"Art exists that one may recover the sensation of life; it exists to make one feel things, to make the stone stony. The purpose of art is to impart the sensation of things as they are perceived and not as they are known. The technique of art is to make objects ‘unfamiliar,’ to make forms difficult, to increase the difficulty and length of perception because the process of perception is an aesthetic end in itself and must be prolonged. Art is a way of experiencing the artfulness of an object; the object is not important." - Victor Shklovsky, “Art as Technique.” (via literarypiano)
you were last seen walking through a field of pianos. no. a museum of mouths. in the kitchen of a bustling restaurant, cracking eggs and releasing doves. no. eating glow worms and waltzing past my bedroom. last seen riding the subway, literally, straddling its metal back, clutching electrical cables as reins. you were wearing a dress made out of envelopes and stamps, this was how you travelled. i was the mannequin in the storefront window you could have sworn moved. the library card in the book you were reading until that dog trotted up and licked your face. the cookie with two fortunes. the one jamming herself through the paper shredder, afraid to talk to you. the beggar, hat outstretched bumming for more minutes. the phone number on the bathroom stall with no agenda other than a good time. the good time is a picnic on water, or a movie theatre that only plays your childhood home videos and no one hushes when you talk through them. when they play my videos i throw milk duds at the screen during the scenes i watch myself letting you go – lost to the other side of an elevator – your face switching to someone else’s with the swish of a geisha’s fan. my father could have been a travelling salesman. i could have been born on any doorstep. there are 2,469,501 cities in this world, and a lot of doorsteps. meet me on the boardwalk. i’ll be sure to wear my eyes. do not forget your face. i could never.
"We have no other words to use. We know they don’t count but we lay them against the abyss anyway…" - Anne Carson, The Economy of the Unlost (via mttbll)
We light oxblood candles,
sprinkle rings of oregano
Crouch over eerie
smartphone glow, cloaked
in black lace garments with
ample stretch room
Our burnt tongues nightly
chant, Deliver unto us
free side of hot wings
With brew pints
we cackle louder
than the women
harder than those
in yogurt commercials
with their sensible haircuts
with their mortal flesh
The time felt right to write, you know, a pizza witch poem.
"So many doors forever. There were never enough. Each door had several locks. One lock was combination. Another required keys. Another was a simple side latch. Another was strictly ornamental. Another you could open by whispering the right thing to it at the right time, which is the type of lock most humans have." - Blake Butler, Scorch Atlas (via kdecember)
The wanting hinges on your voice
via envelope, page 4’s mention of
attempts at converting carnality
to verse: I never do it so well
as when it’s to someone I’ve slept with
& a wound-up coil springs apart
some 97 miles later, triggers
visions of your thermotropic prints
turning purple, brown,
—even as you insist, Sex on paper is
by definition dried ink
this pulpy ticker suspects different,
thrums expectant as if pricked
by your serifs
until, snagged at the junction
of smitten & smut, I fidget—
dumbstruck by the fast-cut fever
learning to breathe staccato
in the underwater of your palm.
(Just a lil’ poem I wrote about writing about sex after someone you had sex with writes to you about writing about sex.)
You and I were having a fight
in the street where we fell in love
with our accident.
Several artful lampposts instructed me:
How to point.
How to spin the lights.
How to sit one chair away from myself
in the auditorium of mistrust,
where a piano lid crashes
inside the stomach.
You taught me to connect
music to the will,
though I did not say loudmouth,
busy as I was bending
spoons that were the exact shape
my pain made.
"There are many invisible borders, she says. Some erect and inexorable as when a lover recedes into friend. How we fuss as we approach the millennium, after having slept in its secular sense so long. As if civilization were about to draw its lazy length up toward a moment of moment, advent of the Other, so that Human-Nature-Can/Cannot-Be-Changed would slide down opposite slopes of time. The horizon is a function of eye-level." - Rosmarie Waldrop, from Four Conversations
I am making borscht please do not laugh at me I seem to have ruined my soul the quality of television programming grows stronger all the time soon we will live in the ocean we will all return to the ocean my hands are bright pink like I have been applauding you for hours my love for you is louder than I know I saw a show last night there were four thousand brides left in Iceland I was laughing but it was not funny the brides looked embarrassed and cold I must not wash anywhere but a tide pool I must use starfish to scrub at my hands I am writing this to say I am not leaving you forever I am going to get better and then I’ll come home
"There is a voice in my head that I’d like to banish: an iteration of patriarchy that has told me to aim for emotional consistency & a controlled persona. Once my mother told me that I would never be loved as long as I couldn’t figure out how to have one single, knowable identity… Who I was shifted from moment to moment. My credibility was questioned because I acted differently with different people. But people are different, I always think. Shouldn’t you consider that? I don’t see what’s wrong with shattering into fifty pieces at once every time you try to commit to an idea. Much important thinking, writing, & activism seeks to unify those parts, but first you have to get to know the splits & fault lines. We know this! Yet ambivalence, fragmentation & contradiction are still often seen to undermine one’s authority in art, especially if the artist is a woman. How can you look so sweet & talk so ugly?" - Monica McClure, here.
The self-portrait, as written by a woman, is read as somehow dangerous & indulgent. Some sort of gag order from modernism that even Second-Wave feminist critics, reading Jean Rhys, reading Zelda, reading Anaïs Nin, have internalized— this idea of being self-indulgent, in indulging in the self as contrary to art…
…The charge against women writers so often is narcissism. This unconscious bias against women who are full of themselves bleeds into reactions against their literature. That it’s somehow cheating to draw from one’s OWN life, even if it’s with startling insight into the human condition, or more forbidden still, the complex & ambivalent female condition." - Kate Zambreno, from Heroines
this weather calls for temp deviation from bb goth aesthetic
"Listen, I have been educated.
I have learned about Western
Civilization. Do you know
What the message of Western
Civilization is? I am alone." - Eileen Myles