ℛ.

a sideblog for my passions & my troubles.

[ladymadame]

hate me , love me . . .

. . . your heart is mine to devour.

[cloudswamp]

erotism: death and sensuality, georges bataille

[ladymadame]

⠀ I'm the opposite of a loveless aromantic. I'm overfilling with love. It's my default. It's the air I breathe. I fall in love every day: with the sweetness of my morning coffee, with the autumn air, the way my hair frames my face. I fall head over heels for dramatic tales within pages, from beginning to end, that a life born from its words must linger to accompany me after a sombre end.

⠀Maybe I'm in the aromantic spectrum because my infatuations are beyond romance; or maybe my concept of the romantics is a keyhole's vision.

⠀What I know is that I love the way God kisses Man's feet and the dirt beneath him.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ──── Sylvian, the Old God.

[eesirachs]

what do you think about the prophets? jonah in particular?

the prophetic body is always-already weary, worn, exhausted. skin as horizon, not terminus, site for god, not self. from the moment they are called, they are no longer for themselves but for god. from the moment they are called, they die. and with each divine utterance they die again, repeatedly. i am thinking of jonah, who spits in the face of god. i am thinking of elijah, who looks in horror at elisha as he asks ‘what have i done to you?’ during the call of the latter. i am thinking of miriam, who rots more in life than in death. and of samuel, the only child-prophet, who does not even die. prophets are ongoing autopsies. they are loci for gods vivisections and curiosities. they precede the auto-incarnation, bodies becoming collateral. the prophets are a shattering of something, and only god knows what that something is

[ladymadame]

.♰. What a 𝒫retty blog <3

Thank you so much !! Yours as well 🩷

[letterful]

btw archive dot org is SUCH a treasury when it comes to out-of-print poetry anthologies… i am having the time of my life, truly ❣️

[letterful]

some of my bookmarks:

against forgetting: twentieth-century poetry of witness,

postwar polish poetry (edited by czesław miłosz!),

poems for the millennium: the university of california book of modern & postmodern poetry vol 1 + vol 2,

essential pleasures: a new anthology of poems to read aloud,

poems that make grown women cry + poems that make grown men cry,

the oxford book of short poems,

a book of women poets from antiquity to now,

first loves: poets introduce the essential poems that capitivated and inspired them (so many literary greats!),

the poets’ grimm: 20th century poems from grimm fairy tales,

disenchantments: an anthology of modern fairy tale poetry,

arthur, the greatest king: an anthology of modern arthurian poems,

chapters into verse: poetry in english inspired by the bible,

killer verse: poems of murder and mayhem,

poetry in medicine: an anthology of poems about doctors, patients, illness, and healing,

a mind apart: poems of melancholy, madness, and addiction,

friendship poems + marriage poems + motherhood poems + fatherhood poems,

billy collins’ poetry 180 + 180 more,

good poems + good poems for hard times

the penguin book of… modern african poetry + irish poetry + japanese verse + hebrew verse + love poetry + sick verse (sic!) 

[play-now-my-lord]

gambling with angels is easy. they can't lie but they have addictive personalities; it's easy to clean them out then make them divulge secrets about the business of heaven to call your bets. my dad used to say "hey, watch this" and summon angels to play poker with him with a sort of bone flute he inherited from his grandpa, and they'd be holding horseshit and still want to call him. i'm talking "raise on a two pair" level bad at it, but they couldn't stop trying to win. my dad taught me all the secret names of God before i was out of grade school and i would use them to curse my enemies so they came down with leprosy. you can cure leprosy these days but it still sucks, especially for a child. but they had it coming for pissing me off

[gnossienne]

Part of me is genuinely eccentric, part of me is a bit of a put on.

But I know what I am doing

Edward Gorey in Boston Magazines (1980)

[the-moon-loves-the-sea]

I’m increasingly worried by all the people on my dash calling themselves insane for loving stories in the way humans have loved stories our whole history. “The brain rot is spreading” — you mean you were changed by art? “I’m not normal about this” — you were moved by it? You felt human emotions about it? “I’m about to be so annoying” — you’re going to talk about art? You’re going to be passionate? You’re going to think deeply about it? You’re going to feel love for the work of someone’s soul? You are not a consumer and art is not a product to be casually used! You are a human and stories are the beating heart of our humanity! You must feel everything and you must know that it is normal!

[ladymadame]

guillotine inspired names & titles. ⠀ ── ── fem. masc. neu.

⠀ . . . ⠀ please reblog if used / saved.

names.

⠀ Louisette / Louison, Mirabelle / Mirabeau, Marie, Mary-Anne, Antoine, Antonella ( and other such Marie Antoinette variants ), Lottie, Gui, Gladiola, Rowenna / Rowan, Lunette / Lune, Charlot(te) / Charles / Charlie, Reinhardt, Saru, Verdugo, Agrona.

titles.

starting off with official names for the guillotine according to wikipedia:

⠀ La Veuve 「 the Widow 」, Madame la Guillotine, le Glaive de la Liberté 「 the Sword of Freedom 」, la Sainte Guillotine 「 the Holy Guillotine 」.

now, unto originals:

⠀ The People's Sword, the Star of a Revolution / Executions, Prn who Cuts Through Oppression, Prn Who Kills for Freedom, Prn with a Shining Blade, the Instrument of Executions / the Executioner's Instrument, Prn Who Orchestrates Beheadings, the Shining Beheader, Prn Whose Victims have Knelt for, the Executioner's Blade from Above.

[ladymadame]

⠀ Outside sitting on a stairway, in a street so old, danger lurks where paranoia whispers: As crickets from a distant, as headlights flash, engines run—at every lit window and strollers.

⠀ Midnight is young and aging. It hides the darkest souls in a blanket, inescapable. Moon is nowhere in sight tonight; how I envy it.

⠀ A hand still crawls at my right. I can never feel, utterly, devoid of a companion. What a curse it is to be alive.

⠀⠀⠀With distracting anxieties,

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀R.

[ladymadame]

⠀ My emotions are vague, weak, feeble. They're a mirage that I learned to be skeptical of, or slurp from, depending on my aching thirst. I am not devoid of emotions, that is a conclusion that has tricked me in my younger years (as if I'm barely any older).

⠀ Sometimes, like a nomad lost in the sea of sand, I crave this oasis. I want to feel again. I grew nostalgic for watercolour memories. And then, my canvas wets with saltine paint. It's amusing how a puddle can drown me, or a few droplets of rain at that, all because of paranoia for a tsunami. Say, when you read these words (if there is a you to refer to), can you see me? Look back at that paragraph, trace your thumb across each letter. Is there a soul to touch? Or, maybe, hopefully or unfortunately: It's another mirage.

⠀⠀⠀Yours truly,

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The Queen of Hearts.