January 2012
37 posts
You do not always know what I am feeling. Last night in the warm spring air while I was blazing my tirade against someone who doesn’t interest me, it was love for you that set me afire,
and isn’t it odd? for in rooms full of strangers my most tender feelings writhe and bear the fruit of screaming. Put out your hand, isn’t there an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside the bed? And someone you...
the night was warm and sticky as we trapped it in the spaces between ourselves
and the taste of your red wine blood stained lips and our mouths that melt together when we kiss
I breathed in, collecting your scent in the depths of my lungs
tracing my fingertips ever so lightly along the scars that cut canyons across your chest and bound you up in thin red ribbons
trying to detect some sense of fear...
dont get attached.
Horse Feathers- Curs in the Weeds Cover
There’s still an eternity of knowledge of him that I don’t have. And I want it now as much as I want to breathe.
Maybe I'm a 'sick part of a
sick thing'
maybe something
has caught up with me
certainly there is a
mist between us
I can barely
see you
but your hands
are two animals that push the
mist aside and touch me.
- Denise Levertov (1957)
she puts a strand of her hair in her oil paintings so she can prove that it’s hers by DNA, she also spits in her water colors
I like to touch your tattoos in complete darkness, when I can’t see them. I’m sure of where they are, know by heart the neat lines of lightning pulsing just above your nipple, can find, as if by instinct, the blue swirls of water on your shoulder where a serpent twists, facing a dragon. When I pull you
to me, taking you until we’re spent and quiet on the sheets, I love to kiss the pictures in...
Just as in the horror movies when someone discovers that the phone calls are coming from inside the house
so too, I realized that our tender overlapping has been taking place only inside me.
All that sweetness, the love and desire — it’s just been me dialing myself then following the ringing to another room
to find no one on the line, well, sometimes a little breathing but more often than...
My existence is uncomfortable and I take up too much room on this earth so I’m going to take a hot shower for the next seventy years.
untitled spoken poetry
Interviewer: In your new novel, Pale Fire, one of the characters says that reality is neither the subject nor the object of real art, which creates its own reality. What is that reality? Nabokov: Reality is a very subjective affair. I can only define it as a kind of gradual accumulation of information; and as specialization. If we take a lily, for instance, or any other kind of natural object,...
Move your hand slightly and I’m yours. Or gone.
Everyone should draw themselves naked and decomposing at least once.
Everyone should draw themselves naked and decomposing at least once.
sometimes i feel like its raining inside of my body. its sprinkling down on my organs, and as lightning makes its way from one to the other it makes me sneeze uncontrollably.. its pretty awesome.
December 2011
59 posts
heartflusters
And she understood as I did that when you sat down and put your hands on the keys, it was not just a piano in front of you, it was a universe.
Maybeshewill-take this to heart
Now we’re apart. Though not through choice. Do we stay mute? Or raise our voice?
And, perhaps, the body really is a gift, this small beating in my ribs a reasoned rhythm.
If I hold my shadows up to the light would you be able to see their veins, how alive they are?