"All our favorite poets are dead"

I used to judge
I used to look at couples who used sex to avoid reality
Used sex to pretend the love was there
The passion
The romance
I used to judge

Now, here I’ve landed
With this 749 night long one night stand
The butterflies have drowned in the stomach acid brought on by the stress of loving you
The nervous smiles have turned into violent kisses with the lights off
But we wake up, kiss good morning and talk all day
But we don’t say anything

I used to judge
But I learned that, sometimes, love just won’t do and you have to take the superficial route

When it comes down to it, I either choose to be alone with batteries
Or alone with you

So, hold me down, fuck me like you hate me
So I can pretend you don’t

— Alyssa Nicole, “This Hurts To Write.” (via iforgettoturnthemback)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

W.B. Yeats, “The Second Coming.”

I find myself thinking about Yeats’ “rough beast” a lot of late. Yeats thought a shared apocalypse was nigh. But it seems to the beast comes for us one at a time.

(via fishingboatproceeds)
Gil Scott Heron The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

“There are
some feelings
you will never
find words for;

you will learn
to name them
after the ones
who gave them
to you.”

“You brave, brave thing.
One day, you’re going to
stop leaving the door open
for people who only know how
to keep leaving.”

Yasmin Z, We’re All Still Learning (via larmoyante)

“Walking down the street in passive garb, you feel it.
When you sit and set your bag aside, you feel it.
Checking your phone a quarter past six, you feel it.
Between every breath, you feel it.
Slowing for a yellow light, you feel it
Pressing the spacebar, you feel it.
At night while you sit and read, you feel it.
In every blink, you feel it.
Between every beating bump, you feel it.

That there is space in everything,
that the picture frame is a magic trick
and all the props slip right through.
The mountain past a hill in my backyard
is identical to the one I drew last spring
when I thought I could actually fall off
my stool while balancing on one foot.
But the legs grows through my foot,
and I can do nothing but stand.
Everything is connected
and everything is empty

— "The In-Between"; Francisco Lopez (via tutaua)

My body
is burning
with the shame
of not belonging.

My body
is longing.

But nobody knows that.

— Warsan Shire, “Seven Lines” (via teenager90s)

“I have my mother’s mouth and my father’s eyes; on my face they are
still together.”

— Warsan Shire (via feellng)

Langston Hughes, “Autumn Note”

“It’s an ancient story from yesterday evening

called “Patterns of Love in Peoples of Diaspora,”

called “Loss of the Homeplace
and the Defilement of the Beloved,”

called “I want to Sing but I Don’t Know Any Songs.””

Li-Young Lee, from “Immigrant Blues” (via pianoter)


(via azaadiart)