“…He wants to fuck. Sweet word.
All suction. I want less. Not that I fear
the huge dark of sex, the sharp sweet light,
light as if it were water raveling, rancor,
tenderness like rain. What I want happens
not when the deer freezes in the shade
and looks at you and you hold very still
and meet her gaze but in the moment after
when she flicks her ears and starts to feed again.”- Robert Hass, from “Santa Lucia”
Cheesin’
When I’m not doing something that comes deeply from me, I get bored. When I get bored I get distracted and when I get distracted, I become depressed. It’s a natural resistance, and it insures your integrity.
Richard Brautigan, from In Watermelong Sugar
Erasure by Tom Phillips
It was the year of the unannounced arrival.
The year my fingers felt made to drag tracks
through your hair, to brush beneath your collar,
gentle as an eyelash. The year I’d wait all night
for your hands to trace the length of my shoulders
as we hugged goodbye. The year of the dog walk,
the milkshake, the long shower. The year I’d ride
my bike all day going nowhere. It was the year
of the broken seatbelt, the lock that just wouldn’t
click. It was the year of the reckless passenger.
The year you surprised me by opening my door.
The year I found you waiting in the darkened frame
of my door. The year you walked thru the open mouth
of my door. It was the year you said, I remember.
The year you said, I always remember when a girl
says she likes something. It was the year I became
that girl.
(via Thrush)
In other words, irresistibly affected by a sudden tear in the fabric of things, I am made to write.
Women need to become literary “criminals”, break the literary laws and reinvent their own, because the established laws prevent women from presenting the reality of their lives.
That you and I, I and you,
this twenty-fifth year after
you stamped your foot, shattered
the glass, and friends, so many dead
or forgotten, applauded in a ballroom
long abandoned, twenty-five years
of Monday good-byes, monthly wars
with stacks of bills, bags of garbage,
frozen gutters, nights filled
with pink medicines, fevered cheeks
on shoulders, the other hand reaching
for the pediatrician’s call, termites
chewing, and hours waiting
for the door to open, holding
our own daughter’s head vomiting
beer into our own leaking toilet,
that now, as mirrors mark the descent
of breasts, the tub catches silvered
pubic hair and our eyes wear pouches
and hoods, as though expecting rain,
that you and I could smell the salt
of each other, coming together after
long absence, silent, still, staring up
at the darkening ceiling, naked in a house
with empty, orderly bedrooms, the last
of dead roses and discarded boyfriends
tossed out, your hand touching mine,
our breathing slowing,
the wonder of it all.
it’s amazing how death
is always around the corner,
or not even so far away
as that, hiding in the little pleasures
that some of us would go
so far as to say
are the only things
keeping us alive
Wish more people ascribed to this.
(Source: spuandi, via neverlandnow)
Nü glasses.
(via Instagram)
My body fills and fills like a tumbler
of lemonade poured by God. I am
a hundred light bulbs burning out.
I am your favorite dessert. I am opening
and opening and I feel as though I cannot
open anymore or my legs would surely grow
flowers from the back of my knees.
I am overflowing the bathtub. I am spilling
spilling spilling clean.- Sierra DeMulder (via sierrademulder)
