In a well-made book…no matter how many thousands of lines and pages, the letters are alive. They dance in their seats. Sometimes they rise and dance in the margins and aisles.
―Robert Bringhurst, The Elements of Typographic Style
Daniel Vivacqua, “Biphobia: The Gay Side” (via damnunderground)
Those last two sentences are what I’ve been thinking about lately. My identity can’t be wrapped up in a box on so many levels.
A thousand doors ago
when I was a lonely kid
in a big house with four
garages and it was summer
as long as I could remember,
I lay on the lawn at night,
clover wrinkling over me,
the wise stars bedding over me,
my mother’s window a funnel
of yellow heat running out,
my father’s window,…
A nasty surprise in a sandwich,
A drawing-pin caught in your sock,
The limpest of shakes from a hand which
You’d thought would be firm as a rock,
A serious mistake in a nightie,
A grave disappointment all round
Is all that you’ll get from th’Almighty,
Is all that you’ll get underground.
Oh he said: ‘If you lay off the crumpet
I’ll see you alright in the end.
Just hang on until the last trumpet.
Have faith in me, chum-I’m your friend.’
But if you remind him, he’ll tell you:
‘I’m sorry, I must have been pissed-
Though your name rings a sort of a bell. You
Should have guessed that I do not exist.
‘I didn’t exist at Creation,
I didn’t exist at the Flood,
And I won’t be around for Salvation
To sort out the sheep from the cud-
‘Or whatever the phrase is. The fact is
In soteriological terms
I’m a crude existential malpractice
And you are a diet of worms.
‘You’re a nasty surprise in a sandwich.
You’re a drawing-pin caught in my sock.
You’re the limpest of shakes from a hand which
I’d have thought would be firm as a rock,
‘You’re a serious mistake in a nightie,
You’re a grave disappointment all round-
That’s all you are, ’ says th’Almighty,
‘And that’s all that you’ll be underground.’
“God, a Poem,” James Fenton (via damnunderground)
Charles Bukowski, besieged (via paranoos)
(via henrycharlesbukowski)
Gale Antokal, photographs from We Are So Lightly Here
(Source: growing-orbits)
I awoke
this morning
in the gold light
turning this way
and that
thinking for
a moment
it was one
day
like any other.
But
the veil had gone
from my
darkened heart
and
I thought
it must have been the quiet
candlelight
that filled my room,
it must have been
the first
easy…
An organ grinder leading a trained fox and a dog. Ivan Turgenev’s drawing in his sketchbook, 1834
(via russkayaliteratura)
Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower (via 4mbivalent)
Lemony Snicket (via 4mbivalent)
Rock me, mama, like a wagon wheel
Rock me, mama, any way you feel
Rock me, mama, like the wind and the rain
Rock me, mama, like...
this is my sexuality
Bradley Harrison’s “Gray,” the last in a series of erasures of his own poem “Her Problem of Gravity” (2012). Read them all over at The Offending...
To my regular followers: I realise...
i barely know you
but I think you
could break my heart
your brain and
body
and your movements
and your voice
Waiting for the end, boys, waiting for the end.
What is there to be or do?
What’s become of me or you?
Are we kind or are we true?
Sitting two...