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suicideblonde:  Phantom of Pulp: Exquisite Work of Vania Zouravliov

shitgaze:

Not just the cosmos you have thickly sown into the small field just east of your heart, but all that is held in disbelief, in unfaith. Not only the barbed paragraphs of scrub willows or the thoughts as thin as telephone wires, but what’s left of the salt lick of your soul, or of the woman you married. And what isn’t: that half-built house, laid bare and open, forsaken by the suicidal bricklayer, the carpenter’s deconstructing hands. The winged mail carrier, just now rounding the corner, feeling depressed again, praying for deliverance or rain. No, not just that. Not only the Dostoyevsky reeling in his walkman: but everything the brothers did, thought about doing, said … And all that is held so high. And all that is swimming, way underneath it. Not just the trajectory, not only the first stone or the second, but what’s left in your wrist, that which is ancient, the African village that dances inside you, the medicine you are feeding and the whole sky. The sky that’s no longer refusing the ground and the heretics, the martyrs; the skeptics now willing to take certain things under consideration: the god that exists, and the one that doesn’t. Not just the determination of the stars, but the stars newly determined to understanding the clear clear night. The blind appetite of the senses, so well fed, it’s dreaming of vinegar and malt. And everything else you can’t, as luck will have it, bring yourself to consider: the white-tailed deer stepping gently out of the scratchy thicket, her soft warm tongue, sweet and fresh as milk. And all those quiet hours when you thought you knew what you were talking about, but were only scrubbing your soul with salt, saying: let what is grain turn to grain, just not meaning it.

—There May Be More of This World That Can Possibly Exist

Olena Kalytiak DAVIS

(via shitgaze)

shitgaze:

Kill what you can’t save.
What you can’t eat, throw out.
What you can’t throw out, bury.
What you can’t bury, give away.
What you can’t give away you must carry with you;
It is always heavier than you thought.

“And around my feet the strawberries were surging, huge and shining. When I bent to pick, my hands came away red and wet. In the dream I said, I should have known anything planted here would come up blood.”

Dream I: The Bush Garden Margaret ATWOOD (via shitgaze)

(via shitgaze)

Your girlfriend is obnoxious.

“If I must love my fellow man, he had better hide himself, for no sooner do I see his face than there’s an end to my love for him.”

Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov (Vanya)

suicideblonde:

see it with someone you fuck*

Cortège

shitgaze:

Prologue

If the sea could dream, and if the sea were dreaming now,
the dream would be the usual one: Of the Flesh.
The letter written in the dream would go something like:
Forgive me—love, Blue.

I. The Viewing (A Chorus)

O what, then, did he look like?
He had a good body.
And how you came to know this?
His body was naked.
Say the sound of his body.
His body was quiet.
Say again— quiet?
He was sleeping.
You are sure of this? Sleeping?
Inside it, yes. Inside it.

II. Pavillion

Sometimes, a breeze: a canvas flap will rise and, inside, someone stirs— a bird? a flower? One is thinking, Should there be thirst, I have only to reach for the swollen bag of skin beside me, I have only to touch my mouth that is meant for a flower to it, and drink. One is for now certain he is one of those poems that stop only; they do not end. One says without actually saying it I am sometimes a book of such poems— I am other times a flower and lovely pressed like so among them, but always they forget me. I miss my name. They are all of them heat— weary, anxious for evening as for some beautiful to the bone messenger to come. They will open again for him. His hands are good. His message is a flower.

III. The Tasting (A Chorus)

O what, then, did he taste like?
He tasted of sorrow.
And how you came to know this?
My tongue still remembers.
Say the taste that is sorrow.
Game, fallen unfairly.
And yet, you still tasted?
Still, I tasted.
Did you say to him something?  
I could not speak, for hunger.

IV. Interior

And now, the candle blooms gorgeously away from his hand— and the light has made blameless all over the body of him (mystery, mystery), twelvefold shining, by grace of twelve mirrors the moth can’t stop attending. Singly, in no order, it flutters against, beats the glass of each one, as someone elsewhere is maybe beating upon a strange door now, somebody knocks and knocks at a new country, of which nothing is understood— no danger occurs to him, though danger could be any of the unusually wild flowers that, either side of the road, spring. When he slows, bends down and closer, to see or to take one— it is as if he knows something to tell it.

V. The Dreaming (A Chorus)

What, then, did it feel like?
I dreamed of an arrow.
And how you came to know him?
I dreamed he was wanting.
Say the dream of him wanting.
A swan, a wing folding.
Why do you weep now?
I remember.
Tell what else you remember.
The swan was mutilated.

Envoi

And I came to where was nothing but drowning and more drowning, and saw to where the sea— besides flesh— was, as well, littered with boats, how each was blue but trimmed with white, to each a name I didn’t know and then, recalling, did. And ignoring the flesh that, burning, gives more stink than heat, I dragged what boats I could to the shore and piled them severally in a tree— less space, and lit a fire that didn’t take at first— the wood was wet— and then, helped by the wind, became a blaze so high the sea itself, along with the bodies in it, seemed to burn. I watched as each boat fell to flame: Vincent and Matthew and, last, what bore your name.

—Carl Phillips