Around the Sun

I eat poetry. Feed me.

[writingaroundthesun]

Antony Micallef www.antonymicallef.com

[writingaroundthesun]

When the Cowgirls Stop Riding

I avoid you like a house with no coffee. There is no dancing, only horses, only Eskimo kisses on sun stained noses, only my ten-gallon hat.

When you approach, I gallop towards the sunset like cockroaches. My wings are bruised and barely moving. I’m the fly caught between the window and the screen. Lift me closer to the light.

My skin echoes. I’m a bus with no passengers. Feed me your weakness like I’d prune without it. In the dark the bulb is bare and light is a moth of remembrance, like when I remember you and burn for hours.

There was once a flame in your ribcage. There is now an empty parking lot behind your eyes. I am the beaten dog, my leg dragging behind. I keep to corners and eat when you aren’t watching.

- Alexis Pope, NANO Fiction 6:1

[writingaroundthesun]

[writingaroundthesun]

Of Women’s Testicles

In a 1684 anatomy book, Humane Bodies Epitomized, by Thomas Gibson, I find a chapter called Of Women’s Testicles. Outside, Bryant Park in bloom; fragrant hyacinth, daffodils, tall, masculine tulips, low-lying purple pansies feminine, frilled. Inside, alone with Thomas Gibson, I read Humane Bodies Epitomized, turn the brittle pages, learn Women’s Testicles differ much from Mens . . . he’s nervous, carefully proposing a new idea: maybe these aren’t testicles after all. Alone against the received wisdom of the followers of Hippocrates and Galen, he stands over some woman’s corpse, fresh-dug, brought to his back door in the dark. To develop the newest doctrine of the most accurate and learned Modern Anatomists, he cuts her open, lifts her ovaries out with his bare hands. He writes in Latin about female ejaculate, where it comes from, where he thinks it goes, concludes these Vesiculae are analogous to the little Eggs in the Ovarium of Fowl, since if you boil them, their liquor will have the same color, taste, and consistency of the white of Birds Eggs.

[writingaroundthesun]

Clarence Coles Phillips

[dialogues]

But you, you foolish girl, you have gone home To a leaky castle across the sea, - To lie awake in linen smelling of lavender, And hear the nightingale, and long for me.

Short Story, Edna St. Vincent Millay (via crisolyn-uendelig, dialogues) (via back2-thebeginnings) (via deeplystained) (via goslinq) (via alonesomes) (via deeplystained)

[writingaroundthesun]

MINA LOY

[writingaroundthesun]

Human Cylinders

The human cylinders Revolving in this enervating dust That wraps each closer in the mystery Of singularity Among the litter of a sunless afternoon Having eaten without tasting Talked without communion And at least two of us Loved a very little Without seeking To know if our two miseries In the lucid rush-together of automatons Could form one opulent well-being

Simplifications of men In the enervating dusk Your indistinctness Serves me the core of the kernel of you When in the frenzied reaching-out of intellect to intellect Leaning brow to brow               communicative Over the abyss of the potential Concordance of respiration Shames Absence of corresponding between the verbal sensory And reciprocity Of conception And expression Where each extrudes beyond the tangible One thin pale trail of speculation From among us we have sent out Into the enervating dusk One little whining beast Whose longing Is to slink back to antediluvian burrow And one elastic tentacle of intuition To quiver among the stars

The impartiality of the absolute Routs               the polemic Or which of us Would not Receiving the holy--ghost Catch it               and caging      Lose it Or in the problematic Destroy the Universe With a solution.

- Mina Loy

[utjhubq]

[writingaroundthesun]

Sonnet

I follow thought and what the world announces I lean to hear, and leaning too far over Fall, and babied by confusion, cover Myself in drowse, too tired by such bounces. But in sleep are dreams across zigzagging snow Descending quietly and slow, like minutes, And on this peace the soul again begins its Rhetoric of desire, older than Jericho, And rails once more, like birds of early morning Urchinous on branches and like newsboys, “Extra, this is the meaning of life, Here is the real good, beyond all turning,” Till night goes home, astonished by such cries, I wake up, and, to feel superior, I laugh.

-Delmore Schwartz, 1938

[writingaroundthesun]

[lifeinpoetry]

i did not suffer from love, i suffered with it. we wore the same uniform. we were both in the same barracks, we fought beside each other on the front line. your name was our war cry.

Salma Deera, “it was you,” Letters From Medea (via lifeinpoetry)

[artmania-feed]

universe inside by LouiJoverArt

[fleurishes]

One day my hands will settle inside themselves. I feel most free in the dark where there are dozens of bodies and no one knows me. I’m trying to text this boy but my nails are wet with paint. When scientists tell me there is the possibility of another universe I think yes and I am better in it. I want fresh flowers on every table and for tomorrow to be a gentler crime scene. My twenties are teaching me that no one is ever as busy as they say they are. Like, honestly, where you going with all that debt, honey? I don’t know how to describe my kind of loneliness. Maybe open wound, maybe stepping into a dress with a broken zipper. I wish my lips weren’t dry for attention I wish I was tough and hard like men. I know exactly what you mean when you say you can’t wait to get out of here but you're here now because money because god or fate or whatever. Sometimes I just want to say what I actually fucking mean. For someone who thinks she knows it all I say I don’t know a lot to save my own ass. Am I crying on this bus right now or is that just the sun. I go an even darker shade of brown. I go and hide the body which is really just my body. My friends say self-sabotage and I say honest. During the quietest hour, it rains. My heart is full. J pulls up in his car. I am lucky and the night is behind us, laughing.

Kristina Haynes, “Girl, Why Your Heart Leaking Like That?” (via fleurishes)

[magictransistor]

Lubomír Štěpán, Mladá fronta, Praha, 1966.

[thissometimepoet]

In Every Poem (a poem)

In Every Poem

In every poem there should be a woman walking in the rain hair and eyelashes dripping holding a letter in cool wet hands so we know there is some confusion in her heart whether to send the letter or not though since she is already outside her decision is made as she crosses the street out of sight and the rain falls all the harder for her deep absence.

[writingaroundthesun]

#Nikolai Lutohin