|—||From The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy (via coffeeandnights)|
Just as well, I’ve got nothing to tell you:
I won’t go inside where the bats dip and swarm
over my bed. It’s the sound of them
shouldering against each other that terrifies me,
as if it might hurt to brush across another being’s
|—||From Across a Great Wilderness Without You by Keetje Kuipers|
I regard your affection, find your teeth have
left me a bruise necklace. The lipstick marks
leech a trail, ear to ear, facsimile your smile.
Your 40 ounces of malt beverage, your shrink
hate, your eyes dialing 911. The hearts you
draw with ballpoint on my cigarette packs
when I’ve left the room, penned in your girl’s
look demented, misshapen approximations
of what I refuse to hand over. It’s a nice touch,
though: a little love to accompany the cancer.
My thought follows you to where you spend
your days lying in bed, smoking and reading
the Beats. The accumulation of clothes and ashes
circles you, rises like a moat after rainfall.
You are a study in detachment – the trigger eye
is your eye, still as a finger poised to press should
one refuse to cooperate, and I wonder why you
hate men so much when it seems you think like
one. Think of what I could be doing outside if
I could unlock the door of myself: think bikini,
think soda fountain, think tradition, a day lacking
entirely your brand of ambivalence. If you were
a number, I’d subtract you; if you were a sentence,
I’d rewrite you. Are you the one who left these
wilted flowers, are you the one whose PIN spells
out H-O-L-E? Why are you wearing my clothes?
If you are weather, then I’m a town, closing down
at word of your coming: you’re a glacier on fast
forward, you’re direct as a detour, when I say
good-bye you move in next door. You say you
want to have my baby, you want to buy me a car,
and you’re too young to enter a bar. I should tether
you to a tree in the dark park, allow the moon to stroke
your white neck. I should give you a diamond collar,
walk you around the block, and show you off.
by Cate Marvin
Man got to sit and wonder ‘why, why, why?’
Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land;
Man got to tell himself he understand.
|—||From Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut|
This is the story I’ve tried to tell. Guy
exists. Father mother sister brother.
Oh pretty stars, oh bastard moon
I see you watching me. The trembling
years leading to sex, the trembling sex.
Death as garnish. Death as male lead,
female lead, death as a cast
of thousands. God in, on, as, with,
to, around, because who knows
because. All the while feeling air’s
a quilt of tongues, that spaces
between words are more articulate
than words. It’s not like you’d hope,
that anyone can make sense.
Look around you, let your ears
breathe deep — almost no one does.
Have another drink. When they throw us out
there’s a place down the street
that never closes, after that
we’ll climb a fire escape and praise
the genealogy of light. The Big Bang
sounds like what it was, the fucking
that got everything under way.
That love was there from the start
is all I’ve been trying to say.
by Bob Hicok
|—||From Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D.H. Lawrence (via poetryisnotorgasmic)|
|—||By Hunter S. Thompson (via whatokay)|
|—||From Brave New World by Aldous Huxley (via musicwordscolourslights)|
Currently reading this. Partly because I’m taking a class on Milan Kundera and Marguerite Duras and partly because I’m actually interested (albeit with reservations) is Mr. Kundera.
|—||From Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury (via atavus)|
There are so many things I’m not allowed to tell you.
I touch myself, I dream.
Wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour, pretending
that this skin is your skin, these hands your hands,
these shins, these soapy flanks.
The musicians start the overture while I hide behind the microphone,
trying to match the dubbing
to the big lips shining down from the screen.
We’re filming the movie called Planet of Love-
there’s sex of course, and ballroom dancing,
fancy clothes and waterlilies in the pond, and half the night you’re
a dependable chap, mounting the stairs in lamplight to the bath, but then
the too white teeth all night,
all over the American sky, too much to bear, this constant fingering,
your hands a river gesture, the birds in flight, the birds still singing
outside the greasy window, in the trees.
There’s a part in the movie
where you can see right through the acting,
where you can tell that I’m about to burst into tears,
right before I burst into tears
and flee to the slimy moonlit riverbed
canopied with devastated clouds.
We’re shouting the scene where
I swallow your heart and you make me
spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls
right out of my mouth.
You swallow my heart and flee, but I want it back now, baby. I want it back.
Lying on the sofa with my eyes closed, I didn’t want to see it this way,
everything eating everything in the end.
We know how the light works,
we know where the sound is coming from.
Verse. Chorus. Verse.
I’m sorry. We know how it works. The world is no longer mysterious.
by Richard Siken