Halcyon

Come forth and drink you naked cherished all, straying wayward, bereft of heart and home, for your sweet lips is this glass cup proffered, to steal sensation from its misery. ------------------------------------------ Our communal thread is historical, evinced from a pervading and sleepless heart, strangely constant in diversity.

[puckett22]

Note

lets put the peecoat beside the trash and stop acting like the rich know what the fuck theyre talking about its part of this whole cultural complex that is like a fucking veil thrown over the reality of life i am reiterating a cliche to you that i wish could still strike home these shimmering facades and shallow messages consume even us who think we have escaped there is no remedy beyond this sleep without some effective desperation whose exclamations would seem so alien to the masses that we are discouraged and stifle them as they come when did yielding to the current become a greater virtue than singular valiance against it general approval is the appraisal by which we measure our acts though at some point such a mundane ruler for art would have been alien and laughable

[puckett22]

Lines

For Lia   She used to go out at night to see the moon, Images of the world reflected in space, And loved the intoxicating vigor of cool dew Breathed deep in the poise of evening When the suspended stillness teased a repose Soothing her too tired bones Fraught with lethargy and death, As she ambled through the myriad world Beaten down by the fragility of bounty’s chance.   For her, the bitterness of beauty always loomed Despite its engendered butterflies And most sought-for blessings. She’d seen its power to console decrepit age Wrinkling with unexpected smiles the most world-worn faces Imbuing with youthful flow their ancient eyes, Restoring the magic of hope in a coy gleam Full of the knowledgeable tenderness of time’s wisdom, Yielding anew the human courage of Prometheus and Atlas, The deep compassion and nobility Only begot by bearing up many grinding years.   She loved the way that beauty sowed in hearts A blind and abandoned faith Whose wild and savage grandeur Permitted fear’s dissipation.   And yet, that night, something had left her broken. She surrendered herself to a bitter rage Betraying all faith she had once possessed.   After driving a long and narrow lane He found her there amid the sky and sea, A distant figure clothed in roaring mist Screaming to the indifferent spheres A plaintive melody of vibration Whose sorrowful waters heavily steeped The already somber atmosphere, As the clouds swam their thick and heavy gray Across a world weighted with force and silence.   She framed the scene so that all borders were dissolved And the world became her own, So that he, gazing, transfixed, Knew that in this total vision He was seeing only her.   How destined, he thought, that the elements too should rage, with the same inconstant, seething flame As the prodding torture of her sorrow. All was rendered by her power As though that evening’s shore Deigned to recognize her noble plea So that the earth, writhing with kindred fury, Composed a fitting scene of desperation As though her soul’s unquiet Disturbed the very universe.   The night fell round, And the rising moon furrowed a trembling path On the glassier waters of the outer sea, Flickering between the swimming clouds. But, the close waves crashed with an announcing wind Feeding the respirations of her desire So that her spirit and the world’s Became as one flux Unleashed in coupled harmony.   He loved her then, as one loves truth, As one finds faith in meaning, Understanding that she apprehended The world’s great treason, and, Acutely feeling, indulged this wild abandon: Come here to out-shout the unconscious sea, To smear with condemnation the core insult Of this deaf, dumb world.   He left her lone there on that shadowed shore Enamored of her truthful violence, Taking away the image of her ribboned hair Cast out together with her melodious voice On the crests of the vast, deafening wind Sweeping across that desolate sphere.   She seemed to unwind in tattered threads And would have scorned his most earnest embrace And yet he loved her from that day, Had kept her native to his deepest mind Toasting tribute to her beauty’s truth.   Until, one night, he stood on a patio, Drink in hand, pleasantly buzzed in half-light, And the doubt that had seared his breast to a frail cold losing him in the turbulent nostalgia of a distant past Was finally destroyed:   There she was, with swimming eyes, Returning the fire of his gaze, Promising the antidote to the world’s treason That had once brought her to that screaming shore.   The silent flourish of the universe Inclined to coincide with human hope, yielding sense to story- lighting a revelation of love.   From Spring to Fall they loved true and long Abandoned to pleasure’s forgetfulness, Drunk with passion’s unrest.   But, stark, naked winter came Like a remembrance And then she was no more; And that image of her before the sea, Disturbing the whole world, Nobly figuring the prime betrayal, Was no longer hers but his own, And the mirrored atmosphere of all the bitter force of that scene, now composed the sordid room of his broken heart.

