T. S. Eliot’s manuscript of The Waste Land.
(via anticipatedstranger)
(Source: cerements, via redheadmermaid)
it was night & we were always drunk
or it was day (gray day) & I’d buy
boxes of clementines on my way
from school & keep them outside
my window on the sill so they’d stay
cool—O Edinburgh, where we’d
mash ourselves together on that shelf
of bed after you lined up shoes
to toss, one by one, at the heater
on the wall—open coils that glowed
orange for 15-minute increments
like a toaster, & when you’d hit
the button your shoes would thud
like large fish tails slapping the sides
of a boat & we rose with the wind’s
current, its november brogue, &
O Edinburgh, it spoke in tongues,
flapped doors open & shut, howled
until I couldn’t remember exactly
what happened in the dark except
that we curled ourselves up into
the smallest specks until I wept
over a horoscope & someone else’s
tattoo & I never loved you because
I was a wall of a city I had never been to
Erika Meitner
(Source: cavalierliterarycouture.com)
Let us know each other by this
dance, barefoot, over bits of glass.
Let our arms
discover what’s in the air
around us, how much resistance,
what passages, our fingertips alive
to high frequencies, doubts, jazz.
Let’s move
to the jugular pulse of our lives,
shake our asses
to the sound of petty crime,
a cash register opening,
a libido humming
in a nearby room.
And when we return to our chairs,
the dance floor
arid with our absence,
let’s invent the brawl
that starts at the bar—two men, say,
who need the exercise,
let’s conjure the bloodbeat,
the contagion of violence,
and slip out into the street
with such things behind us,
having done and survived them.
Let’s then (for a moment,
in our minds) take the Thruway upstate
and arrive at a place
where good days slide so easily
into the bad they deprive us
of grand gestures.
Let there be trees. Vacancies
for belief. The sky, perhaps,
as it once was.
Stephen Dunn, from A Circus of Needs
(Source: wwnorton)
What do I do? What do I do? This library book…
(via luckyeahshelsilverstein)
