I want to smell the sound of you eating
my thighs, spread
like warm apple butter,
You are the first person I think of when I think
of waking up.
I call room service,
but I’m not in a hotel. I call information. I say:
The Ohio River is in Kentucky,
have you been there?
The operator connects me to the mouth of the Ohio
River. I tell the Ohio River: You are an awkward name.
I say: I’ve felt land undress
itself like a drunk prom queen. I’ve felt this pebble
in my shoe for days.
When I’m feeling alone
I sit in my bathtub, count the minutes till I prune.
That was the second time I referenced
water here. The third:
my breath saturated between your thighs. Low hum.
- Gregory Sherl, Be My Date
Brigitte Bardot - A la fin de l’ete
Anonymous asked: Do you follow fashion blogs? If so, would you mind to share the link(s)? x
I do! here are a few:
Thank you, Ok (Toronto based! Always supporting locals!)
“We are not one with this world. We are not
the complexity our body is, nor the summer air
idling in the big maple without purpose.
We are a shape the wind makes in these leaves
as it passes through. We are not the wood
any more than the fire, but the heat which is a marriage
between the two. We are certainly not the lake
nor the fish in it, but the something that is
pleased by them. We are the stillness when
a mighty Mediterranean noon subtracts even the voices
of insects by the broken farmhouse. We are evident
when the orchestra plays, and yet are not part
of the strings or brass. Like the song that exists
only in the singing, and is not the singer.
God does not live among the church bells,
but is briefly resident there. We are occasional
like that. A lifetime of easy happiness mixed
with pain and loss, trying always to name and hold
on to the enterprise under way in our chest.
Reality is not what we marry as a feeling. It is what
walks up the dirt path, through the excessive heat
and giant sky, the sea stretching away.
He continues past the nunnery to the old villa
where he will sit on the terrace with her, their sides
touching. In the quiet that is the music of that place,
which is the difference between silence and windlessness.”
- Jack Gilbert, ‘Music Is Only In The Piano When It’s Played’
listen listen listen
“Why does one begin to write? Because she feels misunderstood, I guess. Because it never comes out clearly enough when she tries to speak. Because she wants to rephrase the world, to take it in and give it back again differently, so that everything is used and nothing is lost.”
- Nicole Krauss
today i witnessed a four-year-old boy hear for the first time. born deaf, the surgery he underwent would either give him hearing or affirm deafness for the rest of his life. gripping his mother, holding her tight to his chest, the first words that pricked his ears were those of his father, “this is your mother and i, this is us.” i’m crying like a fountain now. god, the world is a beautiful place.
“Put a few words together prettily and it’s possible
to fall in love.
Move your hand slightly and I’m yours. Or gone.
And think of what can be done with flowers
or paint. I take back
what I said in my message yesterday,
the one saying I had printed and folded each message from you
into a boat, and now had a fleet of origami ships on my desk,
all of them sinking, none of them, I said,
seaworthy. That was mean.
If I think of them differently—not as vessels,
not as anything that might save a life—
but as smooth stones or carved chess pieces,
something I might hold to comfort me,
something I might put in my mouth,
then perhaps I can continue to pass the time this way.
The way I want you
just a detail, just a thing that can be carried.”
— “Arrangement,” Missy-Marie Montgomery
Anonymous asked: tell us something lovely? please?
My friend, Sam, is back-packing through Europe. He’s in Amsterdam right now and just sent me the following message, it hurt my heart:
yesterday, a homeless man with a flower pot on his head sat down in the middle of the street and started telling passersby that he loved them