Qua?

Scott Krave

BLUE VALENTINE

(Source: arianareines)

voicemailpoems:

UNTITLED LOVE POEM
- Amy Saul-Zerby

I am Jack’s raging hard-on.
I am desire for you in the midst of the horror movies
that are our lives.

I am staring down the barrel of a gun
and I am not blinking.
I am not good at staring contests,
I’m just not afraid anymore.

I am going to kiss you now: hold still.

I am never going to regret not kissing you
because I am always going to kiss you.

Close your fucking eyes when I am kissing you.

You are wearing your heart on your sleeve
but mine is tattooed on my chest and I am shirtless:
I win, fucker.

I am Angelina Jolie’s Billy Bob Thornton phase:
I will wear your blood in a vial around my neck
and freak out the entire country. I don’t care.

I am Angelina Jolie’s Brad Pitt phase:
I will mother your children and probably end world hunger
with microeconomics and sheer determination.

I am an open book but the book is a mystery novel.

I am choosing my own ending.
I am continuing to page six hundred and sixty six.
I am worshipping my own satanic adventure.

I am going to kiss you wherever I damn well please
as long as it is okay with you
because consent is sexy, and so is your bod.

I don’t have to take my clothes off to have a good time.
But I am damn well taking off some of yours.

I am the happiest place on earth when we are kissing.
because you want to be inside me more than Disneyworld

Kiss the insides of my legs in the dressing room of an Old Navy.
Fall into my thigh gap.

Hold your tongue against mine after drinking coffee.
Baby, that’s a French press.

I am not afraid of Virginia Woolf or of loving you.
I have a room of my own in which I will fuck you.

And then I am going to kick you out of the room so I can work.
These love poems don’t write themselves, you know.


———————————————————

Amy Saul-Zerby called us from Haddon Heights, NJ.

1-910-703-POEM

“A self is not something static, tied up in a pretty parcel and handed to the child, finished and complete. A self is always becoming.”

—   Madeleine L’Engle, A Circle of Quiet (via aestheticintrovert)

(Source: observando, via johnbrnlvrogers)

red-lipstick:

Cristina Troufa (b. 1974, Oporto, Portugal) - 1: Degraus, 2012  2: Êxtase, 2011  3: Recipiente, 2013  4: Árvore (Tree), 2009  5: Voar #1 (Fly), 2007  6: Pedestal, 2011  7: Regresso, 2011  8: Escrever de Novo (Write Again), 2011  9: Passion Have A Destiny #3, 2012  10: Calor (Heat), 2012     Paintings: Mixed Media/Acrylics on Canvas

(Source: cristina-troufa.blogspot.com, via floooooooooom)

pjgoring:

close my window
i forgot to close my window last night and he swung inbroad-chested on the back of a cold grey leperslung on septic stringkicked me 6 times in my sleepy tummywith his size 12 steel-toed bootstore fistfuls of my long roped hair from my poison scalpvomited all over my bloodied headvomited, vomited theretold me to make myself presentablesmashed his pint glass in my sleepy mouthshattered my 2 front teethsliced my too soft lipsteased the shards and splinters from my swollen kissoh so gentlywith steel tweezershe loved me like that.when he rings bells in my gut for the never-comingmy sapling ankles won’t snap.

pjgoring:

close my window

i forgot to close my window last night and he swung in
broad-chested on the back of a cold grey leper
slung on septic string
kicked me 6 times in my sleepy tummy
with his size 12 steel-toed boots
tore fistfuls of my long roped hair from my poison scalp
vomited all over my bloodied head
vomited, vomited there
told me to make myself presentable
smashed his pint glass in my sleepy mouth
shattered my 2 front teeth
sliced my too soft lips
teased the shards and splinters from my swollen kiss
oh so gently
with steel tweezers
he loved me like that.
when he rings bells in my gut for the never-coming
my sapling ankles won’t snap.

pjgoring:

Temporary Passport
It is late in the twentieth century and I’m on my hands and knees for you. Down on the boards of this stationary freight train, it’s dark and your coat is our tent. Toulon: too long ago to clearly remember your hands or the feel of your mouth.
On a speeding train I took off my knickers and the open window grabbed them from my hands. We were glugging red wine from plastic flagons, going to Nice to beg on the beach.
Those sand-blasted beggars were feral, stole your knife as we slept under sheets of damp chipboard. You forced me to shop-lift a tin of sardines, if it wasn’t for you we would starve.
Busking in Brussels was futile, me screaming and you on the bongos, all you’d accept from your father, before he returned to New York. Plastic flowers bunched in my carrier bag, eyebrows unplucked, hair greasily grasping the wind.
Marseilles with a flimsy message propped at my feet, slumped against a wall trying to look hungry, my puppy fat making it difficult. You always watching from a distance, making sure I was safe.
Poverty was too much for me. You said I was too much for you.
At Bettina’s expecting a welcome, we weren’t wanted at all, but she fed us and took us to the nightclub where her boyfriend was a DJ. Our contest to see who could pull first, you seemed gleeful when I won hands down. All I did was stick my head out, under the lights at the bar.
He was a good-looking Belgian, singer in a band he said, and he wanted to buy me a dress. He came round the next day so I had a shower and he took us all out for coffee and chocolates, then dined and seduced me alone. You were angry I didn’t bring a doggy bag back, I was numb with cocaine.
Eating raw cabbage in Oxford watching lots of uppity yahs, we danced with exuberance at their party, heathens, wild for them all. You shagged some girl on the staircase, I nicked a tenner from her dressing-table drawer. It was then you knew I was yours.
I was relieved we lost her before Paris, even though the guards beat you up. I stood frozen, train jolting, as they took turns to punch you and called you ‘roast beef’, your teeth flashing broken and whiter against your open mouth slashed with red.
They threw us from their cells early morning, we walked silent streets swigging milk from the doorsteps and I loved you, your beauty coagulated in blood.
I drew you for three days in Calais, my pencil recording your fantastic face, I should have held onto those drawings, I’d have something left of you now.

