@bryanastarr / bryanastarr.tumblr.com
Anne Carson, The Anthropology of Water (via antigonick)
Anne Carson.
Sarah Waters, The Paying Guests (via mercurieux)
A Manifesto, Clementine von Radics (via clementinevonradics)
Dalton Day, from “Roads Covered Black” published in The Offing (via pigmenting)
“I cut off my head and threw it in the sky. It turned into birds. I called it thinking.” Richard Siken, “Landscape with Fruit Rot and Millipede"
"I talk to you as if you’re really there. Are you there, sweetheart? Do you know me? Is this microphone live?" Richard Siken
Patricia Smith, from “Katrina,” Blood Dazzler (via lifeinpoetry)
Pablo Neruda, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair (via wordsnquotes)
spring, where are you?
Anis Mojgani (via mindfullofthings)
"Eros scrabbles to rose and rage to gear or gare, as in Gare du Nord, where I trained in to Paris from not smoking pot in Master Mad, I’m sorry, Amsterdam, with its canals called grachts and clocks that bonged my homesick hours at different times. Which is smite for you violet types, a flower that says “love it” if you listen. Me, I do and don’t feel it matters that evil thrives in live, that we tinker and smash everything down to bits and then try to patch a path back home, it’s our lotto in life, to have no clue what a natural disaster is when that disaster is us. That’s what I love about the shrug, it says zilch sans le mouth and becomes more aerobic the more you admit the less you know, you know? It’s a jumble out there, kids, with slips and slides and elide’s eally ool, depending what’s lopped off, as in light of hand or slight of and, but I better spot before you pots how sparse this parsing is. Besides, what can I say about language other than it’s an anal egg in need of one glorious u. Words or sword — pick your poisson. Every time I try to peak into speaking, the bag of gab to learn what our noodles are really up to, I get flummoxed that the tools I use are the stool I stand on to see a way in or out. I can’t even tell if I’m more trapped or rapt, if meaning’s mean or play’s a dumb waiter riding numbly up and down. But have you noticed read becomes dear if you ignore the world as you find it and find it in you to swirl the word, in the way solve and loves are the same bones, different skeletons." -Bob Hicok, The pregnancy of words
"Sunlight pouring across your skin, your shadow flat on the wall. The dawn was breaking the bones of your heart like twigs." Richard Siken, “Visible World”
Jeannine Hall Gailey, “The Animal Heart: She Warns Him,” from She Returns to the Floating World (via lifeinpoetry)
Margaret Atwood, from Yes At First (via violentwavesofemotion)
happy birthday, Dorothy Parker.
SILK WOMAN The silk which she loves flows against her skin, the white silk spun from a cocoon of words, spun and shimmering in her dark eyes against dark skin which tells her who she is and who she is not, am I the moth inside her mouth where words form, silk cocoon dark skin against the words of need I did not say love until which of us can tell I cannot who is the spinner who, the moth who, the silk. Alan Fox
Rapid Obsuccession (Buddy Wakefield)
Buddy.