[wordsnquotes]

It’s like when someone says, ‘How are you?’ Do you say, ‘Well, my head hurts and I’m lonely and depressed and I’m worried about everything and the world is collapsing and full of evil’? Or do you say, ‘I’m fine’?

Sara Shepard, The Visibles (via wordsnquotes)

[ink-trails]

Maybe one day I will learn how to prioritize myself. Restitch the sagging weight under my eyes and pin it up so that I actually look alive. Eat on a schedule structured by the celestial bodies in the sky instead of an arbitrary set of times that fall in between work and the busy affairs of life. Maybe one day, these mechanized arms will feel bones sprout through their wires, and breathing will come more easily, sparing the smoke. I say one day like it’s something I can afford to put off. I wonder how many more tomorrows it will take before I decide that one day will be too late.

And the days go on (via ink-trails)

[puckett22]

You should never live by your fears. You should only live unforgivingly by your love.

[puckett22]

Sonnet Written in Imitation of Keats

When I have fears that she may cease to love, Before I have found out her heart’s true core, Before I’ve exhumed from life’s scarce store, A solace equal to the heavens above. When fancy’s whims turn whirlwind in my mind, And the storm of myself I cannot contain, So that shivers of unrest shake my frame, And I can neither rhyme nor reason find. When the rosy twilight falls down the sky And all of earth is run through with dazzling light, And the sparkling vibration rings round my mind For the briefest space before all’s wrapped up in night. Then I think of the froth on the sounding sea As it casts itself upon grains of sand, lamenting that the motion of this land spends itself in a false eternity.

[puckett22]

#repost

[puckett22]

I knew i couldn't have you. So why'd you tell me that i could?

[puckett22]

On Spring

The furrowed soil burgeons. The fertile heat heavy rises- a mist of fresh beginnings floating the promise of its veil.

[thegirlwhocrieswolf]

Wrote this today, hope you like it! xo Lang 

………….

My NEW book Memories is now available via Amazon, BN.com + The Book Depository and bookstores worldwide.

[puckett22]

a marble countertop reflects the neon gleam of a guiness advertisement on a bar wall in midtown manhattan mundane while drake plays on the radio and talks of the solace of love straddling the line of sentimental thug as only he knows to do

yet on the ceiling is a florid, ornate design reminiscent of nineteenth century france that makes me think of nerval and proust and how they, like i, found truth in memory

or, like rousseau and derrida, knew that there’s no such thing as immediate experience only the symbol sign to evoke a nothingness the mind’s fantasy restored because perception was itself illusion

i want so badly to be an artist to be the ego driven maniac unleashing the unforgiven flood of meditation. Perhaps one once could have written volumes as the rabid, ravenous poet that never doubted himself.

[3tittaymonstah]

Maybe we’ll meet again, when we are slightly older and our minds less hectic, and I’ll be right for you and you’ll be right for me. But right now, I am chaos to your thoughts and you are poison to my heart.

(via 3tittaymonstah)

[puckett22]

Drowning your sorrows in the briny bowl will never yield the true repose you seek As, wishing not to betray your myriad love, you are borne tumbling by the waves of your self. Why look you so with sparkling eyes that tear with a veiled confusion? It is your own soul's profusion that hounds you too, too feeling one.

[philosophybits]

The greatest danger for most of us is not that we aim too high and we miss it, but we aim too low and reach it.

Michelangelo (via philosophybits)

[puckett22]

