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Things I find unsettling –


A brain coral – no, an actual brain, the folds of gray matter
unraveling through a sleeve underwater –


The gutter, a lake of no respect –


Are you a lifer – schadenfreude-laced exchange
at the speed of its antidote, a confession or apology –


A suspicious package at the local airport,
milled palm-oil soap called green tea –


Carry me, cries a stranger, mispronouncing my name –

—Last week’s poem of the week was Karen An-hwei Lee’s “X Is For Xenophobia” (via themissourireview)

Never resist a sentence you like, in which language takes its own pleasure and in which, after having abused it for so long, you are stupefied by its innocence.

—Jean Baudrillard (via cuttyspot)

(Source: mfs, via cuttyspot)

When I’m disappointed by a novel, why am I disappointed? And it’s really something so simple. For it to be a worthwhile novel, there has to be a reason for it to be in written language. In 1820, that was not one of the demands because there was no other option. That’s what there was as a medium. But now there are all these other mediums. I could hear a song. I could watch a film. I could be on the Internet. You have to give me a reason why you have written this down. It doesn’t have to have an elaborate literary structure. Some of the most simple books… you could make into a movie, but you would be losing something. It had to be in sentences. The sentences were necessary. That’s all people want from fiction, right? The feeling of it being necessary.

—Zadie Smith (via mttbll)

(Source: interviewmagazine.com, via oliveryeh)

This is the watch I bought myself today
It says ‘whatever, I’m late anyways’

This is the watch I bought myself today

It says ‘whatever, I’m late anyways’

On fragmenting: I’m in love with the idea that a poem should always try to be smaller than itself. The white space should be as detailed and passionate as that which is said aloud.

—Lucie Brock-Broido, Poetry, December 2012 (via leopoldgursky)

(Source: poetryfoundation.org, via kdecember)

Dusk as silent as an owl’s wing. The old wall, built by the Romans, or built to keep the Romans out, stands scaffolded and tarped for a long restoration. All the roads wind round to the mountain’s top, where the little village, hunched, is half-obliterated by shadow as if the klieg-lit façade of an old movie set. In the town square, a table set for a séance. A stray dog turns round three times before settling down on the cobbles. The voyeur peering into a window turns away nonchalantly. He exhales smoke. An arc of embers falls as he flicks the butt away. As he passes, he touches the brim of his hat. One of the six chairs at the table is toppled, as if someone had taken fright and stood suddenly. The planchette on the Ouija board centered over NO.

Our poem of the week a few weeks ago was Eric Pankey’s “The Little Village

(via themissourireview)

day 22, "Witch-Wife", Edna St. Vincent Millay

harkerling:

She is neither pink nor pale,
And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;
In the sun ’tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of colored beads,
Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.

(via gerutha)

We grew still and stared at each other. It seemed incredibly dangerous to look into each other’s eyes, but we were doing it. For how long can you behold another person? Before you have to think of yourself again, like dipping the brush back in for more ink. For a very long time; you didn’t need to get more ink, there was no reason to get anything else, because she was as good as me, she lived on earth like me, she suffered as I did.

—Miranda July (via cuttyspot)

Fionn Regan ‘Put a Penny in the Slot’

Yr lapsed Catholic hipster on a jaunt to an out-of-season seaside town with a book in his pocket written by a White North American Male but he’s sort of embarrassed and making a joke about it now.