QUARTZ

art | design | poetry LAST FM

[anachronisticfairytales]

Eastend

[moma]

From multi-session thematic classes to one-night events with cocktails, there’s a MoMA Class for everyone. Register today for spring sessions. 

[Joan Miró. Hirondelle Amour. Barcelona, late fall 1933-winter 1934]

[wones]

[hittings]

This photograph was taken as King tried to explain to his daughter Yolanda why she could not go to Funtown, a whites-only amusement park in Atlanta. King claims to have been tongue-tied when speaking to her. “One of the most painful experiences I have ever faced was to see her tears when I told her Funtown was closed to colored children, for I realized the first dark cloud of inferiority had floated into her little mental sky.”

[cigarettessilhouettes]

So honored to coordinate poetry for this incredible Austin collective!

[breanna-lynn]

Someday someone won’t be afraid of how much you love. They won’t stay on the shore; they’ll meet you in the depths.

{you weren’t made for shallow waters, your heart is an ocean // breanna-lynn} (via kvtes)

This means so much to me….

(via zen--girl)

[cigarettessilhouettes]

I never meant to sprawl you upon a pin The plan was to tango barefoot with that cup of hot chamomile and this raised pinky. I could swish a fastidious capful of mouthwash

tone up my best furrow, and sit (regally- one leg over the other) or i could rise from my wing-back and use my last few steady  fingers to drag your memory rooftop and dip it in ink,  arched back and wiggling with laughter.

You wouldn't have to package yawning lilies between pressed pages of tawny novels. 

you could give in with a minor third or a light knock and I’d tumble from my perch, run to you with two left feet

all you’d have to do is kiss me,  of course. Wide mouthed and fragrant

[cigarettessilhouettes]

Without you I am nothing  complementary and all at once, I am tiny like an echo exhausted in dust white-crest and crushed preserving myths  and ruin with piles  of dilapidated hope

-paris

[letteratura-litterature-deactiv]

If a poem hasn’t ripped apart your soul; you haven’t experienced poetry.

Edgar Allan Poe  (via squandered)

[phones]

Visit Original Link

Easy Easy (Willow Smith Cover) | King Krule

[hausofbhd]

Visit Original Link

I wanna tell you How much I love you

[56345643563-deactivated20210707]

[cigarettessilhouettes]

Malliard reactions 1.1

To decompose is to destroy is to delete, which can be  beautiful, you might say. Except deletion is sickening,

defacing, gets me into a purging mood like too-ripe coffee  Or cacao that plans creative play dates with aggravated intestine walls.

Because, of course, it’s only natural to be so amber-brown vibrant then  disgustingly bitter.

[cigarettessilhouettes]

Draft 1.1

Asked a very beautiful girl Would you please Read my poetry

Knowing full well the shit Of it all. Wanting to see her Mouth curl and ebony feets

Of crows Dance in the  corners of her face. Desiring  The intimate Empty sounds

Echoing feigned insult and  Invitation to a quick stepped  tête–à–tête before my stop.

Instead, all I got was this Misdiagnosed addiction, to which, I said, Please, by all means, use

Your tools- your whispered Syllables, focused gaze, fingers Like a massage on a page

if you must. Just don’t leave  Me tonight until I’m cured. The crows danced until I left alone

[toothpastelove]

[cigarettessilhouettes]

curves and bends of letters 3.0

Certain phrases arrest like fluent aphasia And too often our words are more bee -sting and less honey-things. Words,   4-8 letters long, love, that are too soft and heavy to nail down.

it’s the minutiae that prickle, nick or smooth.  I’m attached to each letter of your letters Even the tallest letters that formulate under weight like beds of stingers under fakirs in Benares. I've studied these letters in a  lesson of you (e can be visceral and rumble; o’s a stream of stone)and now I live for each blank- each fall into möbius relief; struggle to begin the next word.

You divided lines of poems and gave them cushion on a bed of air above a slowly fading pencil line so that bee-stings  never settled down to meet honey.

That book is the only way I won’t forget the time you came over and made me promise  I wouldn't keep your favorite poets collection of poems.  Your fingers cuffing my hands to yours, i knew  that week would be my favorite memory of you.

I crossed my toes and lied.  I built my words  in a space. In the fault of a space. The heart has it's own tinge of aphasia my memory does not. It's happened before  and things don't never change: 

I was the book you picked around, threw up, and failed to finish.

Draft 3.2 -paris

[cigarettessilhouettes]

draft inspired by W.S. Merwin's "Separation 2.0"

Acetone couldn’t strip the residue of you 

off my little boar brushes. You are already 

speckled on the canvases I paint. 

I’d never soften the bristles

& sign my name without your texture