OOPart

those storms keep coming back

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I walked away and grew old. You never talk, We never smile.

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The place that is not a place

I moved like a dark star, drifting over the drowned

other half of the world until, by a distant prompting,

I looked over the  gunwale and saw beneath the surface

a luminous room, a light-filled grave, saw for the first time

the one clear place given to us when we are alone.

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there's nothing left to rise above but you show me your ocean red kiss the tears that stain my neck drug me with visions untrue

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Nevertheless, in my unrequited love for Omi, in this the first love I encountered in life, I seemed like a baby bird keeping its truly innocent animal lusts hidden under its wing. I was being tempted, not by the desire of possession, but simply by unadorned temptation itself. To say the least, while at school, particularly during a boring class, I could not take my eyes off Omi's profile. What more could I have done when I did not know that to love is both to seek and to be sought? For me love was nothing but a dialogue of little riddles, with no answers given. As for my spirit of adoration, I never even imagined it to be a thing that required some sort of answer.

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Fill verb (used without object)

to become full: Our eyes filled with tears.

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Cose secche e rimorte

t'ingombrano e vanno nel vento.

Membra e parole antiche.

Tu tremi nell'estate.

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Family portraits zine #1

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Journal cover

“It always has to end, doesn't it? We always have to separate.” “Yes,” I said. He was insistent, “But it doesn't always have to be that way. We could be together some day for always.” “Oh, no,” I told him, wondering if he knew it was all over. “We keep running till we die. We separate, get further apart, till we are dead.” 

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Sciogliersi/mi

[…]

E come acqua smossa

nella mia testa

con ogni tua parola

mi fai cerchi nel lago del cuore.

Mi perdo nei liquidi sgonfiandomi di pianto bicchiere d’acqua sarò arriverò dal mare una mattina.

[…]

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Wound dehiscence #2

Nel suo fianco destro, all'altezza dell'anca, si è aperta una ferita grande come il palmo d'una mano. Di color rosa, ricca di sfumature, più scura al centro, via via più chiara sugli orli, leggermente granulosa, con grumi di sangue irregolarmente sparsi, aperta verso l'alto come una miniera: tale appare vista di lontano. Ma più dappresso si nota un'altra complicazione; e chi può guardarla senza un lieve sibilo di stupore? La piaga pullula di vermi, lunghi e grossi come il mio dito mignolo, rosei e per di più intrisi di sangue; come fossero radicati al fondo, agitano verso la luce le testine bianche e le innumeri zampette. Povero ragazzo, sei spacciato. Ho scoperto la tua grande ferita: questo fiore che hai nel fianco significa morte. 

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Look beyond the sun

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A tribute to light

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I finally felt like I was breathing free And under swaying trees we fell asleep and we had the same dream The stars were bright, we dream the same every night On my island home I spent some time with you I went back to feel alone there I went back there by myself I gave up on everything that we'd felt.

[theparisreview]

There is no such thing as ‘was’ - only ‘is.’ If ‘was’ existed, there would be no grief or sorrow.

William Faulkner, The Art of Fiction No. 12 (via theparisreview)

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Three Fates

Bianca Stone

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Even though my shape is disintegrating

I’m still flesh I’m still flesh I’m still flesh