Drowning. Strychnine. Self-cannibalism. Scabs. Scarab beetles. Soul-abortion. God-divorce. Apostasy. Voice box autopsy. Hydrogen peroxide. Why can’t I scour below the pores? Possible cracked scapula. I didn’t dare go to the doctor. The X-ray would show no bones like the mirror confesses no reflection. Broken camera. Slow shutter speed; same photo over and over. Alchemy. Blood. Heart pumping mud. Black magic. Skin turned to stone. Slaughterhouse. Should have known better. Should have known better. Inadequate gravity. The earth cast off its axis; I’m fighting for an atmosphere somewhere in Andromeda.

Deanna Larsen, ”What Rape Is Like” (via stillbirthed)

(via lifeinpoetry)

betheyogurt:

My brother once showed me a piece of quartz that contained, he said, some trapped water older than all the seas in our world. He held it up to my ear. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘life and no escape.’

—Anne Carson, from Plainwater: Essays and Poetry (Alfred A. Knopf, 1995)

(Source: theperfumemaker, via lifeinpoetry)

aseaofquotes:

 Muriel Barbery, The Elegance of the Hedgehog

aseaofquotes:

 Muriel Barbery, The Elegance of the Hedgehog

(via aseaofquotes)

esn13:

The woman who ate her husband’s ashes. The woman who buried her husband alive. What is the difference between the two? None: death meant nothing to either—and neither did the husbands. Oh, what a shame, no? No. To go on and on, one mouth after another, is a survival tactic. It is a means of placing the thread through the eye of the needle despite the tremor. You understand, don’t you? It is highly unlikely that you have made it this far without once meeting inability. I meet her daily; she knocks on my door in the morning and leads me out of bed. We are still not friends. When we sit together, it is not out of choice— though it might seem like it. You, eavesdropper, must not listen to me so keenly. Life does not offer advice through the tongue of a stranger— I know, because I have tried, often and to no avail, to pry an answer out of a conversation I did not belong in. Well well; very well. It is our duty to make mistakes, and then our thin heart’s tendency to thrash its two hind legs hard into the soil and kick dirt over them. It propels us into further, into then. Bars of steel. Silence like acid rain. I am movement. Back or forth is only relative. I am fluid, unresisting. And so I topple over, with a nose so large, and stain the floor with my blood. I would complain about the pain, but first! Let us laugh at my folly. (Am I falling in love or building a cage?) The water shifts from cheek to cheek. I am thirsty; I cannot afford to gulp my bottle empty. How fickle-fine, how crease-line. In which way does memory travel— from my skin to yours, or otherwise? Silent reader, tell me. What can I do to paint myself into a pretty picture? I am far from. I sense you lift your brows at me. I am a child, though, so forgive me. I am blank, simply. A screen of white doused in oil: scenes spilling, slipping. Bars of steel. Silence like acid rain. The taste of erosion becomes the salt of our savoury. Take me in, will you? For now. / I need a pause before I continue.

(via thewriterscaravan)

thewriterscaravan:


“It’s dark because you are trying too hard.

Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly.
Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply.
Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.


Lightly, lightly – ……
When it comes to dying even. Nothing ponderous, or portentous, or emphatic.
No rhetoric, no tremolos,
no self conscious persona putting on its celebrated imitation of
Christ or Little Nell.
And of course, no theology, no metaphysics.
Just the fact of dying and the fact of the clear light.

So throw away your baggage and go forward.
There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet,
trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair.
That’s why you must walk so lightly.
Lightly my darling,
on tiptoes and no luggage,
not even a sponge bag,
completely unencumbered.”


- Island, Aldous Huxley

thewriterscaravan:

I want to share this emptiness with you, not to fill a silence with false notes or to put tracks through the void, I want to share this wilderness of failure. The others have built you a highway- fast names in both directions, I offer a journey without direction, certainty or sweet conclusion When the light faded I went to search for myself. There are many paths and many destinations.


- Derek Jarman, Garden (1993)

kenlayne:

"Strange tradition from the forgotten rural years." Bees attend keeper’s funeral, 1956.

aestheticintrovert:

9940km:

Ya Allah, keep my heart sealed from all which is not written for me.

viperslang:

the veil of your eyelash lifts itself above the flute of my clavicle and it was black salt in the lap of water, it was a minor chord progression through bones of glass. & the air soon was all but a perfumed aria, a vesper for the vagabond.