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S.B. Joon’s Followers (14)
S.B. Joon
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Not Knot Naught
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Short Letters To My Vanishing Friend
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* Note: these are all the books on Goodreads for this author. To add more, click here.
“You have read some books,
I am sure
Many of which, like a rainbow,
hide their pot of gold, around the end
But my good colors,
uncontrollably spill everywhere:
‘Waking up,
is dreaming,
for those
who love beginning now”
― Not Knot Naught
I am sure
Many of which, like a rainbow,
hide their pot of gold, around the end
But my good colors,
uncontrollably spill everywhere:
‘Waking up,
is dreaming,
for those
who love beginning now”
― Not Knot Naught
“If your battle-wound reopens,
say it again, now, twice as loud:
'I attach myself to changing things,
and as they change, I hurt”
― Not Knot Naught
say it again, now, twice as loud:
'I attach myself to changing things,
and as they change, I hurt”
― Not Knot Naught
“A disciplined touch of June,
summons Gautama’s sublime insight
July’s literal aphelion,
warms Francisco’s honest merriment
And when august starts to tick away,
Jelaluddin saunters around awake
Enduring a fatuous fatigue,
they are the silence we crave
They are the crescent-shaped fertility,
cradling the mewling of new humanity
They are Tigris, kissing Baghdad,
becoming tipsy on Algebra
The ephemeral telescope, Euphrates,
gazing at the Persian Gulf
And Nile, newspaper to Cairo,
overflowing with lush revelations
Who is who,
matters little in this mirror house
As love will shorten certainty,
to the most delightful doubt,
erecting aesthetic,
symmetric aphasia
They are the three of Pi,
we are what’s left behind the comma
Any decimal complaints,
move themselves more backward,
to become the circumferential pith,
birthing minor details”
― Not Knot Naught
summons Gautama’s sublime insight
July’s literal aphelion,
warms Francisco’s honest merriment
And when august starts to tick away,
Jelaluddin saunters around awake
Enduring a fatuous fatigue,
they are the silence we crave
They are the crescent-shaped fertility,
cradling the mewling of new humanity
They are Tigris, kissing Baghdad,
becoming tipsy on Algebra
The ephemeral telescope, Euphrates,
gazing at the Persian Gulf
And Nile, newspaper to Cairo,
overflowing with lush revelations
Who is who,
matters little in this mirror house
As love will shorten certainty,
to the most delightful doubt,
erecting aesthetic,
symmetric aphasia
They are the three of Pi,
we are what’s left behind the comma
Any decimal complaints,
move themselves more backward,
to become the circumferential pith,
birthing minor details”
― Not Knot Naught
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