One takes the straight line,
another goes in a circle
and longs for the return to the parents’ house
and longs for a former girlfriend.
But I go, not in a straight line or in a zigzag,
into nowhere and never,
and disasters follow me
like trains crashing off the tracks.
(via rememo)
“Closure is a greasy little word which, moreover, describes a nonexistent condition. The truth, Venus, is that nobody gets over anything.” — Martin Amis, House of Meetings (via devilduck)
“Maybe the first time you saw her you were ten. She was standing in the sun scratching her legs. Or tracing letters in the dirt with a stick. Her hair was being pulled. Or she was pulling someone’s hair. And a part of you was drawn to her, and a part of you resisted—wanting to ride off on your bicycle, kick a stone, remain uncomplicated. In the same breath you felt the strength of a man, and a self-pity that made you feel small and hurt. Part of you thought: Please don’t look at me. If you don’t, I can still turn away. And part of you thought: Look at me.” — Nicole Krauss, The History of Love (via larmoyante)
(via ronswansoneatsbacon)
Kim Parko, from “Cure All” (via bloodmilk)
Alvin Enck’s Holy Bible, 1935. Handwritten on page 246 (Revelation: 22): ” Holy Bible. Life is pleasant, if you make it, Kiss me Baby, I can take it.” Collection Jim Linderman.
(Source: therearenospectators, via margueritatoldtom)
Do not make things too easy.
There are rocks and abysses in the mind
As well as meadows.
There are things knotty and hard: intractable.
Do not talk to me of love and understanding.
I am sick of blandishments.
I want the rock to be met by a rock.
If I am vile, and behave hideously,
Do not tell me it was just a misunderstanding.
(via blogut)
(Source: poetryfoundation.org)
A land not mine, still
forever memorable,
the waters of its ocean
chill and fresh.
Sand on the bottom whiter than chalk,
and the air drunk, like wine,
late sun lays bare
the rosy limbs of the pinetrees.
Sunset in the ethereal waves:
I cannot tell if the day
is ending, or the world, or if
the secret of secrets is inside me again.
(via rememo)
“I have always been a wretched speaker. My vocabulary dwells deep in my mind and needs paper to wriggle out into the physical zone. Spontaneous eloquence seems to me a miracle. I have rewritten — often several times — every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasures.” — : Vladimir Nabokov (via clavicola)
(via clavicola)
“i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.”
— Lucille Clifton, from “won’t you celebrate with me” (via the-final-sentence)
Let me make this perfectly clear.
I have never written anything because it is a Poem.
This is a mistake you always make about me,
A dangerous mistake. I promise you
I am not writing this because it is a Poem.
You suspect this is a posture or an act.
I am sorry to tell you it is not an act.
You actually think I care if this
Poem gets off the ground or not. Well
I don’t care if this poem gets off the ground or not
And neither should you.
All I have ever cared about
And all you should ever care about
Is what happens when you lift your eyes from this page.
Do not think for one minute it is the Poem that matters.
It is not the Poem that matters.
You can shove the Poem.
What matters is what is out there in the large dark
And in the long light,
Breathing.
(leprintemps via ahuntersheart)
(via leprintemps)