January 2012
guro-tan:
Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. Read by...
Anonymous asked: When is your birthday and what do you want for it?
1 tag
1 tag
1 tag
Anonymous asked: What sort of things do you usually wear?
2 tags
nostalgia
in the middle of May, wearing a diadem, lost in the rain, hands decked in raspberries, stockings beginning to run, thighs sore from loving, neck taut from kissing, sun starting to set, room becoming darker, rain beginning to slow, and then, the first day of June. you and I were on my bedroom floor, folding paper hats from the Sunday journal. do not ask me where all the small white...
Would someone like to exchange letters with me? Let me know. x
1 tag
a spoken word of this poem:
I come from the...
1 tag
The carousel in Paris- you know the one. I found myself there. I found my mind, a little crooked, wandering in and out of storefronts. I begged it back, a little nauseous, and put it on a roaring lion, and let it go. There were clouds out that day. Very rarely, does one find an afternoon where sun is not needed- where the world craves to feel like steel does, cold and shimmering. Where men in hats...
1 tag
I come from the desert, from that lilac silk between your thighs from the quiet things that no-one ever talks about, from the textbook love from the Narcissus-bled portraits on the hallway walls.
I was fed in the desert, dates and the sinking of the crescent moon, by an olive woman who, in infantilism, named me princess and ran me through the trees.
I am half-baked and breathing, a blueing...
Anonymous asked: I don't mean to pry, but what is he like?
1 tag
1 tag
your hands at the bus stop your
hands seeping tea, you are
an apricot, your hands
pitting fruit;
the blooming sea, my palms
the skin ringed around my
wrists- soft, opals, the falling
snow-
sturdy-boned and knotty
limbed, your hands
cabin wood, Turkish china,
sinking stars that slip
through my skin.
grammatolatry:
“From the garden rose the sound of bees that lurched and wobbled through the peonies. We ate eggs, French toast, drank milk that warmed in minutes in the sun while fat drones swarmed and looped like drunkards in the purple field. On the porch we heard their bodies yield to wills their fuzzy minds don’t understand. They smelled the stains of syrup on your hand and one, in...
2 tags
1 tag
elegy for the lost
hard-pressed to find
anything more intimate
than sharing a thawed
slice of cheescake at
9 in the morning,
pacficic dreamer time.
he sleeps with the blinds closed
you- prefer to wake and wash
sunlight from your eyes.
you sit in the white
secondhand armchair,
where you cut
your fringe and lick
cream cheese off your chin.
he points his fork at you and
yawningly...
2 tags
a phantom licks at me as if I am cat-milk, saucer-pooled, and terribly lonely. he holds me by the shoulders of my black, ankle-length coat where a storm crawls in, in my pockets. phantom and I look at numerals together, make roman dorics turn to: birches, poplars, pines. our forest will thrive, every sapling bearing our breath. and suddenly, it will all go to death.
1 tag
King Charles - Mississippi Isabel
she grows wild...
Anonymous asked: How can I get my creativity flowing? What do you do on a daily basis?
Anonymous asked: What are your favourite children's names?
Anonymous asked: What would you put on an inspiration board?
Etta James - At Last
my heart was wrapped up in...
Gregory & The Hawk - Sweet Winter Hello
such...
swordandcrown:
““She wished she had a little yellow house of her own, with a flower box full of real flowers and herbs – pansies and rosemary – and a sweet lover who would swing dance with her in the evenings and cook pasta and read poetry aloud.””
Francesca Lia Block
Oh, and her name was Emma. x
1 tag
if we are speaking only in metaphors then you are gun-marked and beautiful, a middle-finger curtsy, a few crooked pebbles held in the plums of my palms. you are biscuit-bred, and when you rise, little anchors turn down your paws and I swear, you are gold and your doughy cheeks become red.
Anonymous asked: Where has your novella gone?
