They say snobbery is a form of despair. So, I know you looked down on us because you saw frowns come up. And levees were an occasion that you rose to. And our pain drove you to relate. You opened your mouth to release. We opened ours to scream, because we couldn’t escape.
is not pretty
but I don’t care
Set the dumpster
on fire. Break
Don’t kiss me
like they do
in the movies.
like they do
on the emergency
|—||Daphne Gottlieb (via kdecember)|
You remember too much,
my mother said to me recently.
Why hold onto all that?
And I said,
Where do I put it down?
|—||Anne Carson, from “The Glass Essay” (via vrban)|
|—||Jonathan Safran Foer (via observando)|
|—||Arthur Golden (via observando)|
To walk through graves and
more graves that will respond
quietly with their silence
there is nothing like a death
that won’t go away
—Nathalie Handal, from “Exit Song”
that ages us. Though years
can write upon our skin
with unseen knives,
some things must be stolen to be lost.
|—||Sean Patrick Mulroy, from “picture of a lover at 19,” Nailed (April 9, 2013)|
I carry deserts in my chest; the hot sand of silence.
— Edmond Jabès, The Book of Questions II, trans. Rosmarie Waldrop (Wesleyan, 1991)
and they are like all other words:
ordinary, breathing out of lips,
moving toward you in a straight line.
Later they shatter
and rearrange themselves. They spell
something else hidden in the muscles
of the face, something the throat wanted to say.
a mystery which will never happen again …
|—||e. e. cummings, “now all the fingers of this tree(darling)have”, from Xaipe: Seventy-One Poems (via hiddenshores)|
|—||Jeffrey McDaniel (via alonesomes)|
When you do, I’ll hear it ring and I’ll let it go.
Don’t forget to leave a message. Breathe
so the static catches onto your lungs and
makes that silvery rasp I love.
Tell the silence you need me. Tell it you’ll be fine
if I don’t need you back. Tell it you remember
the way I smoked like everyone was watching,
like every kiss was the one before quitting.
Tell it you miss me. Tell it you’re not lying.
Stop when the beep sounds.
|—||Ramna Safeer, Instructions For Him (via larmoyante)|
‘One is a choice, and one is not.’
|—||Tarryn Fisher, Mud Vein (via larmoyante)|