May 2012
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“only ask is involved
a ball of several man behaviors
such as other coming,...”
– 5.30.12 (via horse-poems)
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Give me many paper cuts all over my body, so I can feel the healing itch quieten to a whisper the further you get away from me.
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martyred babies martyred babies martyred babies martyred babies martyred babies martyred babies martyred babies martyred babies martyred babies martyred babies Houla, anywhere, I am not very good at wanting to live through a world with massacres like extreme weather events we don’t have warnings for.
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tphd:
IT WOULD BE DIFFICULT TO DISABUSE ME OF THE NOTION THAT EVERYONE OR NEARLY EVERYONE IS CONSIDERABLY MORE COMPLEX THAN THEY PRESENT THEMSELVES
MOST OF US WITHHOLD OUR REAL THOUGHTS BECAUSE OF THE DIFFICULTY IN COMMUNICATING THEM; WE’RE NOT CERTAIN THEY CAN BE MADE SENSIBLE TO OTHERS
(OR THAT THEY’LL BE ACCEPTED)
AND ANYWAY WHO WANTS TO COMPLICATE A CASUAL CONVERSATION WITH A SUDDEN...
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I went to sleep in the garden and woke up covered in dew - the empty house lamenting, “I know I can’t kiss you like that”.
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Click here to find me out
I peach controversy. Preoccupy me. Translate my dirty mouth. Braille my skin. Braid my hair like plaited sweet bread. Rib each of my fingers with silver rings. Brown sugar and butter me. Dust icing sugar on to me. Pipe pink sugary roses on my nipples. Pierce my ears with silver cachous. Transfuse my blood with honey. Shoulder my erogenous zones. Lift up my tongue to check...
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My feelings for you were a photoshopped-in lens flare.
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“Follow writers on twitter, or at least those writers crass enough to use that...”
– Adam Roberts (via zipfinger)
The writers I follow on Twitter don’t even care about calling themselves writers. They aren’t like this. We write poems together in 140ch across timelines. Surrealists tell funnier jokes than the professional comedians with hundreds of thousands of...
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Siren Song, Emily Rosko
Baited it-that’s what we did. One big mess. Slick fat of a leopard seal, a mermaid curse in inky waters, places we’ll never return to. I’m as part of the anchored ship as any. I’m as reddened by hands and murderously known. The songs stars play clear out in the crystalline heavens. Some lasting mention of the end repeated each day we feast. When the seal was hacked open, it...
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Over the Wall, Refaat Alareer
‘There,’ points Grandma. She had a tent that was a home. She had a goat and a camel. She had a rake and a fork and a trowel. She had a machete and a watering can. She had a grove and two hundred plants. She had a child and another one and another one. *** ‘There,’ she insists. I could not see Because of the wall. I could not hear Because of the noise. I could not smell Because of the powder. ***...
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Our Bodies Break Light, Traci Brimhall
We crawl through the tall grass and idle light, our chests against the earth so we can hear the river underground. Our backs carry rotting wood and books that hold no stories of damnation or miracles. One day as we listen for water, we find a beekeeper— one eye pearled by a cataract, the other cut out by his own hand so he might know both types of blindness. When we stand in front of him, he says...
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Keeping Things Whole, Mark Strand
In a field I am the absence of field. This is always the case. Wherever I am I am what is missing. When I walk I part the air and always the air moves in to fill the spaces where my body’s been. We all have reasons for moving. I move to keep things whole.
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The moon is trespassing on you but I saint light, thurible in my lungs, terrible smoke and trespassing light. Robed, robbed, scented.
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sigil to boys ratio
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residue.
warsanshire:
i give myself five days to forget you.
on the first day i rust.
on the second i wilt.
on the third day i sit with friends but i think about your tongue.
i clean my room on the fourth day. i clean my body on the fourth day.
i try to replace your scent on the fourth day.
the fifth day, i adorn myself like the mouth of an inmate.
a wedding singer dressed in borrowed gold.
the...
