musingonnapkins:

Heisenberg said measuring changes 
the very thing and 
we measured out our lives in
coffee spoons and china patterns and
in doing so did we fundamentally change
all that we could be.

The nightingale is singing, but if Keats isn’t listening
does it really mean something.

Keats is singing now 
and you are walking out the door
and I am sitting in the back of class
seeing you for the first time.

We are beginning and ending over
and over all at the same time.

JESUS CHRIST MISCHIEF-MAKER

timothedugrandlac:

My lord and savior, supreme master of my universe, infallible 
  owner of my allegiance, great unifier of son and spirit—May I lay you 
  across my knee as to look upon you and pray? 

To what do I owe the pleasure of such petite incarnation? Do you 
  seek the earthly comforts of flesh and inconsequence? 

Have you assumed the gremlin’s form for my own pleasure?
  A charitable God, no doubt, yet I do beg your
  pardon fuzzy mischief-maker, 

Sit still as I give thanks unto thee:

Our lord 
  who built the skyscrapers and provides Whole Foods its hot bar,
Our lord
  who wrote Moby Dick and bought Apple’s first shares, a consummate
  champion of truth and innovation,
Our lord
  who can eat sixty hot dogs in ten minutes and who kinged the Papaya,
Our lord
  who swallowed three loads before sundown on New Year’s Eve and 
  made it to the casino in time to kiss a wilds man while sighing the
  ball drop for its lame party,
Our lord 
  who channels Rodriguez on Portage corner and poisons his body with
  the busker’s take, entertaining us further when he’s run out of songs,
  the plight of the pious giver oh Lord,
Our lord
  who sewed and stuffed Nancy the Boy to conquer the night time’s
  dark magic,
Our lord
  Henry Ford who at one-hundred thirty-three human years fathered a
  daughter Anna Lee who took the boys and me to the disco,
Our lord
  who is my grandfather who welded the canal,
Our lord

My lord 
  with endless admiration and respect I ask you to settle, I’ve only 
  just begun to verbalize your omnipotence! A glass of water perhaps?

My lord, oh God,

My lords, oh God! to what do I owe the Supreme Righteousness of your
  multiplicity? 

You are not indeed a gremlin, demon furby incarnate? You are not 
  instantly seven in mechanized orgy where had begun one in the 
  embrace of his child? You are not automating knife blocks and 
  supercharging stoves, detonating pan pots and poisoning loaves?

You are! You are! Indeed you are, gremlin scum, slaves to the hapless   
  and haphazard mechanical impulse, fiends for small engine
  experiment on the great wheel’s scale. To look upon you struggling for
  a fix in my cupboards is to look upon the grand design of the universe
  and the scene I behold fulfills the prophecies of yore.

You are but mischievous fuzz skittering in and out of metaphysical sight 
  engineering conflict and lighting fires, an absent father multiplied by 
  fission drunk with vicarious desire 

who built the flesh machine to run on hormones simply to spectate
  love football teenage fingerings thigh gaps hate,

who built the house for the bubble,

who tuned James Dean’s suspension and doctored P.S. Hoffman’s
  hotshot,

who grew the tree to print the book to discover the fire to burn the
  books,

who hides in the buildings opening and closing valves to burn faces
  and freeze testicles and laugh at the shrieks,

who places us like dominoes to fall into the spoon to open the gate 
  to roll the ball to flip the switch to open the doors to flood the room 
  and drown us in tar and commercial maple syrup,

Our dear Lord and God Gremlin you are nothing if not curious but 
  your grand experiment is riddled with inconsistencies and I beg you 
  all come down from my cupboards to examine it further. Have you 
  no care for the fate of humankind? 

Our Gremlin master mechanics of the universe took each their turn at
  my rotisserie chicken as they bounced from my apartment out into
  the world. 

This was so fucking fun to read. I can’t even.

"who grew the tree to print the book to discover the fire to burn the books"

looking-for-jillian:

When my sister was eight a boy in her class
Hit her in the face; left a purple mark on her tiny cheek.
And when we found out; it wasn’t from her.
The boy’s mother called our house to apologize.
When we all sat down to ask her why she didn’t say anything,
She said she liked him, and he liked her
So it was ok that he hit her.
I swallowed my anger like splinters;
I threw up my fear like acid, it burned my throat.
And I crawled into her bed that night, 
I told her when someone loves you, 
The only mark they should leave is the way 
Your lips turn up at the corners, the way
You can see imprints of butterflies along your stomach.
They shouldn’t leave marks you have to hide;
They shouldn’t leave you with necklaces made of broken blood vessels.

I thought about the first time a boy hit me;
And how the teachers all said it was because he liked me.
So the first time my boyfriend gave me a set of bruises
I thought it was because he loved me. 
When he threw things at me, I thought they were
Hand-written love letters that he was sending me.
My teachers told me that boy hit me because he liked me;
But in high school they asked why I stayed with someone
Who burned me to the ground; why would I live
In a burning building. But I thought,
Why would I leave someone who loves me?
They taught me that his aggression translated
To affection in the language of love and war.
And I had learned long ago, that all was fair
In love and war.

