[wishbzne-deactivated20210526]

plainwater: essays and poetry — the interviews (III), anne carson [ID: “I: Do you dream of her M: No I dream of headlights soaking through the fog on a cold spring night” end ID]

[theicarusstar]

yeah that age gap jegulus italian vocalist regulus fic is happening

[licnheartedd]

jegulus aftg au? i am very excited for this one

[sunflowersamxx]

Fucking christ.

[completelymindfucked]

[geryone]

Self-Mythology, Saba Keramati

[virgin-martyr]

In Fragment 51 Sappho writes of two states of mind in the same body. When two things are coupled together in one throat, in one belly, in one blush of feeling that runs up the spine, they orient the body in different directions at the same time. We were well acquainted with that warm disarray spreading through our nerves. Sometimes we wanted to be everything at once. An invert is someone who believes this is possible.

Selby Wynn Schwartz, excerpt from After Sappho

[virgin-martyr]

The sky, now overcast and sullen, so changed from the early afternoon, and the steady insistent rain could not disturb the soft quietude of the valley; the rain and the rivulet mingled with one another, and the liquid note of the black bird fell upon the damp air in harmony with them both. I brushed the dripping heads of azaleas as I passed, so close they grew together, bordering the path. Little drops of water fell on to my hands from the soaked petals. There were petals at my feet too, brown and sodden, bearing their scent upon them still, and a richer, older scent as well, the smell of deep moss and bitter earth, the stems of bracken, and the twisted buried roots of trees.

Daphne du Maurier, excerpt from Rebecca

[goreprofonde]

- Hieu Minh Nguyen, Notes on Staying.

[bullet-ant]

"Before she even touched me, I realized what would happen. It was as if I'd known this for years, that I knew the secret to the reason I'd never approached anything remotely resembling sex: it would take me back to something I didn't want, a memory that had hovered for years, hidden, in my head."

Scott Heim, Mysterious Skin

[thym3y]

a group hug could fix them (<-lie)

[alonesomes]

“[after a half-hearted suicide attempt at age 13] When Daddy comes in, he carries you to bed. Is there anything you feel like you could eat, Pokey? Anything at all? All you can imagine putting in your mouth is a cold plum, one with really tight skin on the outside but gum-shocking sweetness inside. And he and your mother discuss where he might find some this late in the season. Mother says hell I don’t know. Further north, I’d guess. The next morning, you wake up in your bed and sit up. Mother says, Pete, I think she’s up. He hollers in, You ready for breakfast, Pokey. Then he comes in grinning, still in his work clothes from the night before. He’s holding a farm bushel. The plums he empties onto the bed river toward you through folds in the quilt. If you stacked them up, they’d fill the deepest bin at the Piggly Wiggly. Damned if I didn’t get the urge to drive to Arkansas last night, he says. Your mother stands behind him saying he’s pure USDA crazy. Fort Smith, Arkansas. Found a roadside stand out there with a feller selling plums. And I says, Buddy, I got a little girl sick back in Texas. She’s got a hanker for plums and ain’t nothing else gonna do. It’s when you sink your teeth into the plum that you make a promise. The skin is still warm from riding in the sun in Daddy’s truck, and the nectar runs down your chin. And you snap out of it. Or are snapped out of it. Never again will you lay a hand against yourself, not so long as there are plums to eat and somebody-anybody-who gives enough of a damn to haul them to you. So long as you bear the least nibblet of love for any other creature in this dark world, though in love portions are never stingy. There are no smidgens or pinches, only rolling abundance. That’s how you acquire the resolution for survival that the coming years are about to demand. You don’t earn it. It’s given.”

— Mary Karr, “Cherry” (via lifeinpoetry)

[saintsuicides]

there is genuinely something so gut-wrenching in how lovers in art are depicted as an enmeshing of some sort, wherein bodies are conjoined and pulled together so neatly and thoroughly the only barrier remains is the actual physical concatenation of flesh and bones. but even then they still try; they still entangle themselves as though the barrier is only ever an open, gaping wound they can knit themselves over and over again. the 'i am you & you are me & i will continue to force ourselves together until we are one' & the greek mythos of 'having been born as one entity forced to exist apart' conceptualized in such a raw and tender vigor to a point that the body, whether one's own or another, is depicted as a mere object an individual is cathected to. will dissolve into. will homogenize with. while love is argued metaphysically it will and can be concretized by a kiss; a tangle of limbs; a hand hold; a light-feather touch. & still, in this case, this is not enough--as love, furthermore, is monstrous in its hunger, is desperate in its want, is violent in its need--henceforth the longing becomes sinister until all that's left is a coalesced, form of mass. & still there is love.

my most favorite depictions of this:

it's sort of rough in their grasps, yet the innate tenderness emphasizes the craving, in pulling together each others head and limbs inwards one another. they're in one piece. ang kiukok's works are my absolute favorite.

and nicoletta caravia's more somber but softer works, that the need to be one, the need to be together beyond each other is captured in a gentle, but tight embrace.

"The Lovers" by Ang Kiukok (1985) // "The Lovers" by Ang Kiukok (1975) // "Lovers" by Nicoletta Tomas Caravia (2000-2004)

[browifedean]

i will never get over the fucking fact that ruby will sometimes call sam "sammy" and he allows it simply because somewhere deep in his sick, perverted, desirous, grief-stricken brain ruby feels so much like dean. which i know is on purpose on rubys part, but the fact that it WORKS????????????? its so funny and so tragic and my dick is so extremely hard

[typewriter-worries]

It's world poetry day so here are some of my favorite poems:

Failing and Flying by Jack Gilbert

What the Living Do by Marie Howe

Night Walk by Franz Wright

Crossword by Lloyd Schwartz

The Great Fires by Jack Gilbert

Love Train by Tomás Q. Morín

Divorced Fathers and Pizza Crusts by Mark Halliday

Perhaps the World Ends Here by Joy Harjo

in another string of the multiverse, perhaps by Michaella Batten

acknowledgments by Danez Smith

Death Wish by Josh Alex Baker

San Francisco by Richard Brautigan

How to Watch Your Brother Die by Michael Lassell

You Are the Penultimate Love of My Life by Rebecca Hazelton

On Political(ized) Life by Kanika Lawton

All the Dead Boys Look Like Me by Christopher Soto

It Was the Animals by Natalie Diaz

In Time by W.S. Merwin

It Is Maybe Time to Admit That Michael Jordan Definitely Pushed Off by Hanif Abdurraqib

Dear Life by Maya C. Popa

I Could Touch It by Ellen Bass

To The Young Who Want To Die by Gwendolyn Brooks

Accident Report in the Tall, Tall Weeds by Ada Limón

[kill-the-head-2023]

[saintsuicides]

thinking about evan rosier with an amputation kink in the way his brain just sees an interruption in the human form or a deviance in body parts one expects to exist & the incompleteness ignites a certain sexual impulse within him that he, ever in his cogent mind, could not make of rational sense that frustrates him to a certain extent but that it simply is. meanwhile barty crouch jr who forever craves and fantasizes losing a healthy limb to serve his own mental body representations wherein he could only ever feel fully his self in destroying a part of him; a factoid he relays with all the sense a seemingly cohesive mind can.