you have to live where the house lands on you
what else can you do your bones are all broken
and somebody loves you who is it tell me who
loves you not as much as I do I mean I even
built you a house and found you why won’t
you live in it
By the first of August
the invisible beetles began
to snore and the grass was
as tough as hemp and was
no color—no more than
the sand was a color and
we had worn our bare feet
bare since the twentieth
of June and there were times
we forgot to wind up your
alarm clock and some nights
we took our gin warm and neat
from old jelly glasses while
the sun blew out of sight
like a red picture hat and
one day I tied my hair back
with a ribbon and you said
that I looked almost like
a puritan lady and what
I remember best is that
the door to your room was
the door to mine.
–Anne Sexton
and I feel very sexy
because my cunt gets leashed to a tree
and waves hello to everyone
like hi like hi like hi hi hi
each one teach one
I teach each one to have one more
so in case this cunt dies
I have another
in case this man marries me
I can still fuck
I can still go to jail for fucking
I can still go to jail for not fucking
I can still go to jail for having everything
I can still go to jail and have it all
and have nothing
and wake up to my detached body intact
in this way you are never alone
CACONRAD TRANSLUCENT SALAMANDER TROLL THREAD 2013 PURCHASE | DOWNLOAD
“hi it’s me don’t listen to them I didn’t die
join me upright at
the singe marks where
the cremation didn’t take
I hate coffee but I just survived so
let me have some tossed high in
the branches of the miracle
middle age could be 25
you just don’t know
only love can
interrupt the
waiting
someone culled a file of people looking for you
don’t be such a coward our research proves
you’re a perfect match”
“The thing that seems to be saving me is the poetry.” –Anne Sexton
No one/ is who you think they are because everyone/ is who you think they are
“you’re not as confused as you think you are”
—said a very wise man to me today
Anaïs Nin (via vienne)
exactly
(via poemsofthequiet)Fool. You used to think a blushing arm that bent
round you in bed, that would extend to you
across a room still crowded with the breath
of friends and pet the dizzy hair above
your party talk-drunk head, could help defend
or even wave away the tiny mess
of rainclouds and the odd, slush-stained galoshes
from the snow globe in your chest. But you
were being young then. Tonight, you brush
the crumbs of birthday cake away from where
you baked it and it sat. Tonight, you get
undressed, and read a bit in bed, and stretch
out into emptiness. You have nothing
to remember. You have no one to forget.A poem by Malachi Black (Boston Review, March/April 2013)
“The soul is all laced about with nerves and sympathies which affect her every action, and yet, even now, no one has any clear knowledge—such cowards we are, such lovers of the smooth conventional ways—how she works or what she is except that of all things she is the most mysterious, and one’s self the greatest monster and miracle in the world.”
– Virginia Woolf
“I have hardly anything in common with myself and should stand very quietly in a corner, content that I can breathe.” –Franz Kafka
“It is a kind of love, is it not? How the cup holds the tea, How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare, How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes Or toes. How soles of feet know Where they’re supposed to be. I’ve been thinking about the patience Of ordinary things, how clothes Wait respectfully in closets And soap dries quietly in the dish, And towels drink the wet From the skin of the back. And the lovely repetition of stairs. And what is more generous than a window?”
— Pat Schneider, “The Patience of Ordinary Things” (via pigmenting)
It’s embarrassing, how many people died today
and how much I still want
to kiss you in Paris, San Francisco, your bed
in August with the windows open…