"I cannot chain my soul,
it will not rest in this
clay prison of my flesh,
it has no end of needs,
it wears me like a flame
and all my hungers grow. I envy—how I envy
him whose soul turns out
all its energies to one end,
to elevate an aim, pursue success,
to have one joy, but one in life,
so it were wholly mine. Oh, to feel that chain twist round,
to hear the stroke of the riveting,
to be free of this weight
of too much liberty.
You can do this for me, be my aim
my end, my bars… my home. -"

Your Eyes Blaze Out:  The first two stanzas are loosely from Robert Browning’s Pauline,  the last stanza is derived from a letter of Elizabeth Barrett Browning to her husband Robert written March 6, 1846
Reblog 19/09/14 URL

virgins at noon.


Summer seethes outside, a bloated temptation
A needle drops on an anachronistic record
She always did love her antiquated affectations
Sepia filters, old cigarette tins, we’re bored

"It’s like watching water boil", she whines
Which I never really minded, I can depend
On the slow inevitability of heat plus time 
Water always boils, summer always ends

But this is waiting without expectation, we
Paint red our ripened lips
A couple of concupiscent peonies
Just aching to be picked

Modern devices remain hopelessly mum
In cloudless skies rises unimpeded the sun
Our tedium drones undisputedly on 
"Fuck it," she cries. "We’ll make our own fun."

We sip spiked juice out of Mason jars (of course)
Sweat drips down my inner thigh
My eyes dance eagerly across the sea of short
Shorts and bare skin. Montreal, my

City is bottled sex, eager, barefoot and heady
I am baiting, turned on like an electric coil
Tightly wound, hot to touch, scared but ready
Just waiting for the water to boil



We suck the marrow from the bones of this dinner we earned, the meat is stringy and warm on our tongues. We are dead-eyed and exhausted, too hungry for manners, too tired. My back aches from 4 million years of standing on these two feet and I feel every minute, every second of my genus.




"Everything is out of place.
I had a tomato for breakfast;
put on mismatched socks and
thought, who gives a damn?

I still miss your hands.

Nothing is where it should be,
and I adore you like the
thunder outside— fiercely,
with no sign of stopping."

Where shall I keep you?


in the silk of my stockings
cupped in my bra
tucked in my panties
nailed to my wall

in the warmth of my mouth
my whispers breathe
come deep in my darkness
you’ll never be free


(via so-realism)

"their lips brushed like
young wild flowers in the wind."

F. Scott Fitzgerald  (via davidkanigan)

(Source: goodreads.com, via so-realism)

Reblog 18/09/14 URL

"Do you imagine at night someone
going to bed the very moment
you are going to bed? Turning
out the light?
And isn’t it so quiet you swear
the heart is telepathic.
Isn’t it—"

Beckian Fritz Goldberg, from “Eros in His Striped Shirt,” In the Badlands of Desire (Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 1993)

(Source: apoetreflects, via francoisthepoet)

Reblog 18/09/14 URL


'Night is a history of longing, and you are my night'
you said to me, and left me
You left my night to me, and yours, and both so cold
and I will be hurt by winter and memories of you
and you will be hurt by the scent of my lilies in the air

— Mahmoud Darwish, from “She said to him,” A River Dies of Thirst. (Archipelago Books, 2009)

(via francoisthepoet)

"Basically we are all looking for someone who knows who we are and will break it to us gently."

"And only now, when he was gray-haired, had he fallen in love properly, thoroughly, for the first time in his life."

Anton Chekhov , The Lady With the Little Dog and Other Stories (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)
Reblog 18/09/14 URL

"Tenacious" 3x4 feet © Katlyn Hubner  #artcollecting  #plastic


"Tenacious" 3x4 feet © Katlyn Hubner #artcollecting #plastic

Reblog 18/09/14 URL
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