rpdsociety:

For the first day of our October issue, and the first real day of October, Poetry Editor Bee Walsh and EIC Jordan Rizzieri share an epistolary exercise in endings.

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theparisreview:

For the shape of loneliness is a holeWithout any edges, finally
The entire universe whistles through it.
—Patricia Goedicke, from “Though It Looks Like a Throat It Is Not.” Art: Michael George.

theparisreview:

For the shape of loneliness is a hole
Without any edges, finally

The entire universe whistles through it.

Patricia Goedicke, from “Though It Looks Like a Throat It Is Not.” Art: Michael George.

 

lookedlikelaughing:

the last time i spoke to my mother
i told her you were the one
and me i was a seed in the wind
maybe the fizz or the sin
in your champagne hair. 

now it’s clean emails
saying ‘you’re falling down’
and ‘if you’re thinking about
killing yourself…’ well I get
the idea, it’s been a dark summer,
we’ve all had our gaits clipped,
we boil faster than we simmer. 

and believe me when i’m
beer-brittle and sun burnt
slack jawed and self-hurt
shredding coin on codones
and staring at the other side
i know i should crawl away. 

but the constant pricking
is at it again you know i
lose my lungs when the
grip is near i swear to god
the unraveling is tangible
i could show you my wiring,
yes

something’s going to happen to me
if i keep happening to myself.

you can cease all your cells
that cared for me and the pain
will always pack a punch but
i’ll try to shake it out,
try to stick around.

boys are dying in these streets
but we’ve still got a bit of land
you know i met roberto bolaño’s wife
on the sidewalk the other day
and this crater is proof of our impact
unlike any other and someone’s sobbing head
is on someone else’s chest and me i still want
to have seven deadly daughters
who wake up hungry for their life,
prove me wrong, show me sun,
convince me not to buy a gun.

 

Laura Stevenson and The Cans - Master of Art

 
clementinevonradics:

My mom and I at James Joyce’s grave, 25 years apart

clementinevonradics:

My mom and I at James Joyce’s grave, 25 years apart

 

literarystarbucks:

Whitman goes up to the counter and orders a green tea. He stares meaningfully at the male barista, climbs up the fire escape to the roof, and sounds his barbaric yawp.

 

kia-kaha-winchesters:

just the girly things

  • forcing an earing through a closed piercing
  • taking off tight clothes and rubbing the indents they left on your skin 
  • human sacrifice
  • homemade face masks 
 
The ink, the stain,
the shape. The color. I’m a
bird. I’m everything. Without any more
confusion. All the bells.
The rules. The lands. The
big grove, the greatest
tenderness. The immense tide.
Garbage. Water jar, cardboard
cards. Dice digits duets
vain hope of constructing
the cloths. The kings.
To silly. My nails. The
thread and the hair. The bantering nerve
I’m going with myself. Tne absent
minute. I have stolen you and
I leave weeping. I’m just kidding.
Frida Kahlo, from a diary entry (via violentwavesofemotion)
 
Post-It Notes to God: 3. I am falling in love with fear. I sent an invitation to you saying: ‘I am not afraid— anymore’. Where are you?
 

johnmortara:

til mass extinction event do we part

 
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