I was taught to speak in apologies and broken teeth;
To start every sentence with “I’m sorry” and to end every sentence
With a mouthful of blood and shame.
But I never let my sister see the way my body
Was a punching bag; I never let her see
The way I counted my breaths and tallied
My apologies and shattered bones 
I taught my sister to speak only in love;
That bruises aren’t affection; that hands 
That love you shouldn’t leave you aching.
I want to teach my sister that she doesn’t have to soft;
That she doesn’t have to be a flower.
I want her to know that she can be an ocean;
She can be a volcano, not the dormant kind.
She doesn’t have to be quiet and small;
I want her to know she can be as wide and loud
As a whole storm; a whole universe.
She’s made of stars and she can stand on her own.

I’ve finally unlearned what I was taught in school;
What I was taught by the bruises branded on my wrists.
And when I was 17 a boy touched me with hands
That left me unmarked, in the best way.
His hands wrote “you are loved” all over me;
He kissed the words “you are worthy”
Into my lungs; and I believed it.
I want my sister to know that hands should
Only reach for you to touch you with intentions
That are so pure you can feel it in your bones.
I want my sister to know that love shouldn’t exist
Under make-up and excuses.
Love should exist where the world can see it;
In the smile so wide it hurts; in the strength
In your footsteps and the way you laugh like a song.
And I want my sister to know she deserves that;
And the person she should love the fiercest
Is herself. 

nico-paffgen:

Like the black vulture that scavenged and stole from the rich
but dared not feed the poor
pockets silk and of satin
and opulent pattern
by streets of those howling for more

Once I wept and I wailed but oh how my pleas paled when the fanfare
of treachery hollowed my cry
So I sew up my lips
and I bury the tips
of my fingernails into my thigh

Mocking clack of your heel and your tongue and your tease, the reminder:
to live is to serve by your bell
so my back is a stool
and my hands break your fall
lofty dreams of your choke, with a baton you quell

But the stench of your crime is of woe and despair and of rotting rust bodies
that bake in the sun
must I cower in dread
when dusk falls, I’m not fed
It matters not, I sit lowest,
but one

celebratory

jnathandurham:

Hell exists the way Pap-Pap shat
on the hardwood floor and then stumbled
to the dining room, sat stagnant
sipping unsweetened tea because sugar
is bad for his heart. Buddy’s mother
cleans her daddy’s nascent excrement like
it is quite simple.
Dementia is a disarmed bomb and Pap-Pap
is victorious. Buddy smiles while
Kelsey smokes Reds on the torn couch
and I press my elbows deep into
coarse linen, ignore the russet smell of dying,
ignore the definition of family.
I avert my eyes to the books scattered
in the corner. My mouth tastes like fingernails
and stale pumpernickel and I do not belong here:
we listen as he unmakes his brimstone bed,
lies down, waits for the flames.

I started sleeping
Without my nightlight
When my greatest fear
Became a feeling
Rather than a being.
— nightlight (s.f.)

RICE

rejectscorner:

modesofexpression:

I’ve got empty pockets and
A feeling I can’t describe without
Cringing. I’ve sprained
My heart. There is no
Comfortable contraction.
Rest, Ice, Compression, check.
But elevation is tricky.
How can you raise the heart
Above itself?

Impossible.

I’ll just wait this one out.

Yam’s note: Rest the injured part… and wait it out. Love the use of mnemonic in this one.

I didn’t realize there was a blog for the rejectscorner tag. I’ve just been quietly stealing from the tag because I love the posts. Now I can follow and get regular doses and so can youuuuu. kbye

Breaking the habit

theslutsadvocate:

Every time I want to smoke a cigarette,
I lay in bed and touch myself
instead

For every time I wanted to fuck you,
she’s already given me glorious
head 

She loves the way
I fuck her, so
I will fuck her
Until I love her 

And I will break these habits
One orgasm at a time 

I’ve been breaking my habits all wrong. All fucking wrong.
(poetryslutsunited: a reblogging blog like ours. but sexier.)

silver-afternoons:

Mouths more bubbly than the
first sip of champagne, fingers
more anxious
than a bird growing its wings

the first time you held me
was the last time my feet
touched the ground

watching you balter around the fact
that my dress had hit the floor
your caper keeping rhythm
with the sound of my laughter

you fell upon me like a single snowflake
kissing the earth
I washed over you like
a blizzard

the first time your muscles stalled
was the last time your chest
carried an empty auditorium

poetryslutsunited: a reblogging blog like ours. but sexier. follow if you don’t.

five—a—day:

