galeru

Trust me when I say; I won’t harm you for nothing but do not to get in my way. Often mistaken for the devil in disguise. Always on the lookout for my next prey. Nor am I evil nor perfecly good. There must be balance. I am just misunderstood. 

[linneanirell]

Restless. Adjective as in not content; moving about. Strong matches: edgy, unsettled, unruly. As in disobedient. As in uncontrollable. Wild, fractious, violent. As in irresistible. As in inescapable. As in inevitable. Weak match: doomed. As in condemned. Adjective as in sentenced punishment. Strong match: trial. Noun as in test. Adjective as in experimental. Strong match: exploratory. Strong match: opening. Noun as in gap, hole. Way out. Strong match: tear. Noun as in rip, cut. Strong match: run. Strong match: escape. Noun as in breaking away. Strong match: release. Verb as in let go, let out. Strong match: surrender.

3/5

l. Nirell

❧ ig

[linneanirell]

craze

I want to rip into your chest

and drag you down

to your knees,

to the ground,

by your heart.

Push my bloodied fingers 

down your throat.

Taste the iron on your tongue,

take out your heart—

because it’s mine.

I want to drown the seed you’ve secretly sown in my chest.

It’s grown invasive,

spreading everywhere,

rooted in my mind,

crept into my lungs.

So now I taste you,

in every breath,

in every second,

of every hour—

all the time.

summer 24

l. Nirell

❧ ig

[galeru]

William Bouguereau, “Dante and Virgil” (1850), oil on canvas. (Courtesy Musée d’Orsay)

[linneanirell]

clean, naked and stripped to the bones

9 January 2025

❧ ig

[galeru]

RAE KLEIN, artist, Michigan.

[galeru]

...or sinner—but most likely both.

[galeru]

Wrecked? : a novel

by Stoddard, William Osborn, 1835

[galeru]

Under the greenwood tree, who loves to lie with me. And tune his merry note, unto the sweet bird's throat; Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see. No enemy. But winter and rough weather.

― William Shakespeare, As You Like It

[linneanirell]

Each morning, I have breakfast with my madness in the soft summer sun. Each morning, it turns to me, telling me: You’ve gone mad. Each morning I spit and bite back: and whose fault is that? To which we fall silent as reflections flicker by. And my madness keeps me company all throughout the day. We hold hands and play guessing games to which there seems to be no winner. And my madness never really leaves me. Each evening we have dinner together in the sweltering summer sun and we ripen. Wont you ever leave me alone? I have other more important things to tend to than guessing games—but leaving would mean ripping up the roots to which what feeds me. So, I fall silent as reflections flicker by. 

[galeru]

After death--what?

by Lombroso, Cesare, 1835-1909.

❧ig

[linneanirell]

Some days, I pity you. Other days, I fight with myself to understand you. Most days, I still love you. Yesterday, I forgave you. Yet, tomorrow, I wish to forget. 

Today’s poem, tomorrow, by Linnéa Nirell.

❧ig

[linneanirell]

A snippet from an older poem of mine ❧  

Please linger at the corners of my life by Linnéa Nirell

❧ig

[galeru]

The Art of Staying Sane by Joseph Barth, 1948.

❧ig

[galeru]

The burning one.

❧ig

[linneanirell]

I must have looked lovely during the days you quietly said your goodbyes. I realise now, what I thought was love within your eyes, was grief, and the dreams you created, the tales you told, was you living them for the very last time. I was caught up within those dreams. Like a child, I believed the illusion of it all. With your words, and with your hands, you placed steppingstones in front of me, and I walked upon them, not realising they were made out of nothing, and the plunge was indeed far. My heart was beating so incredibly loud that I was unable to recognise that yours had stopped. When did it begin to wither? First you were frozen in time. There was no before nor after. Everything was so still and you looked beautiful. I held onto you until you became solid. For how long has your body grown stale? I wish I would have known that your heart was ebbing. You carried your disease so well. Only now, when worms and maggots occupy your eyes, can I truly see. How did I look when I smiled at you those days? Do you remember? How did my warm skin feel against yours? My rosy lips? My tender hands as I brushed your hair from your eyes? Does my voice still echo within your ears, alongside those promises you made? Like a whisper? Can dead hearts even feel anything at all, after having withered? 

Today’s poem  ❧  

End to End by Linnéa Nirell

❧ ig

[galeru]

They love me, they love me not; forget me, forget me not.

❧ ig

[galeru]

I want none of this churchly soul saving. I am out to lose my soul. By soul I do not mean a shadowy eternal ghost of my body. I do mean, when I say soul, the reality which is my life. So when I say I want to lose my soul I mean that I want to lose my self-consciousness in an awareness of the life about me. I want, I seek to know the world about me, not as I wish it were but as it is. I want to know people and the problems of persons. I want to give myself for whatever  I am worth, be it little or much. I want to give myself in interest, in energy, in concentration, in action, to the larger life, to the larger cause, which is outside myself.  - The Art of Staying Sane by Joseph Barth, 1948.

❧ ig (I upload book recommendations every now and then, like this one - if you’re interested)