Lines of Poetry

These blazoned days afford the briefest space For love to bring forth her awaited songs With the quickest pulse we must forever race To find truth in forces that within us throng. O life, why this fleeting breath, of such breadth That for the earnest heart yields no repose? But forever on must come this rushing death, All falling to decay that was once composed. Can these culminations be destined fruits? In our eyes they live out eternities, Yet, as we cleave them to our thirsting souls, They laughingly undress them of their wear And fall away to disclose our despair: That the grey and naked mockery shall come, To haunt the humble hopes of our highest dreams, That all our tapestries shall burst at the seams, And fall in tatters on a barren floor. --------------------------------------------------- The sure spirit emanates resonance Undeniable in the evening light. It is here we have come to crave vibration. The desperate self is weeping, because forever unfound Or forever inclined towards that Which is still in seed Or has already ceased to bloom. For abundance does not abide, Nor transcendence escape the mind. Thus, we abstract to remedy The poverty of our place. Our thoughts win order out of chaos Because it is order that we seek. Come, lover, lain drunk on cathedral steps, Overrun by your too bounteous soul, Sieve your nostalgic memory of unrest, Listen to the tower bells that toll, extolling Eternal space beyond your desperate passions, The sound-symbols of the disciplined fashion That eludes your too, too feeling spirit; Drowning your sorrows in the briny bowl Will never yield the true repose you seek As, wishing not to betray your myriad love, You are borne tumbling by the waves of your self. Why look you so with sparkling eyes that tear with a veiled confusion? It is your own soul’s profusion that hounds you Too, too feeling one. Though you are discerning in the sun’s worship, And quickest to drink the cold draught of the evening moon, You are feverish in fantasy, And cannot contain yourself. You incline yourself to be brimful Saying, “Aye, this is truth.” And yet you are overrun, Drooping, dripping sadly, A forlorn shadow flitting Across this terrestrial floor. Why ever the image más allá, The sidelong reflection in the corner of the eye, The fearful quirk that teases some beyond Which you might never know. Why not leave this off and be, here, now, gloriously carnal in the gift of space, Drunks loiter on the steps of churches Because their souls possess a purer yearning For beauty and for god Than the priests over versed in ancient texts. The clerics’ discerning exegeses might never replace The impassioned soul desperate for repose Overrun with a struggle that reason could not contain Until the wayward body Stumbling through passion’s labyrinth Found itself here, lain careless On cathedral steps 30th street manhattan beneath the celestial You are the autumn leaves Scattered in this sweeping wind. The tattered threads elude the grasp Of your desperate, careful fingers. And, yet, you drink this pool of air, So cold with change, Precisely clenching the fluid truth That is yourself reclaimed, For a moment, still, Framed, yet, gone, Just beyond the safest touch, Awaiting the earnest caress that could not come That never came To unfetter the bound-up potential song. Oh, chronicler of the wind, This is what blindly prances the vacant streets When all human minds are still, It is the vastness transposed in locomotion, The celestial’s colloquial speech Rambling its belligerent slang In the bareness of the stripping boughs. Come and listen to the whisper That tears the veil of space, The fruition requiring witness, Kin of the stain of light that spills steeping from the fire-blazed sky, The eye of psychedelic ore, lysergic splurge of draping, The burst of ecstasy when light runs through And the whole spirit’s world is conquered.

[puckett22]

Sonnet Written in Imitation of Keats

When I have fears that she may cease to love, Before I have found out her heart’s true core, Before I’ve exhumed from life’s scarce store, A solace equal to the heavens above. When fancy’s whims turn whirlwind in my mind, And the storm of myself I cannot contain, So that shivers of unrest shake my frame, And I can neither rhyme nor reason find. When the rosy twilight falls down the sky And all of earth is run through with dazzling light, And the sparkling vibration rings round my mind For the briefest space before all’s wrapped up in night. Then I think of the froth on the sounding sea As it casts itself upon grains of sand, lamenting that the motion of this land spends itself in a false eternity.

[puckett22]

Arbor Gleams, Musky Breath

There we experienced that peculiar effect of being one: the night itself spread close around us and, ceasing to reject, ceasing to be an object detached in space and time, it entered into us, mingling the mists of air and breath. It was then that she said, “You know when I’ve had a few drinks and find myself in a scene like this where the night seems so magical I always think of how genius Keats was to use the word ‘tender’. What a perfect discovery. There is no better word.”

[puckett22]

He pondered this and the chattering voices flying on the misty air, the smells of fragrant flowers newly in bloom, dawning their musky blues even in the night’s coolness, rising from the wiry bones of strong oak roots furrowing the soil beneath the dark green grass. Nearby the moan of a woman leaning against a darkened corner of the house, smiling upward at the sky, as her lover kisses her bare white neck and sneaks his hand gently beneath her dress. In the distance a car alarm sounding and the yelp of a neighbor’s dog disturbed from his sleep by the sounds beyond his door….