bottle up and explode

February 12, 2012, 10:00am

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.   
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.
 
Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,   
the furniture you have placed under the sun.
 
But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.

Twice I have so simply declared myself,   
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,   
have taken on his craft, his magic.
 
In this way, heavy and thoughtful,   
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.
 
I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.   
Suicides have already betrayed the body.
 
Still-born, they don’t always die,
but dazzled, they can’t forget a drug so sweet   
that even children would look on and smile.
 
To thrust all that life under your tongue!—
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.   
Death’s a sad bone; bruised, you’d say,
 
and yet she waits for me, year after year,   
to so delicately undo an old wound,   
to empty my breath from its bad prison.
 
Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,   
raging at the fruit a pumped-up moon,   
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,
 
leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love whatever it was, an infection.

February 11, 2012, 2:13am

(Source: theballetbook)

February 04, 2012, 8:02pm

fuckyeahingmarbergman:

the virgin spring (1960)

February 04, 2012, 7:28pm

(Source: abarrotar-de-ti)

February 04, 2012, 7:01pm

Reblogged from danser..

February 04, 2012, 6:58pm

rosiee:

Umbo (Otto Umbehr), At the Beach, 1930.

January 28, 2012, 8:54pm

The first time I saw my mother, she’d been dead
fourteen years and came as a ghost in the mirror,

plucking the hair beneath her arms, and humming
a bossa nova. She lotioned her chapped heels

and padded her bra as if she were alive in the old way.
She said I was born with my cord wrapped

around my neck like a rosary, and she knew God,
the doomed father of her days, wanted us both.

Before midnight she plaited my hair, hemmed my skirt,
sang lullabies she’d learned on the other side of the flood.

She lifted her dress to show her bones shedding light
on a stillborn fetus accidentally raptured into her ribs.

She said she’d choose her death again, obey any pain
heaven gave her. Years ago she watched a man ride

a diving bell to the bottom of the Amazon to face
the mysteries God had placed there. The chain broke,

and they pulled him to the surface smiling, stiff, refusing
to open his fists. They broke and unpeeled his fingers.

No one wept or fought to hold it. She covered her eyes
so she wouldn’t see what God, in his innocence, had done.

(Source: poets.org)

January 26, 2012, 3:43am

(Source: fyeahartstudentowl)

January 26, 2012, 3:40am

synechdoche:

eatsleepdraw:

Three Little Pigs..
Follow Me

i wish i could draw like this

January 26, 2012, 3:40am

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Ernst Haeckel. Kunstformen der Natur.

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Kunstformen_der_Natur

January 26, 2012, 3:39am

(Source: fyeahartstudentowl)

January 26, 2012, 3:39am

kecky415:

BOOSHAHHHH

January 26, 2012, 3:38am

catsgethigh:

used to have this book.  i also think its where tim and eric got the idea for “pussy doodles”

(Source: ripshannon)

January 24, 2012, 3:24am

donsway:

Being Boss 

January 20, 2012, 3:38am