February 2012
13 posts
“I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.”
“You thought of her;
So pale and small,
With unkempt hair
And husky drawl
...”
January 2012
21 posts
First poem (publicly) for ages. →
I'm back. →
findingmyid asked: I miss you, dear friend.
8:53 am.
I’m laying in bed on a Friday morning. It’s 8:53 and I don’t work until noon and so I have a moment or two to stare at the ambiguous shadow-shapes in this dark room with the little window above my bed. An indentation of my lover’s head is still to the left of me. A hollow. A concave pillow. He left for work but moments ago and I already wish this invisible shell were more...
“How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her...”
– Oscar Wilde (via fourkicksfourkicksfourkicks)
“I like art, and by art I mean music, poetry, sex, paintings, the human body,...”
Violently ill, but still madly in love with...
December 2011
17 posts
My god, this girl. →
findingmyid:
tongue tied and twisted
confused beyond logic should have me committed living at somewhat chronic yet mystic levels of perception. Damn me to hell, I admit it, that at a nightmare’s reception I abandon the infinite and I’m left rather lonely and fatalistic. Solidity is rejected Blurred lines…
“Copy out things that you really love. Any book. Put the quotation marks around...”
– Nicholson Baker on copying out passages of your favorite books by hand (via austinkleon)
“Beside the bed, a pad lies open to record the meandering of migratory words. In...”
– Harryette Mullen, from “Sleeping with the Dictionary” (via bookoasis)
Just finished
a fairly decent rough draft on my Global Transnational Lit paper. I’m arguing incest was a necessary mode of coping with grief in my new favorite book ‘The God of Small Things’. Strange, no? Captivating, yes? If you’re in the mood for an amazing 321 page poem in the shape of a novel with lily pads printed on the cover, go buy this book. Borrow it. Thief it. Read it. Author:...
“In those early amorphous years when memory had only just begun, when life was...”
– The God of Small Things
findingmyid asked: Sometimes I go back and read your poem from May, and it makes me miss you.