nantes.

tonight i could drunk kiss the whole world.

7 

The stranger says there are no more couches and he will have to 
sleep in your bed. You try to warn him, you tell him 
you will want to get inside him, and ruin him, 
but he doesn’t listen. 
You do this, you do. You take the things you love 
and tear them apart 
or you pin them down with your body and pretend they’re yours. 
So, you kiss him, and he doesn’t move, he doesn’t 
pull away, and you keep on kissing him. And he hasn’t moved, 
he’s frozen, and you’ve kissed him, and he’ll never 
forgive you, and maybe now he’ll never leave you alone. 

Richard Siken (via clavicola)

“The world is filled with those who want
someone else, just as the world
is split in halves, or hemispheres
if we want the word that says it
with a measure of beauty. Most times,
we do. But tonight, what
you get is halves. Tonight
what you get is another unanswered
question. Something like,
why do cyclones spin counter-clockwise
in this half of the world?
Something like my thoughts
in the shower, my body
washed by someone else,
and I’m thinking of dark matter,
not because my heart
on its haunches sits bleeding out
like last week’s roadkill possum,
its hateful mouth red raw,
but because dark matter is one more thing
I won’t ever understand.
No knowledge could I put on
that might plug the holes,
that might seal the chinks
through which my mind goes
after you. When I read
the absurd science
of how we might one day upload our minds,
it’s Ted Williams
I’m thinking of:
his severed head
poorly cared for
in its Kelvin crypt of absolute zero,
now cracked, now
the Splendid Splinter even in death.
And it’s that wish
I’m thinking of,
to come back better
or new,
to walk out onto the pliant summers
of our best years
when we knew sex to be
as easy, as assured,
as breath.
Love, the dark
that waits holds
answers like a winning hand
and I’ve stopped
asking. Whatever I know,
I build it as a bird
builds her fragile bowl of a nest.
And in that nest a bird sings.
Of course,
of course,
she sings to the yolk yellow world inside each blue egg
and for a time,
for as long as I can stand,
I listen.”

from Snow and Dirty Rain by Richard Siken

I made this place for you. A place for you to love me. If this isn’t a kingdom then I don’t know what it is. So how would you catalog it? Dawn in the fields? Snow and dirty rain? Light brought in in buckets? I was trying to describe the kingdom, but the letters kept smudging as I wrote them: the hunter’s heart, the hunter’s mouth, the trees and the trees and the space between the trees, swimming in gold. The words frozen. The creatures frozen. The plum sauce leaking out of the bag. Explaining will get us nowhere. I was away, I don’t know where, lying on the floor, pretending I was dead. I wanted to hurt you but the victory is that I could not stomach it.

We have swallowed him up, they said. It’s beautiful. It really is. I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want. You said Tell me about your books, your visions made of flesh and lightand I said This is the Moon. This is the Sun. Let me name the stars for you. Let me take you there. The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube…We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want, so I said What do you want, sweetheart? and you said Kiss me.

Here I am leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack, my silent night, just mash your lips against me. We are all going forward. None of us are going back.  

(via clavicola) 

need someone to call and there is no one to call

someone should just tell me what to do. 

a beer in the grass under the sun sounds so good right about now.

‘It is no accident that propels people like us to Paris. Paris is simply an artificial stage, a revolving stage that permits the spectator to glimpse all phases of the conflict. Of itself Paris initiates no dramas. They are begun elsewhere. Paris is simply an obstetrical instrument that tears the living embryo from the womb and puts it in the incubator. Paris is the cradle of artificial births. Rocking here in the cradle each one slips back into his soil: one dreams back to Berlin, New York, Chicago, Vienna, Minsk. Vienna is never more Vienna than in Paris. Everything is raised to apotheosis. The cradle gives up its babes and new ones take their places. You can read here on the walls where Zola lived and Balzac and Dante and Strindberg and everybody who ever was anything. Everyone has lived here some time or other. Nobody dies here…’

- Henry Miller, Tropic of Capricorn

“Destroy my desires, eradicate my ideals, show me something better, and I will follow you.” 
— Fyodor Dostoyevsky

tropic of cancer is the absolute, most perfect book i could have picked up this morning.