February 2012
25 posts
2 tags
5 tags
3 tags
“It is so short and jumbled and jangled, Sam, because there is nothing intelligent to say about a massacre. Everybody is supposed to be dead, to never say anything or want anything ever again. Everything is supposed to be very quiet after a massacre, and it always is, except for the birds. And what do the birds say? All there is to say about a massacre, things like “Poo-tee-weet?”
- Kurt...
3 tags
“And we compose
Colors
And the sense
Of home
And there are those
In it so violent
and so alone
They cannot rest”
- George Oppen
5 tags
since feeling is first who pays any attention to the syntax of things will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool while Spring is in the world my blood approves, and kisses are a better fate than wisdom lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry —the best gesture of my brain is less than your eyelids’ flutter which says we are for each other: then laugh, leaning back in my arms for...
2 tags
“Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon...”
– William Shakespeare, Macbeth (via mango-lassi
)
Poetry 365: To You, Frank O'Hara →
What is more beautiful than night and someone in your arms that’s what we love about art it seems to prefer us and stays if the moon or a gasping candle sheds a little light or even dark you become a landscape in a landscape with rocks and craggy mountains and valleys full of sweaty…
2 tags
8 Count - Charles Bukowski
from my bed
I watch
3 birds
on a telephone
wire.
one flies
off.
then
another.
one is left,
then
it too
is gone.
my typewriter is
tombstone
still.
and I am
reduced to bird
watching.
just thought I’d
let you
know,
fucker.
3 tags
The Interchangeable Nature of Literature and Life...
There is a crushed ant on the rim of the bathtub
and you ignored it, too busy brewing remedies
in a disconnected kettle, the tepid water or the
temperature aging you falsely. Get any deeper,
and you’ll contract something venereal.
There are magic tricks and then there is chemistry
and there is the inert. Life is a game of scrabble.
Words are other words and other paradoxes.
You understand the...
3 tags
"One seems to become a myth, a fabulous creature...
- T. S. Eliot
2 tags
The normal is the good smile in a child’s eyes. There’s also the dead stare in a million adults. It both sustains and kills, like a god. It is the ordinary made beautiful, it is also the average made lethal. Normal is the indispensable murderous god of health and I am his priest.
- Martin Dysart, Equus
“If I were a piano player, I’d play it in the goddam closet.”
– J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye (via thisusernamesucks)
3 tags
placements
It seems that time to you is less
significant than mine –
in parallels
failing, flailing parallels
your love is a hermit crab.
I know that
when I asked to see the pleats
of the horizon (the points of the sky that are
decimalized and rounded, rotund to the point of
a sideways glance)
at once you became it:
embrace the sea
and it shall enfold.
There is no matter of impermeability to
an...
2 tags
“MELANCHOLY. Sign of a refined heart and elevated mind.”
– Gustave Flaubert, Dictionary of Accepted Ideas (via sonofapritch)
5 tags
3 tags
On life.
In being,
we are pieceing together
li(v)es
from confetti disasters,
gluttons
both ill and curious
and tiny plagues of momentary
indicies;
flushes of rouge.
The good as rats on warfarin
are dealt with in ones,
twos, threes
but when they wash in
like the tides
even your lungs will fill.
You drown.
Contrast is lost in the froth,
in the very spit, of a
joyful monotony.
And...
4 tags
Four Quarters of Fifteen Minutes in the Suburbs
I.
If Happiness is
the one conversation to which
the pylons aren’t privy
then Sadness
must be the silent tapdance
of the blackbirds
on the faceless concrete.
II.
I’m crucified on the melting
pyres of a six o’clock sunset.
Will you resurrect me at the
traffic lights?
III.
Notions, maxims, axioms
all hung up on the radiator
have fermented
in the dirty weeks of...
3 tags
punctuation is used when something ends but I'm...
days knock together like dominoes
a false fluidity with each jilted dive
to the ground my brains chattered
inside my bones because
without definition the colours
bleed like I never have or could scab
red and swill brown life and death
aren’t really different matters they are simply
an avoidance of their counterpoint
so we exist in cycles bumping
onwards like flat tyres because...