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Untitled.
babybirch:
I.
There is something about how we love each other. The different ways. I read about it. My hand turned into you means this, or doesn’t. Like chilies there is a secret to the heat. How I can only stomach them when they are still green and new.
None of my love is old enough for history.
II.
I suppose to truly understand it all, we need to go back.
How did we grow into this?
I...
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Daynight, With Mountains Tied Inside, Alice Fulton
Chandelier too full of brilliance to be indolent. Your prisms enunciate the light and don’t need rain to break it into rainbows. Snow with six crutches in each crystal. Your livery your glitter, your purring made visible. Only inanimate things can sparkle without sweat. My spinet, the threat of music in its depths and miniature busts of men composers carved of...
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“Once a little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved...”
– Maurice Sendak (via bobulate)
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Regarding Wave, Gary Snyder
The voice of the Dharma the voice now A shimmering bell through all. Every hill, still. Every tree alive. Every leaf. All the slopes flow. old woods, new seedlings, tall grasses plumes. Dark hollows; peaks of light. wind stirs the cool side Each leaf living. All the hills. The Voice is a wife to ...
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When you undress me, take god off last.
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Oakland Work Crew, Gibson Fay-LeBlanc
Dan said, My life is a nine with the hammer cocked, chuckled, told of standing on a browned lawn naked, three hundred pounds of pure Mick-Spic: shooting at a Chevelle, tire marks on concrete. Told how, inside, you heat a sharpened Bic and a guy carves DannyBoy or Norteaño on your neck. Prince pictured of faint patterns on ceiling tiles in his dreams and a pot with a ten in it when he finds where...
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I want to show you highways at night with sugarcane on fire, driving and singing to the stereo with cicadas in our throats.
One of your hands on the wheel and the other in my hair and somewhere monks sweeping a mandala to a place outside of memory.
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(Every fourteen days, a language dies)
sunsetsinexile:
Every fourteen days, a language dies. Does it count to fourteen until it expires, or do others do the counting? Every fourteen days, a language dies. No more rocks for it, no more skies; no more love in it, no more time. The world becomes unconstricted from it, untied from sound. How many Adams had to point to how many things and say how many names and smile at how many...
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*An endless succession of TV screens you smash...
dialoghost:
you are only readable through a magnifying glass, we play silly wars with focused sunlight (the sun is trying to get at my shadow by burning me through) we light a danger candle and fill the room with throbbing shadow, you are its messenger; a conduit i speak in thunderous Morse code and superspeed collisions there is nothing ‘inside’ a word
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May Day
The workers march on the universe,
circling the rings of Saturn,
planting red flags in asteroids
for miners that were lost
(unhook the stars, mine some asteroids)
footfalling in the streets like stars
voices ringing like the caressing of glass
red flags bobbing on a sea
as endless punctuation marks.
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bed as garden
you compare my body to fruits and I lie quietly in an orchard, letting berries fall into my mouth
I taste smoke on you and your hair curls for me and after we fuck, I am sticky and sweet with condensed milk
I blush the colour of a flowering ginger plant, but I can’t dig my toes as deep in the soil as its root
I am bedded as garden with night blooming cactus standing guard
I walk naked...
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Voice By Melih Cevdet Anday
translated from the Turkish by Sidney Wade and Efe Murad May 1, 2012
I woke to find myself filled with sound My face my eyes my mouth my nose my hands It was the sound of a sea-door opening The sound of the sun-hen shaking dust from her feathers The sound of a tooth-colored hawser creaking Of a trumpet in the shape of a tree Of tomorrow’s wheat, of a moving bone It was the sound of an historical...
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April 2012
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"Poem" by Muriel Rukeyser
I lived in the first century of world wars. Most mornings I would be more or less insane, The newspapers would arrive with their careless stories, The news would pour out of various devices Interrupted by attempts to sell products to the unseen. I would call my friends on other devices; They would be more or less mad for similar reasons. Slowly I would get to pen and paper, Make my poems for...
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