-
Subscribe
Subscribed
Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
i am a still life. i am a potted flower desperately bending to any sunlight, including your own. i am the water that dies through breath. i am the breathing, bold discussion on how art is useless but so are we. i am we trying to not try to spend the day in bed. i … Continue reading
do museums exist for men? does art only know the women? where are those crinkled, collapsing sacs of flesh torn and asunder under things heavier than water and lighter than the sun? who draws their balls like rubber comets? when will someone demonstrate the sexless unsuccessful, the losers, the nobodies, those that deny categorization for … Continue reading
to feel your weight, to kiss you in every lovely place, to watch your gentle grace, to listen to you saying i compliment you too much, to compliment your voice as you say, to sit in silence, relaxed, stretched as sunlight, as flowers flowing, as straight when morning cuts in golden and generous mumbling, please, … Continue reading
the following was written on a beach after soaking in julio cortazar and trying to be my own drunk star * did i visit spain did i actually visit spain did i get gorged by a bull pulverize a wave with my crescent head wake up with cooling coffee that will whisper a dream stated … Continue reading
i am starting to think that picasso painted to just get the girls to slip into a sweet summer away from the warm wind and long lost days in front of that great death guernica les demoiselles the weeping woman arm pits bare breasts abound all the females in the world are in the museum … Continue reading
you know what i am looking for the wild words that hold me when others do not the dripping down my leg from a little life lived the deep hungry earth decomposing in the thrust of another season that thing that was there before love was all there was those thick words wet with the … Continue reading
dear dear, it was said that this would be the time of my life. sometimes, it is. days wear sunlight and i can hear an ocean miles away. some of the salt is found in my cup. other times, though, i sit here, baked by the sun, burnt by it, thinking what it means to be turned … Continue reading
cy is short for cyan, which is supposed to sound like sigh, and i do. her name was meant to be hissyphus. a parody of the gods, i got her to give meaning to the mythos of grey, to move the rocks i did not know how to. she doesn’t roll. she sits on my … Continue reading
opened to the distance of being in a bed with someone falling out of love with you here i am again softened by the want of kissing the corner of your mouth only to find it rounded like the sun that will set like the night scattered as flour edges cut like a cedar spring … Continue reading
there laying in an attempt to watch the air in your hand it is the memory of the name of the widest river you used to know that flows out first when you are promising that this my arms my legs my body swimming with yours is it all there is to recall though your … Continue reading
Mizpellt wurdz 