(via messengerbird)
(via wolfteeth)
(via dirtylittlestylewhore)
“ It wasn’t until I started reading and found books they wouldn’t let us read in school that I discovered you could be insane and happy and have a good life without being like everybody else. ”
John Waters (via letusreadandletusdance)
“ I always like summer
Best
you can eat fresh corn
From daddy’s garden
And okra
And greens
And cabbage
And lots of
Barbeque
And buttermilk
And homemade ice-cream
At the church picnic
And listen to
Gospel music
Outside
At the church
Homecoming
And go to the mountains with
Your grandmother
And go barefooted
And be warm
All the time
Not only when you go to bed
And sleep ”
Knoxville, TN by Nikki Giovanni
“ He poured the coffee
Into the cup
He poured the milk
Into the cup of coffee
He added the sugar
To the coffee and milk
He stirred it
With a teaspoon
He drank the coffee
And put back the cup
Without speaking to me
He lit a cigarette
He blew some rings
With the smoke
He flicked the ashes
Into the ashtray
Without speaking to me
Without looking at me
He got up
He put his hat
On his head
He put on
His raincoat
Because it was raining
He went out
Into the rain
Without a word
Without looking at me
And I
I took my head
In my hands
And I wept ”
Breakfast by Jacques Prévert
“ You can tell by how he lists
to let her
kiss him, that the getting, as he gets it,
is good.
It’s good in the sweetly salty,
deeply thirsty way that a sea-fogged
rain is good after a summer-long bout
of inland drought.
And you know it
when you see it, don’t you? How it
drenches what’s dry, how the having
of it quenches.
There is a grassy inlet
where your ocean meets your land, a slip
that needs a certain kind of vessel,
and when that shapely skiff skims in at last,
trimmed bright, mast lightly flagging
left and right,
then the long, lush reeds
of your longing part, and soft against
the hull of that bent wood almost
imperceptibly brushes a luscious hush
the heart heeds helplessly—
the hush
of the very good. ”
The Hush of the Very Good by Todd Boss
“
what we do in the dark has no hands. no
crossover effect, no good-bye kiss after the alarm.
what we carry in, we carry out, end of story. this
doesn’t even want to be love. except in minutes
when your face has the shape of my palm and I think
lungful. let want out with the cat. returns
and returns, something dutiful. persistent.
hold your breath, let it build, let go. this is practice.
I’m losing weight, a bad sign, I’m happy. serious,
you say. contained, I think. the cat comes back
with a dead bird to the doorstep, an offering. bloodless
this should be easy. a two-step to cowboys. you’re beautiful
but that’s not the point.
x
I know my way back perfectly well. like the back
of my hand, as it were. but look, the labyrinth walls
are high hedge and green. this also could be joy.
xx
I literally don’t know your middle name. does that
matter? what systems we arrange for intimacy, small
disclosures like miniature bridges, your mouth. not
what I’d anticipated. softer. to begin with,
I should tell the truth more. I could miss you,
and that’s a liability.
xxx
I am not often off-kilter. but you’re so silent, even
naked, and almost absent. I hush too, why
are we here. go. want to throw things, you, the clock,
break windows until something bleeds and you finally
scream. I tell you too much; we are not
those people. or nothing—maybe I say
utilitarian fuck. how would that be. I want you
to want to fall in love with me and that’s
unhealthy. wrong. leave your shoes by the door
and pretend it’s about the movie. it’s love
in the movies it’s casablanca and toy story
and water no ice come here. pockets need
to be untucked, drawers thrown open,
nobody’s safe. there, I’ve said it:
someone I was could have loved you.
“Miniature Bridges, Your Mouth,” by Marty McConnell
“
there’s a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there,
I’m not going to let anybody see you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him
and inhale cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that he’s in there.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay down,
do you want to mess me up?
you want to screw up the works?
you want to blow my book sales in Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I’m too clever,
I only let him out at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little in there,
I haven’t quite let him die
and we sleep together like that
with our secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man weep,
but I don’t weep,
do you?
Bluebird by Bukowski
“
in the
split seconds
before come and get it
becomes oh god don’t stop,
I picture how many
strands
of your hair
I can fit in one fist and,
of those,
how many will break loose
with your first thrust
and find themselves
stray, stuck to our bodies
like wet stars.
He told her I fuck like a man.
I say
someone had to.
in speaking of the space between actions by jessica dawson
“
so you have to start wondering
why the hell bother
what in devil’s name are you doing it all for
and the level of personal exhaustion
turns some people to the bottle
for one escape or another
because it IS hard to keep going
no matter how you love your kids
or find happiness in your work
sometimes it just dawns on you
what the hell
and it’s at weird moments like that
when the moon and uranus are in pisces
that you have to suspend that question
and move along
like a leaf in the tide
and enjoy the ride
because let’s face it
you already bought your ticket
a long, long time ago”
tuesday 22 july by michael lutin
“
Last year I abstained
This year I devour
Without guilt
Which is also an art
Last Year I Abstained by Margaret Atwood
