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I have given up poetry, I'd said. I really thought I had. What finds me is not my doing; I rarely say no to an intrusion I rarely turn away an avalanche

Waiting, I slipped my number to many marvels and recieved no callbacks. Waiting, I took to swimming. One cannot stay submerged forever - this was the tide talking. I bounced back from the bottom and saw I was no martyr for it.

My body memorized my history. Every bath becomes a test - do I visit often? Hardly. But we've gotten in touch since the last couple of days.

Now, what will you have? I've already surrendered conversation.

#poetry #poetry?#non-poetry #word vomit #nonsensical #spilled ink

Listen to Mix of the Week #53: Michael Cina - Slaw by Dream Chimney #np on #SoundCloud

https://soundcloud.com/the-dream-chimney/mix-of-the-week-michael-cina

maldarchive

TO YOUR IMPECCABLE CRUELTY

Unfailing: the image of your violence still ringing brightly across months, houses, centuries…

If I were to recall the worst of it (the absolute) I could not live now as I have learnt to

it is true that I escaped your theory, I made it! Only outside your view your taint awful

That is just it: I pass the baton, I want nothing to do with my misery

In your absence, you are the perfect one to hold the large blame

you are the perfect one to remember with tremendous resentment

my darling glorious shard of sun my absolute perfect love, I thank you for making this easier

as always through the pain you cause

How this anger will subside, I have no clue.

lacant89

“I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say. They are not brave, the days when we are twenty-one. They are full of little cowardices, little fears without foundation, and one is so easily bruised, so swiftly wounded, one falls to the first barbed word.”

— Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier

fuckingfreud

"If this ice should break

It would be my mistake"

I feel as if the world has picked up on the most whimsical of clues and the story has been derailed. There is no emergency lever.

#beach house #ppp #music #depression cherry

from "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love" by Raymond Carver, pg. 120

#prose #what we talk about when we talk about love #raymond carver #excerpt

mihirvatsa-deactivated20220213

In the winter of 2014 we were always taking his name

(with lines and words by Jose Saramago and Robert Browning; for Peshawar, for our gods, and for the rest of us)

Because I could reach out to your hands only when our foreheads were at gunpoint Because the only light between us split when there was nothing to wade through and everything to crawl against Because I could register your voice only when we raised angry placards on the streets

I realise the only thing worthy in the world to extract love from

is conflict

The history of mankind is the history of our misunderstandings with god, for he doesn't understand us and we don’t understand him.

Many years ago, before the birth of time, one god left our brother at the mercy of a bird because he is the reason today I can see your eyes slanting under a sunbeam. Many years ago, before the birth of time, one lustful god let down his robes in the guise of a husband. Many years ago, perhaps after the birth of time, one god sent the snake in— there should be no doubt here that he sent the snake

for he is god and god knows all and god knew all and god is truth

A truth so afraid of its own making it turned supreme.

In the neighbourhood the boy wakes up to expectations

he kneels, he remembers his god he arranges his textbooks, he verifies the Pythagoras theorem

the square of the hypotenuse is no longer the sum of the squares of the sides

he, aware of the spelling of love he, aware of the colour on his blazer he, aware that six hours later there will be an end to all prepositions when he would cycle off to home—

…

My dear friend

The plateau is as cold as your affection

I am thinking of reaping a harvest of gloom I am thinking of burying the scriptures I am thinking of dying but it’s not that easy— I don’t want to go to hell

Therefore

I am counting on you to furnish a report afterwards Maybe a biography

The question is not that which god wants more blood The question is which doesn’t

I am searching my database for a name

404 Not Found

So let me trace instead the crevices on your skin under moonlight

You, so still beside the shrine You, so lovely in your devotion You, the sex appeal of death

But you, my sergeants of justice how many fingers will you break how many theorems will you twist how many colours will you spit till you realise that even today for all the ways you make love to a person for all your great right causes for all your concerned rebellion the most supreme and honorable your god has not said a word

I believe in the scoundrel that Yunior is and think of myself as someone who toes the very thin line between being him or being one of his women. Two stories especially, "The Sun, The Moon, The Stars" and "A Cheater's Guide to Love" - the first and last of the anthology (This Is How You Lose Her) - I keep coming back to these.

I remember being in my room one July, the year I'd turned 19, sitting transfixed in front of my laptop with a PDF of his book open, almost panting because I had found myself a shrine. I had found someone who knew how to write about violence the way I felt it but never quite knew how to identify it within words, punctuations, dialogue but Junot Diaz knew more than just how to write; his voice exploded in my ears and the colours of Santo Domingo were sun starched and solidly no-nonsense when I imagined them.

Years later, there is a strange panic in the pit of my stomach yet again on reading him. I feel for his losses and his infidelities; his self-loathe too. The creation of Yunior is akin to the creation of Seymour's unraveling in Salinger's Glass family.There is much to be said about male characters who are so completely flawed, so hopelessly doomed in their own personal hells, and who know not how to redeem themselves. There is no heroic intention within either Yunior or Seymour, justly acknowledging that their situations are completely different. But Seymour was unapologetic in his depression, the way Yunior is in his philandering.

I hope his stories are never turned into movies.