You never answer my letters but you still come looking for me. You find me at night when I’m trying to sleep and tell me all about why you can’t stay.

pjgoring:

Temporary Passport

It is late in the twentieth century and I’m on my hands and knees for you. Down on the boards of this stationary freight train, it’s dark and your coat is our tent. Toulon: too long ago to clearly remember your hands or the feel of your mouth.

On a speeding train I took off my knickers and the open window grabbed them from my hands. We were glugging red wine from plastic flagons, going to Nice to beg on the beach.

Those sand-blasted beggars were feral, stole your knife as we slept under sheets of damp chipboard. You forced me to shop-lift a tin of sardines, if it wasn’t for you we would starve.

Busking in Brussels was futile, me screaming and you on the bongos, all you’d accept from your father, before he returned to New York. Plastic flowers bunched in my carrier bag, eyebrows unplucked, hair greasily grasping the wind.

Marseilles with a flimsy message propped at my feet, slumped against a wall trying to look hungry, my puppy fat making it difficult. You always watching from a distance, making sure I was safe.

Poverty was too much for me. You said I was too much for you.

At Bettina’s expecting a welcome, we weren’t wanted at all, but she fed us and took us to the nightclub where her boyfriend was a DJ. Our contest to see who could pull first, you seemed gleeful when I won hands down. All I did was stick my head out, under the lights at the bar.

He was a good-looking Belgian, singer in a band he said, and he wanted to buy me a dress. He came round the next day so I had a shower and he took us all out for coffee and chocolates, then dined and seduced me alone. You were angry I didn’t bring a doggy bag back, I was numb with cocaine.

Eating raw cabbage in Oxford watching lots of uppity yahs, we danced with exuberance at their party, heathens, wild for them all. You shagged some girl on the staircase, I nicked a tenner from her dressing-table drawer. It was then you knew I was yours.

I was relieved we lost her before Paris, even though the guards beat you up. I stood frozen, train jolting, as they took turns to punch you and called you ‘roast beef’, your teeth flashing broken and whiter against your open mouth slashed with red.

They threw us from their cells early morning, we walked silent streets swigging milk from the doorsteps and I loved you, your beauty coagulated in blood.

I drew you for three days in Calais, my pencil recording your fantastic face, I should have held onto those drawings, I’d have something left of you now.

You never answer my letters but you still come looking for me. You find me at night when I’m trying to sleep and tell me all about why you can’t stay.

something like literal space

the shoreline is infinite

to measure every kink in every bay

to trace it all with your finger even in the cold when the waves fall onto the rocks and the splashed up water freezes before it hits the ground again

I don’t want to know the measurement

I can guess at a number but whatever I end up saying is meaningless to me, to how my human brain functions to grasp information

I want to sit on a pier with you and sometimes be over water and sometimes not

we can drown intermittently in our confusion

we will walk together and know that we are traversing beyond what is philosophically possible

any movement at all is too much

all movement is too little

neatomosquitoshow:

poem by Harry Burke

neatomosquitoshow:

poem by Harry Burke

(via sarahjeanalex)

cognition and emotion are physiologically the same thing

neatomosquitoshow:

i might stand alone in what i’ve learned but

here, i’ve learned:

at least 18 varieties of laughter

laughter that pulled me up &out of the burial ground

laughter that is falling head first
against your skull in the dark.

time made largest in a sip of diet coke

tumbling through space, a…

(Source: bearpunchingthruthesun)

82

neatomosquitoshow:

when i think about writing a poem i turn off all sounds, sort of stare into space for a while and just see how it feels to exist inside of a human body. it is something like a distant humming, a vibration akin to pins and needles. my body is making the noise that my macbook makes when everything…

neatomosquitoshow:

rachelpattycake:


benson & stabler

image macro by Rachel Pattycake

neatomosquitoshow:

rachelpattycake:

benson & stabler

image macro by Rachel Pattycake

City That Does Not Sleep

neatomosquitoshow:


In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody. Nobody is asleep. The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins. The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream, and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the street corner the unbelievable...

THE NEATO MOSQUITO SHOW: Hard Center

neatomosquitoshow:

If you see a person everyday for many years,

you won’t notice when they begin to develop

wrinkles, and suddenly there is a canyon running

through each of her cheeks and when you kiss

them your lips won’t find the deepness foreign

as flesh presses against softer flesh even though

There will be an untold story containing details of trauma and growth and beauty and solitude
There will be an urge to build a vocabulary equivalent to the task of portraying all possible human outcomes
These two things will not align
They will become isolated origins for their self-preservation through obscure legacy