From William Stafford's "A Ritual to Read to Each...
For it is important that awake people be awake, or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep; the signals we give—yes or no, or maybe— should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.
We are an iridescent chaos.– Cézanne
When we are no longer children we are already dead.– Constantin Brancusi
Hans Bellmer + Riot Grrrl Aesthetics.
Grrrls and Dolls: Appropriated Images of Girlhood in the Works of Hans Bellmer and Riot Grrrl Bands by Meghan Chandler
“Dévore-moi. Déforme-moi jusqu’à la laideur.”
When he sleeps, the snoring does not bother me: the rhythmic growl, gravel...– Sierra DeMulder, “Heart Apnea” (via fleurishes)
What is necessary, after all, is only this: solitude, vast inner solitude. To...– Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (via heteroglossia)
From "," by Genine Lentine
Comma, tongue flick, drawn into the white between two phrases. Slow, deliberate, delicate graphite whisper, you mark my page, you urge my legs open. Swim of the head, the mouth come to rest, caesura, tip of the tuning fork, crura humming, vocal folds’ taut bands unstrummed, universe, pause. (via fluttering-slips)
ahuntersheart: "Longing, we say, because desire is full of endless distances. I must have been the same to her. But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread, the thing her father said that hurt her, what she dreamed. There are moments when the body is as numinous as words, days that are the good flesh continuing." -Robert Hass, "Meditations at Lagunitas"
Anemone by Jennifer K. Sweeney
You cling to tide’s slim canyon, underbelly of rock, disguise your pure flesh in gravel and wait stone-fisted. But open, you are all mouth, quivering chrysanthemum, geode of neon and rust. Never is anything so vulnerable as when I touch you with my tentative fingertip and you swallow yourself, enfolded burst by burst, inward to a still point of closed desire. (via...
Is it the dead who belong to us, or we who belong to the dead?– Gilles Deleuze, Cinema 2: The Time-Image (via batarde)
nymphean: Broadcast- Oh How I Miss You
THE BIRD ALIGHTS, LOOKING ONLY TO ITS ALIGHTING
pnoom: the bird alights, looking only to its alighting, its desire to alight mattering more than the branch. the river runs where it finds its repose and not where it is needed i was never one who in love or in friendship preferred one sex over the other. beauty attracts me in equal measure, wherever i find it, in season thus i separate myself from distinctions of where and how i love or...
I’m writing to hold on to you.– Henriikka Tavi, “Mourning Cloak,” trans. David Hackston (thanks, ahuntersheart & awritersruminations)