February 2012
27 posts
“You are not to do anything to be happy. In fact you have done too much to become...”
– Osho (via thedailycourtney)
3 tags
-morning meditations-
matt says that he feels we are destined for greatness, that anyone with words or a strong artistic pull WILL impact the world, that is, IF we can protect ourselves from our unhealthy impulses and hedonistic tendencies. it’s such a fine line to walk. gold in our hearts, terrors in our heads. i’ve known it since day one. have to be good, be strong, get down all the BEST words, be a...
“When your mother hits you, do not strike back. When the boys call asking your...”
– “Unsolicited Advice to Adolescent Girls With Crooked Teeth and Pink Hair,” Jeanann Verlee (via clavicola)
“Dogs are our link to paradise.
They don’t know evil or jealousy or discontent....”
– Milan Kundera (via hateshiploveship)
weird that I’m posing this but whatever. I want a dog, a house on a cliff by the ocean, long hair and plenty of silence.
nikad asked: You're a beautiful writer. I wish I had a grasp on words the way you do. I loved what you wrote for Valentine's Day.
3 tags
“I think that being artists in a time like this, we have a lot to give. It is a...”
– Meredith Monk, Interview, Spring 1991 (PDF)
so significant. thinking of this often lately. seeking out silence and putting space between every though, every action.
oh, oh.
grammatolatry:
“It’s easy to love
through a cold spring
when the poles
of the willows
turn green
pollen falls like
a yellow curtain
and the scent of
Paper Whites
clots
the air but to love for a lifetime
takes talent you have to mix yourself
with the strange
beauty of someone
else
wake each morning
for 72,000
mornings in
a row so
breathed and
bound and
tangled
that you can hardly
sort...
I want to chase the pleasures of the world with you and never leave your side. I want the fires and the fog, the sugar crystals and the split shells. Oh, we could lose our minds and find them again, rebuild ourselves just for the thrill of it, and the shock. I want to awe them, every last one of them. I want them mute and staring, but I’ll only look at you. I want you to have all of my eyes,...
Something Like Prayer
theshookfoil:
—- ROUGH DRAFT —-
Purple Gallinule: Medium bird with purple-blue
upperparts washed with iridescent green and
deep blue.. Undertail coverts are white. The
flight is labored and slow with dangling legs.
I broke like a god—riotous
and split with love. There was a
rusty chain link fence:
on one side, my heart, like
something diseased, festered.
I have known failure. Yet on
the...
3 tags
The Poet Has Come Back : Margaret Atwood
The poet has come back to being a poet
after decades of being virtuous instead.
Can’t you be both?
No. Not in public.
You could, once,
back when God was still thundering vengeance
and I liked the scent of blood,
and hadn’t got around to slippery forgiveness.
Then you could scatter incense and praise,
and wear your snake necklace,
and hymn the crushed skulls of your enemies
to a...
I & I
aw. a familiar story…
zvada:
I took the train home to my parent’s house in the country, and on the way I listened to the entire Bright Eyes’ discography. It was the first time I really connected to the newest album, and I remember listening to One for You, One for Me, and really digging it, really understanding when he sings about “I and I.” I watched a flatbed semi truck stacked high...
January 2012
40 posts
4 tags
-now-
something about love drenched lips whispering “whatever you say.” something about the cool, still night, in which we alone move. something sticky. something infused with the juice of overripe plums. something burned at the edges. all former lovers seem a mockery. something solid and smooth. something permeable. I am something eased.
—
I want a vial of this. I want to wear...
s-o-p-h-i-e asked: they are touring again! this is from last night in cleveland
Damned If I Don't
theshookfoil:
————-ROUGH DRAFT ROUGH DRAFT ROUGH DRAFT————-
Some go out like the click
of a cheap lock on a bathroom
door: guilty, withheld. Some go
out with defenses whittled
to a point—fine and sharp as shards
of diamond, misleading in their luster. To these
I say: here are my scorched fingers and my blood
stained hands. I have stolen both valuables and hearts,
and always, I run. I have...
asphyxiates asked: Bahahah, your answer was perfect. I had spaghetti and basically spent each bite wishing the noodles would turn into dumplings.
asphyxiates asked: You have suddenly become one of my new favorite people. Plus you actually know what that is. Bonuses for you!! But right! Once you see that nothing can compare. All hail the dumplings and paprikash! Bahaha.
Anonymous asked: If you could ask one thing out of life, what would it be? Something permanent/something impermanent? What are you all about? (Asked with much love and appreciation.)
“My idea of an interesting person is someone who is quite proud of their...”
– John Waters, Shock Value: A Tasteful Book About Bad Taste (via bohemea)
#myfriends
“I will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window, your...”
– Charles Bukowski (via bsize)
i’m hardly drawn to bukowski these days, but this. this.
NEW POEM [on my writing blog]: Cyclical
theshookfoil:
Tell me what to know about the patterns
of wind in Ketchikan and the way movement
can restore warmth. I was once told
that stillness does not equate purity.
We try to quell fears which gape
like a doorless frame into an echoing
hallway. There is too much empty space.
Somewhere, a man who catches fish
for a living hovers over a bucket
of water, cleaning his hands. He sees
every...
NEW POEM [on my writing blog]: The Addict
theshookfoil:
Under a full moon, you pick poppies and press
them into notebooks. I fear this act—rushing
death in hopes of suspending the glories of life.
I have never played god. Stung by a bee only once,
I remedied the wound with baking soda
and a tight wrap. Hospitals and sharpness
scare me. I prefer the softness of words like tonic,
my last hold on a plainer world. I watch you
from a...
NEW POEM [on my writing blog]: American Dreamer
theshookfoil:
On the corner of Summit Street he works the pedals
like a desperate sailor hanging on the boom.
Clutch, break, gas; The Deathbox shudders
and rests again against the wet pavement.
He learned quickly that Ohio is a stern grandmother—
one with a penchant for pursed-lip
kisses followed by biting compliments.
You never know what you’re going to get.
You never get anything great.
On...
