"She never saw God in her fits—
not the way the others did: what if

God was a vulture licking her clean, her words
a machine-hand rigging her legs back

as she sang, her mind a sack of apologies

Rochelle Hurt, “The Humility of St. Teresa of Ávila,” published in Tupelo Quarterly (via bostonpoetryslam)


ugly thoughts






A Softer World: 1123
(Your daytime friends are no help in the dark.)
buy this print


A Softer World: 1123

(Your daytime friends are no help in the dark.)

buy this print

Peter Cole, “Ghazal of What Hurt” 


Pain froze you, for years—and fear—leaving scars.
But now, as though miraculously, it seems, here you are

walking easily across the ground, and into town
as though you were floating on air, which in part you are,

or riding a wave of what feels like the world’s good will—
though helped along by something foreign and older than you are

and yet much younger too, inside you, and so palpable
an X-ray, you’re sure, would show it, within the body you are,

not all that far beneath the skin, and even in
some bones. Making you wonder: Are you what you are—

with all that isn’t actually you having flowed
through and settled in you, and made you what you are?

The pain was never replaced, nor was it quite erased.
It’s memory now—so you know just how lucky you are.

You didn’t always. Were you then? And where’s the fear?
Inside your words, like an engine? The car you are?!

Face it, friend, you most exist when you’re driven
away, or on—by forms and forces greater than you are.


i think we’ve established the fact that nabokov min does not want to be our friend

"I sleep so you will be alive,
it is that simple.
The dreams themselves are nothing.
They are the sickness you control,
nothing more."

 Louise Glück, from The Dream Of Mourning
(via violentwavesofemotion)


We don’t know how to say goodbye,
We wander on, shoulder to shoulder
Already the sun is going down
You’re moody, and I am your shadow.
Let’s step inside a church, hear prayers, masses for the dead
Why are we so different from the rest?
Outside in the graveyard we sit on a frozen branch.

That stick in your hand is tracing
Mansions in the snow in which we will always be together.


Anna Akhmatova, We Don’t Know How To Say Goodbye (via grammatolatry)


the divine is full of monsters;

incandescent giants who lick their gold teeth,
whose mouths are full of crumbling cities, who breathe
death and fire and revelation and madness while
diamonds crack like splinters of bone between their gums

their whims are carved in stone, sand, pillars of salt
their feathers sticky with luminescent blood, their fingers
thunderous with creation, lightning in their eyes
that crackles and hisses from every direction of the sky

the divine is not static and humane; the divine does not play nice.

they will eat everything you are.

they will leave you reformed in a roar of light, peel away layers of you like birth
and with a saint’s conviction you will know that nothing feels more like luxury,
better to be blinded by brilliance than close your eyes to awe-

for your lips are always being kissed.

your mouth is champagne roses. you will eat lotuses. your lungs are perfumed and
your bones will blossom into stars. your blood is wine and you are clothed in light;

your skin threshed wheatlike until the gold of you shines.


natasza stark, “anchorite” (via anexpansionlikegold)


Chesley Bonestell (1888–1986)