poesiebenpunkt

ich atme und schreibe in einem Zug

[lifeinpoetry]

“My voice does not sing along with Billy Joel in the shower. It does not paint the bathroom ceiling in the delicious murder of high notes. I do not repeatedly talk myself along city sidewalks as if words hold the ability to propel my body faster. I do not read unbelievable pieces of literature, each line 3 or 4 times, terrified everyone gets it but me. I do not then make reference to how the story captured me ,how it has forever influenced my further artistic movements. I am not the white boy of your loose tongue – the impersonal, all-encompassing, white boy – not me. I do not sing, never. I am not human. I do not watch a blue-jeaned hip twist to the beat of a stoplight on 17th street, do not feel the whistle and spit already bubble in my throat. I do not speak, but when I do, I am not afraid my eyes have shown too much. I have not wrapped myself completely around what you think of me. I have never been persuaded to love without condoms. I never called it love when it should have been called penis. Called it love when it should have been called lonely. Called it love when it should have been called trying-too-hard. My outer layer does not mask my secrets well. I do not feel secrets pressing the walls of my throat. I have never allowed ugly words to crawl inside my cheeks, then splatter across walls. I will not sing. I will never be a singer. I never named this voice beautiful. Never imagined the sky was a goal we could accomplish. I never thought we were the sky. People will always people. We do not name ourselves potential. Our skin is only a collection of cells. I do not name myself solution. Accountable is not a line in this story. Gravity will always keep us stuck to this floor. These bones don’t want out of this skin. I do not wish to unlock my ribcage, say, Look – I made this. I do not bleed. I am giving you the entire story. You have already leafed through my pages. You have seen the whole show. Your approval is not my concern. I am not afraid to speak like there is something at stake. I am not afraid to finish this poem. This poem is not about me. I do not want you to listen. I am not afraid. I am not afraid. I am not afraid. Afraid not I am. Afraid not am I. Not afraid I am. I do not bleed. I am not human. I am not here.”

— Jon Sands; “Not About Me” (via cerealboxshakespeare)

[lifeinpoetry]

“Depression turns you into a series of nouns, without the adjectives and without the verbs. You don’t remember where you misplaced your descriptions, your actions (under the sink with your emotions). You become: bed, shower, socks, coffee, keys, obligations.”

— A Series of Nouns (via aseriesofnouns)

[writingsforwinter]

I Want You

Inspired by Crave by Sarah Kane

I want your hunchbacked soul, I want to plant a thousand emerald lilies between your thighs and bring you coffee in the shower then drop the mug on the stall floor and cut our feet on the pieces, drop the mug and kiss you instead, tongue into tongue, moving together like fish, I want to translate the moving dips of moon across your spine at night when loneliness is so real even when we’re together, I want to tuck my feet into the backs of your knees for warmth, I want your messy crying and your messy nights with you begging to be buried six feet under, want to rub your back when the endless heaves of too much wine bends you over the toilet, I want to hurt you and save you and love you then do it all again, I want to lap up your apologies like milk, to watch your face as you come, to see you above me stretching and arcing, to be the animal that lives inside you, the last one to see you alive, I want the needle and the shot going into your blood, I want this prairie in your mind, I want to hold you howling at a funeral and see you birthed again, want us to pick bones clean of their meat and feed the remains to the birds, to find the mouse that choked to death on a bottle cap and lower it into the soil with you singing some dirge in your soft voice, I want the day we finally decide not to use the condoms, the teeth growing back, autumn you fell back in love with your body, the summer you’ll fall out of love with me, the winter you’ll plummet into it again, the terrible, miserable, wrenching things we’ll say and do to each other, I want to count crows and arrows and sunsets, for you to look at me like a crown, to grow back into and out of your arms, I want the proposal, I want you to be here on the nights when my past undoes me, for you to push inside me and hold my face between your hands, to be sweaty with you, I want all your I hurt you and sorry and love and I won’t do it again’s, your thighs in the shower, your mouth in my hair, your toothbrush finally next to mine in the bathroom glass, I want us to dig out of our own graves and crawl into each other’s with roses in our mouths.

