere else to go. I always used to feel like the train was a spaceship. I was in the green seat, weightless. You were on the opposite, doing the paper’s sudoku and facing the light that we rose to. All other paths dissolved. After the afterlife, that was home. That was the temple. That was the ritual site of tranquillity, staring out the window at faded graffiti.
6.
LYRICS: Exposition. A comprehensive explanation of an idea, or the act of making something known. And yet, the ocean parted her lips to drink the steel mask of dawn. I witnessed the iridescent carved face as it rose from its own mirage. The sky, the great refractor, painted her skin with a fiery smile. I rubbed my eyes… The sun was not meant to appear for another five minutes. I was stunned, confused. What was this strange fiction? Was the oracle wrong? Oh, Goddess of glimpses, your twisted elixir of mixed wisdom is, if nothing else, consistent. Nothing is a given. Two. The boy was my lover. Bent like a straw in the water. Did I stutter? His kisses consisted traversing from glass to the air I exist in. Screens and transistors. In this shift in medium, relay occurs. The thought falls obedient, retraces hurt. The arc of a memory, such that it touches my vision above where my lover has written. His kisses were felt as a pulse on the lips, but electron repulsion kept particles fixed- at a distance. So, I hunger for truth. But knowledge brought losing the softness of youth. Three. Development. A specified state of growth or advancement, or a new stage in a changing situation. The sunlight tracks acolytes of stunned sight. Why are glimpses of delicate minutes supressed? We exist as meandering metal and darkness. Falling flocks over the Goddess. Confused, I screened kisses and refracted horizons. His knowledge is strange. I relay five minutes. Retrace the stutter. Bent above meant nothing. Kneel, for such thought consisted of its own decided hiding. His own slow resistance, written. Twisted obedient boy, an inside vision from glass. It was youth. Birds of paradise, quite fixed, appear given. The arcminutes of fiction were moving, but their image was stolen. Disordered water where skin carved a borrowed transistor. The wrong oracle, the mirage, painted light with hunger. At dawn’s angle, sun mask repulsion existed as oceans. In iridescence, some lips avoid distance like particle elixirs. Fiery straws longing for parted steel drink. Losing mixed feeling and longing the curve. His dark eyes stole the horizon. Electron wisdom kept a pulse stunned in the truth felt by thinking. For it is the observer who decides which is real and which is illusion. We choose them. We choose. Four. Reconciliation. The restoration of a relationship, or the act of making dissonant ideas compatible once more. And yet, the ocean parted her lips to drink the steel mask of dawn. I witnessed the iridescent carved face as it rose from its own mirage. The sky, the great refractor, painted her skin with a fiery smile. I rubbed my eyes. The sun was not meant to appear for another five minutes. I was stunned, confused. What was this strange fiction? Was the oracle wrong? Oh, Goddess of glimpses, your twisted elixir of mixed wisdom is, if nothing else, consistent. Nothing is a given. Five. The sun is our lover. Bent like a straw in the water. Did I stutter? His kisses are distant. In moving from void to the air we exist in, they feel some resistance. In this shift in medium refraction occurs. Light kneels obedient and tracks out a curve. The arc of the angle is such that it touches horizon above where our lover is hiding. His kisses are witnessed by subjects with eyes. Subjective gazes, subject to subtlety. But perhaps our desperate hunger for light, is what stole these kisses so early and bright. Six. Both light and empty, equidistant. And the sharp self, image distant. "You alright Sami?" "Yeah, I’m good." "Are you practising?" "Err… kind of."
7.
LYRICS: Sick with the witty lip nip tuck. Crunchy like a bit crush. Nightmares are stuck to the gums, can't speak sweet. These teeth devour sour sentences. This beak is titled from paradise. Parenthesis. Power is a vice; I make power moves. Say the name thrice in the mirror, like how cowards do. Only difference is the will to act on intention. Peer past the glass and inspect the reflection.
8.
