A Water Baby - Herbert James Draper


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Fuck u

Cold but bitter
sweet so what
Find myself staring at the past
from simply one
action to another
over and over
When will this fascination seize
I guess it’s fall and
now it’s cold’s
time to embrace us
palms grand


a writer gets naked for a living


Tracey Emin ‘Laying on Blue’, 2011

inspiration, rk, 2013
from Kurt Vile, Smoke Ring for my Halo

I. I write in fragments because this body can only recite itself backwards. I balance your name on the head of my tongue only to watch it fall onto the concrete & into conversation. I remember eyes watching me do this, but not the color of them. I remember your eyes—lashes tipped with misery, two dark half-moons resting underneath them—how I even loved sadness when sadness had your name. Your name a gospel I used to sing back when you loved me, your name that now only crashes, breaks apart.

II. The aftertaste of love is vodka—pennies—steel. In the aftermath, in here—the heart, blood was beautiful until it wasn’t, until the body that kept it refused to die. The only marks of us fading softly into my skin as my voice thinks to dance on nails for forgiveness, but the chords snap—boomeranging wildly your name.

III. If you can’t remember it, the joy of love was never soft. I remember everything & everything hurt good or hurt bad, bruised or bloodied or pleasured or smiled with teeth. In your dreams, you were killing men without homes. In mine—& still in mine—we sit across from each other & watch as the room splinters. The tears weren’t always a punishment—remember that—& my words, my small hands trembling, remember emeralds in the sun, remember what courage was when it hid along your ribs, remember laughter & then me— remember the mirrored body of your body—the water from the same well—you almost killing you when you were trying to kill me—know how my body still stands—how both our bodies stand.

IV. This story—our September—now his. How to tell someone how you made me—how the heat turned my body into glass—how one explains the lineage of love to a lover. He calls you the past, but you still live here. Sure, I burn your memory at the stake—but when they look away, I cut you down, watch as your soul limps to the treeline. This is how I tell them how I loved you. This is where my face is pushed against a pillow. When he tells me not to move, I freeze & pray my body doesn’t shatter.

Moriah Pearson, letters to you: the last letter (via mooneyedandglowing)

We have too much consecration,
too little affirmation,

too much: but this, this, this
has been proved heretical,

too little: I know, I feel
the meaning that words hide;

they are anagrams, cryptograms,
little boxes, conditioned

to hatch butterflies …

H.D., from The Walls Do Not Fall “[39],” in Triology (New Directions, 1998)