[lifeinpoetry]

“I was born in the obscene genius of the club. I was a chemical hero. Slick as a greasy encyclopedia, I strutted like a bullfighter. I learned kink is another word for survival. learned to love the body more for what it can do than for what it is. how did you get this far without knowing lust is disaster’s good cousin, what flickers when the rest has been burned down and blown away? there will be a quiz. here’s another story: I was born. I was adored. I am in charge. I need you to tie me down, now. call it love, this intimate vine. this gift of the mother. gift of the neighbor, the uncle, gift of the whip. the dildo. lying was my first language. I am not ashamed. touch is not reversible. one cannot be un-touched. are you uncomfortable? good. then it’s begun. go ahead and cry. to break is to be sanctified. to find in the body a safehouse where all your monsters get to be raucous, bring the audience to their feet calling what. what. dig at the shame places. your gutter of a cunt. your crowbar of a cock. say the words, say fuck and wheelbarrow and voluptuary until it all sounds like amen, amen, amen, amen, amen, amen, amen, amen. why despise your own wiring? it was desire that made you; however twisted the originating bed, your beginning was ferocious. quiz: what’s the difference between a lie and a myth. answer: the storyteller’s intention. example: I am more bear than fruit. more leather than lion. legend says I opened my mouth and the world rolled out. the brine of saliva, browbone splitting into branch, to root. and from the cheeks, the sweetest meat, the man, the woman, the lost androgynous other. example: in our myth, Atlas is a hermaphrodite. a dancer. bearded lady in a g-string in a cage above the dance floor. fact: there are gods who love us, and they want us to fuck. have I earned another story? to emerge, a world must learn itself, then flood, then burn. unfurl your ugly like fists inside another’s body. step into a skin familiar as your mother’s bed, and as spurned. something in you stands up. it is like light, or a crime. it is alive. your turn.”

— Marty McConnell; “The World’s Guide to Beginning” (via grammatolatry)

[lifeinpoetry]

I want to find  you a peach so ripe that even your breath  would bruise it. I want to press its velvet

heat against your cheek, make you edge into the bite until your mouth is too wet to ask questions. If something happens,

let it.

— Paige Lewis, from “Pavlov Was the Son of a Priest,” Space Struck

[lifeinpoetry]

do you know any other blogs similar to yours?

I don’t know about similar but some I enjoy though I’ve been a ghost.

@bostonpoetryslam, @violentwavesofemotion, @antigonick, @arterialtrees, @an-itinerant-poet, @mythologyofblue, @mortalpractice, @soracities, @victoriajoan 

Poets/Writers: @chenchenwrites, @natalieweepoetry, @moonflock, @nicola-blank, @viperslang, @joannavalente

[lifeinpoetry]

“So you were born backwards. Your heart covers 80% of your skin. It is huge—and it is fragile. You don’t know how to chain-link fence your feelings. You will find your trust abandoned and bruised on the side of the road— Do not leave it there— Dust it off and put it right back under your shirt. If you don’t learn to stop apologizing for yourself, you will mirage out of existence. See, someday, that 80% is gonna get you hurt. You will tell a woman over and over that you love her, and she will say nothing. You will sob in public, and people will just stare. They will want to carve their names into you and watch as the pieces fall off— let them try. Your heart is a geiser and for that you will always feel strange. Most people shut down when they get over saturated with feeling; most people harden into hate - into indifference - because the biggest risk we ever take is to love without fear. You are not afraid. You are a cathedral waiting to be filled with hymns; you are an infinite playground; you are sky-bound and sprinting, so cover your heart in goose-bump armor. It will only beat stronger, beat louder. Keep hoping. Stand up on subways and shout compliments to strangers, dance, poorly, in public if it makes you feel better. Love until it hurts. Then love more—you know how. There will be days when you’ll wish you were numb; when you’ll want to rip your heart off your body and find something easier to take its place. Collect those days like bricks and marvel at the buildings you will make. Stand on top, chest open, head up— Nobody will ever see the world like you do. Never try to be better than the best version of you. You are not perfect. You are perfectly human”