LYRICS: Distant clockwork carving me in the dark. I constantly relive false odyssey. Toxic nostalgia. Migraine of memories to throw me off balance. A ballad of- pareidolia. An ocean of faces. I'm lost in- the solemn graces of condemnation and contemplation. Understatement: I'm bed bound or I'm on the pavement. It's underrated, this sitting silent to process pain with the heavy weight of our copper chains and nickel braces. If I ain't got the metal, then I ain't got the stomach. I ain't got time to worry. I ain't got time to plummet. Coz chasing paper's priority, though the pain's abundant. So, swallowed sorrow's a cheap sour to chase the rum with. I drink sorrel and Maggies. Yardie babby. Old J and some Wray and Neph. Bacardi, gladly. I'm hardly aggy when wavy baby, I'm party Sami. But part of Sami’s afraid to face the darkness. There’s plenty of dark in solitary. Got a mean streak. Chronology was not a dream, peak. It’s clockwork, stitches of seconds woven in time. Velocity: threading the needle under the light at night, or under the knife, or over the limit. Sometimes, being this delicate, feels like a gimmick of mine. Resurface memories of anger supressed. I’m phlegmatic, but the phlegm still weighs on my chest. Avoidant personality. Even in therapy, I hide behind my nicety; coz kindness is heavy. I small talk about my website and doing my tax. Relaxed session: I felt guilty for not bleeding with passion. Am I- disingenuous for... not leading with trauma, or is the need to confess part of being disordered? It’s all a blur, it’s all me. I weep with discomfort- at feeling comfortable. I feel I’m looking for something. Next to nothing fits a singular box. I tore my borders apart. Still, I'm in shock. I am the calm and the storm, sun and the moon. I am a landscape evolving, ever in bloom. Ooh. Next to nothing is an innocent flex. I tore down the old throne – shit’s complex. I saw the pain in the pedestal, the myth it reflects. I can’t let the world in if I’m holding my breath. Now in the distance, small silhouette of a stranger moves into frame for a glimpse. Glitch in the image of self as consistent. Trust this flux is an honest depiction.   Silence: my default destructive behaviour. I run from conflict, attention, danger. Deprive myself of communication. But this dry numbness ain't the same as safety. Only you draw the boundaries you live with. And if they are crossed then you don’t owe forgiveness to anyone… except for yourself. The core of a dark-light chaotic shell. Self-aware or self-conscious? Self-care or self-construct? Self-deprecate, but is “self” responsible, if pessimist’s prophecy is self-fulfilling? Uh. It's chilling to know thyself, to know how to listen to the clockwork well. To embrace taking up space and being held. To walk that crossroad, back from hell. Uh. Next to nothing fits a singular box. I tore my borders apart. Still, I'm in shock. I am the calm and the storm, sun and the moon. I am a landscape evolving, ever in bloom. Ooh. Next to nothing is an innocent flex. I tore down the old throne – shit’s complex. I saw the pain in the pedestal, the myth it reflects. I can’t let the world in if I’m holding my breath. Now in the distance, small silhouette of a stranger moves into frame for a glimpse. Glitch in the image of self as consistent. So, I trust this flux is reality.
9.
LYRICS: Even now, after all my self-reflection, the words still stumble out my mouth, like emerging from a cave in a drought. Once born, they're adopted by the air. Then they grow and transform- in my absence… like an heir to the throne. In time they are mine in name only. I was up all night, tryna navigate my mind. If I could find some kind of roadmap, I could unwind. Man, I think about dying a lot. I'm trying to stop. And lately I've been crying a lot. I'm letting it out. My brain has been frying a lot. The iron is hot. Awake and I lie in the dark. I'm restless. I can't see outside myself, I’m in my head too often. And the spiral doesn't elevate. No helicopter. Study psyche: soul scholar. No closure. No honour. Letting go is so hard, but it's the true self-expression unblocker. The will to communicate. The drive to rest. The extreme dissonance of time compressed. I find myself naked, dripping at the quill, finally submerged in the spilled ink. Falling asleep is like falling in love, it consumes you with sweetness and clarity. You can’t control it. You have to move with it. Swimming in the current. Washing up on the shore of new realities. Woke up in the morning, refreshed and alive. I forget every time, how it felt to say goodbye. Even now, after everything, I'm still surprised, to find serenity in sleep and find peace in the divine. Got up, brushed teeth, had a shower, and ate. I forget I'm a human in a body of clay. So, there’s nothing more beautiful than seeing that I- am still here at the start of the day. Ay!

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An album inspired by @savbrown's #escapril2021. Lofi Hip Hop with spooky vibes meets sleep-deprivation-induced spoken word ramblings.

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released April 29, 2021

Written, Performed, and Produced by Samiir Saunders
via LMMS and Audacity

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Samiir Saunders Birmingham, UK

I’m a multimedia poet based in Brum. I am obsessed with communication, compassion, intimacy, and the Internet.

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