If You’re Going to Leave

Be honest in your leaving. Don’t keep the spare house-key. Don’t leave any of your things. Have your mail forwarded immediately. There is a difference between leaving, really leaving, and simply putting enough distance between yourself and him so that he becomes aware of the emptiness left in your place. Of course he will try to win you back; that is the easy part. It is always easier to get things than it is to keep them, and to keep them in good condition at that. Look at yourself. Would you say he has kept you in good condition? All the empty years; the drunken nights; the blind punches. All the confidence that has left you little by little so that now you avoid mirrors. You were once a flower in full bloom until someone sat you in a dark room for their own personal experiment. You betray yourself when you accept his calls. You push your womanhood down a flight of stairs every time you are foolish enough to believe he’ll change. You have mistook his company for happiness, think all a person needs in life is someone else’s hand to reach across for in front of the TV screen. You have bought into a future that will never come. If you’re going to leave, leave. Don’t half-stay. Don’t move your body into a new apartment, but leave your heart on the doormat where he wipes his feet. Don’t make excuses. The only real excuse here is that you don’t have the muscle to stay gone. If you’re going to leave, don’t make a scene of it, don’t draw attention. Do it quietly and don’t look back.

Yes to this. Fucking yes.

prints-jaycub:

Lift off. I’m flying so high.
Before you can judge me, I’m in the sky.
I don’t have much money, but I can pay attention.
You look at me like I’m bad, like this is detention.
You put me down and step on me all the time.
I thought I was a rocket, but I’m really a landmine.

Boom.

-Prince J.

Don’t touch the watch.

discoveryourstrengths:

Clock hands bend and contort, aching for the next second to come. The world around me hisses and splutters as time tries to keep on moving forward; the melancholy drip from the underachieving tap is deafening.

This place breeds leeches and cockroaches, desperate to wriggle into holes of admiration from middle class cunts.  Self-assured sharks in this placid environment, happy to continue on this road of steady average.

The helplessness is overbearing and magical, twinges of self-doubt block any confidence that flourishes underneath, blooming like sunflowers, taller than any other shrub in the garden it is the master of its field.

The black mound of sluggish piss rises from the dirt, smothering my holes, stopping me from breathing; guilt bound in candy wrappers; nightmares surrender as they are engulfed in torch light.

Angst pressed hard against the inside of my skull, trauma repeatedly thrashing within my brain, like a damned fish.

My head felt like it would split open any minute, split open and reveal nothing, only spiders, tiny black spiders and broken grey wires, maybe a little dust.

It bursts like a cowardly bomb and I give a sigh of ecstasy, my dreams finally enhanced, horrible numbness disguised as broken visions. There is psychotic just beneath the skin, crawling towards my brain, teasing me, running up and down my spine.

I don’t believe in love, life or flat packed furniture.

Sword fights with dragons and suicide tapes with the forgotten; I lay here blessed and lucky, watching the empty clock as I await the next tidal wave.

I will not miss you because you are not mine to miss.
I will kiss other boys and sometimes kiss girls.
When you text me and tell me that you’re thinking
about the way I look in leggings, I will not take it to heart:
you are horny and alone and your girlfriend doesn’t give you the attention you crave.

it is not my job to give it to you either.
You are an enigma in my life. It isn’t right to be in love with something
I cannot understand, but I understand you’re modest
only because no one tells you how amazing you are;
that you mumble when you’re tired and your lips taste like vanilla and false promises.

Someday you will see me and fall in love the right way. This
will hopefully be followed by a passionate but fatal love affair
that will end because you can’t explain
to your father that you’re in love with a
non-Catholic writer who willingly takes public transport.

It may not be until we run into each other
six months after I decline the invitation to your wedding: You went through with it
and this is expected. I couldn’t watch you marry her.
I won’t remind you that we couldn’t be friends
in college because she read your text messages
when you left the room.

Maybe you’ll sneak around and ruin your marriage to be with me
but ultimately she’ll sign you up for marriage counseling
to work out your issues and you’ll go because she is pregnant;
I’ll write a few thinly veiled poems about you and text you
when I’m drunk. You couldn’t have married me anyway.

I want to move to Seattle, though Maine would also be nice and much more east coast:
either way, I don’t eat seafood so maybe moving to a coastal state is pointless but
at least it’s far away. It’s so far away and you’re probably already
squared away with a tenured teaching position.

Maybe you’ll never see me.
Maybe I already moved and didn’t leave a forwarding address
and your wedding invitation was lost, not ignored.

possibilities surrounding a love affair that should have ended five years ago by Catherine Morse (via themirrorfactory)

Damaged Goods.

dillonlou:

Living beneath you, he seems to have made shelter in your shadow, a constant reminder of his inadequacy. Out of his depth, leagues beneath you, he drowns in incompetence. Made from the leftovers of God’s failures, thrown together in haphazard dutifulness, donated pity, left to choke on sorrow. Left to wallow in self-loath. Left like an unwanted child, abandoned and scorned, never quite whole, always longing for something more than the averse glances and hushed silences. Judged from eyes marked superior, he’s always watched, but never seen. He stands out and yet he’s completely invisible. So he hides himself, dons a cloak of indifference and solitude, wary of those who come too near, too dear to him. A defective product from the assembly line, he never stood a chance. Damaged goods, destined to be sent back, melted down and remoulded into something else. How could he ever accept himself, if no one else ever would.