— Miles Walser, “Perfectly Human” (via pigmenting)

[red-lipstick]

[treee-magic]

Soo Sunny Park (b. Seoul, Korea) - Unwoven Light at Rice University’s Rice Gallery in Houston, Texas. Composed of 37 individual sculptural units, the installation uses iridescent plexi-glass embedded in pieces of a chain link fence to cast shimmering, colorful reflections across the spacious gallery.  Photo’s via Walley Films Flickr Photostream

[lifeinpoetry]

“First having read the book of myths, and loaded the camera, and checked the edge of the knife-blade, I put on the body-armor of black rubber the absurd flippers the grave and awkward mask. I am having to do this not like Cousteau with his assiduous team aboard the sun-flooded schooner but here alone. There is a ladder. The ladder is always there hanging innocently close to the side of the schooner. We know what it is for, we who have used it. Otherwise it’s a piece of maritime floss some sundry equipment. I go down. Rung after rung and still the oxygen immerses me the blue light the clear atoms of our human air. I go down. My flippers cripple me, I crawl like an insect down the ladder and there is no one to tell me when the ocean will begin. First the air is blue and then it is bluer and then green and then black I am blacking out and yet my mask is powerful it pumps my blood with power the sea is another story the sea is not a question of power I have to learn alone to turn my body without force in the deep element. And now: it is easy to forget what I came for among so many who have always lived here swaying their crenellated fans between the reefs and besides you breathe differently down here. I came to explore the wreck. The words are purposes. The words are maps. I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail. I stroke the beam of my lamp slowly along the flank of something more permanent than fish or weed the thing I came for: the wreck and not the story of the wreck the thing itself and not the myth the drowned face always staring toward the sun the evidence of damage worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty the ribs of the disaster curving their assertion among the tentative haunters. This is the place. And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair streams black, the merman in his armored body We circle silently about the wreck we dive into the hold. I am she: I am he whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes whose breasts still bear the stress whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies obscurely inside barrels half-wedged and left to rot we are the half-destroyed instruments that once held to a course the water-eaten log the fouled compass We are, I am, you are by cowardice or courage the one who find our way back to this scene carrying a knife, a camera a book of myths in which our names do not appear.”

— Adrienne Rich, from “Diving into the Wreck,” Diving into the Wreck: Poems 1971-1972

[lifeinpoetry]

“But something drags me with fear teeth. / I don’t know what I want.”

— Kiki Petrosino, from “Purgatorio,” published in Tarpaulin Sky

[thelastunico]

[poetpunk]

People who think Taylor Swift writes good breakup music need to listen to Joan Baez. You haven't seen shade thrown until you hear the most sarcastic covers in the world of a Bob Dylan song that makes you want to eat his heart in the marketplace etc.

[lifeinpoetry]

Pangea

Always breaking up/just broke up with someone/ broken up about it/in pieces/heart-broken/who did it I’ll kick their teeth in/yes I am/broken/ heart-aching/cutting myself/trying to pick it up/ yes I am too much/foolish/cleaning broken glass up/wrong/broke a window trying to get into the house I used to live in/now/I have/nowhere/to go

— Phoebe Stuckes, from Platinum Blonde

[lifeinpoetry]

Like, I’ve decided, is the cruelest word. To step out of my door and hope to see something like a life, something passably me.

— Solmaz Sharif, from “Civilization Spurns the Leopard,” published in Granta

[waakemeeeup]

Taylor Jenkins Reid, Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

[neilphen]

[tonysopranobignaturals-deactiva]

[talking to therapist] so I tried the healthy coping mechanisms and I managed to make them unhealthy too somehow. sorry