January 2012
80 posts
Here I Am.
whynotonce:
Spontaneity.
And eye-wide wonder,
and amazement
and needing no explanations
nor giving any.
A heart that dances
And a mind that follows
And the love of words.
And that feeling that I might be gone
On the wind
caught by a cloud
One of these moments.
4 tags
Boredom
In tangled strings of chronology, there lies a dull gray sphere—ashen and clouded, yet fundamentally empty. It reveals itself only in the absence of life: a wisp that may only escape its binds when the ribbons of laughter and distraction are severed. It glows now.
Violent winds spiral around the orb, expanding it in both image and tangible presence. Twisting, howling, the cycle grows…and strings...
The World Is in Pencil
rabbit-light:
—not pen. It’s got that same silken dust about it, doesn’t it, that same sense of having been roughed onto paper even as it was planned. It had to be a labor of love. It must’ve taken its author some time, some shove. I’ll bet it felt good in the hand—the o of the ocean, and the and and the and of the land.
Todd Boss
“Without literature, life is hell.”
– Charles Bukowski (via ouil)
Anxiety
highnotepoet56:
There’s an antsy ache gnawing at my insides, spitting restless poison into my system black bleeds on crimson canvas
Muscles twitch and buzz, I must remember to breathe electric volts spit fire
Jaw clenched and sore, my teeth must be near shattering glass shards splintered red
From the pressure knotting, twisting its roots inside of me, wrapping around my lungs, and tearing...
documented: i
observee:
i am sitting near the window. i find it odd when the clouds are bright, far more luminous than the sun. sometimes (a word i use too often), i wonder what little friends could watch from my shoulders, especially at night. i seek refuge in the inevitable. that is why i have decided to start these.
documented. printed. admitted. a journal, but more official to the ears. they hardly are.
...
“The word in language is half someone else’s… it exists in other people’s mouths,...”
– Mikhail Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination (via everybodyhasatheory)
shadowhostage:
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me, Fluttering from the autumn ...
poemendings:
It instructs me on the ways when need be to hide It awakens the serpent inside to throb, to burn It pulls the arrow from my ear And it whispers, whispers, whispers a last word What seems the last vapors of a long dream Like Baraka wrote, like James Brown sings Whispers, “please, please, please.”
- Jim Carroll, Praying Mantis
“Whoever told people that ‘mind’ means thoughts, opinions, ideas, and concepts?...”
– Dogen Zenji
(amare-habeo)
urhajos:
Niva - Ghost In My Head
6 tags
Paint
Lying still, they sleep in scarlet rivers, forming a shadow upon an ivory wall. The painter flicks her wrist, and miniscule puddles appear. Another flick, and splatters of gold now decorate the canvas. She traces neat circles around the bits of liquid fire, making thin lines with midnight ink, then backs away from the piece. She needs the distance. She breathes in the sense of the art as she seeks...
““Strike me dead, the track has vanished,
Well, what now? We’ve lost the way,...”
– Alexander Pushkin (via luchadoreofliberty)
from: "Sonnets from an Ungrafted Tree", by Edna...
hateshiploveship:
She had a horror he would die at night. And sometimes when the light began to fade She could not keep from noticing how white The birches looked—and then she would be afraid, Even with a lamp, to go about the house And lock the windows; and as night wore on Toward morning, if a dog howled, or a mouse Squeaked in the floor, long after it was gone Her flesh would sit awry on her....
3 tags
“Books are humanity in print.”
– Barbara W. Tuchman
1-8
scottiehughes:
I can’t find that ink of decision, or the line once driven through me
it’s like watching paper towels tented on the stove, like smoking up the kitchen:
breathing is easy, but that air burns stagnant and often scars the lungs
dumbledoreisabamf:
O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish; Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d; Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around...
“You don’t even know
what a dream is;
“how did it come?”
“It didn’t come,
it...”
– Dream by Hilda Doolittle (with thanks to journalofanobody)
“Swifts turn in the heights of the air;
higher still turn the invisible stars....”
– Phillippe Jaccottet | “Distances” | translated from the French by Derek Mahon (via evoketheforms)
“Suicide is not his repertoire. He’s far too fond of himself for that.”
– Dr. John Watson (Sherlock Holmes)
“I start to look up. I want to see my eyes. I want to look beneath the surface of...”
– James Frey, A Million Little Pieces (via hateshiploveship)
“[Why? Because of the truth I had learned: it is not only what we do that is...”
– Nicola Morgan, from The Highwayman’s Footsteps (thanks, theyorkshirelass)
“Life gets tired of living.”
– Kerouac (Mexico City Blues)
linen-and-curls-all-unfurled:
The sky screams the colors of war. Bleeding, gushing, seeping pain. Brilliant arches of light flash, destroying all in the path.
The white blossom turns red with my blood. Dripping, the blood falls into the water, staining it as my tears stained my blades.
Shades of black envelop me, surround my mind, cloak my heart, suffocate me dry.
I am fading, sedated. I am...
“You know when you see something like a marvelous mountain against the blue sky,...”
– Jiddu Krishnamurti, On Love and Loneliness. Today, in the river. (via crashinglybeautiful)
