All of My Prosaic Waiting / Ask / Archive / Me / Art,etc / About / Writing
othernotebooksareavailable:

weirdvintage:

Dobbins Soap trade card advertisement, c 1880s (via)

I don’t really know what is happening but God, it seems bleak

Night and I
pour regret
carefully down
my throat

A Winter crystallized,
stitched up inside my spine
as I sleep, something so cold
burrows deep inside, wrapped
around each bone

Huddled up with sunrise next to
a small squatted heat, cotton-eyed,
I worry about what it could mean
If anyone else feels this frozen
by dawn, by the

wild trains bluely passing
through Summer. I can hear them
already humming their way back
In the toasted Autumn night

in my dreams I hear ghosts in a wheel
Mornings spent like a trembling
fish on a tether gasping a thaw

My warmth is Made in China


Silver Bitten Glass

Windowless wounds push
Blood into our mouths

Somewhere baboons
Admire a poisonous snake
For the cost

Places where words are sold
To the highest bidder

Where the darkened bone
Grows poisoned Maleae
In a sallow squeezing eye


Items III

A bird sleeps with
Your heart inside
A drugstore labyrinth

Sulfur and famine garner
Wishes on your
Mind, a landscaped
Winter garden you
Tread upon

Shattering the frozen flora
A pocket of time, unforseen

A massacre of color follows

Your chapped and burning heel



Stoke Trail Scent

Winter Sky,
An influx of memories.
I light a cigarette and move closer to the window.
I like it because snowflakes don’t fall from the sky,
The thousands of letters that I never received do.

Distant letters,
Written by distant hands,
Further away than the furthest clouds.



"Winter Sky"- Ismail Kadare (via
tennessee-williams)
animalab:

Linda  in LE VISIONNAIRE, 1998, photo Marcus Tomlinson

One mouth, a lone
Little fish
Swimming
In shallow waters, floundering
For breath
Holding in
Each sacred gasp

I unscrew my ears.

I give them
to a deaf man with
wooly fragile hands
who wears
them as a necklace

I unscrew my eyes.

I give them to a blind woman,
Her small hands mold them on
White-bone cane, crooked
Smiling sugar, tells me she sees
Better without them
Her eyelids unfold like wings


I unscrew my mouth.

I slip it under
Your dreaming pillow, later on
I thieve it back and dig deep,
Bury it inside the sticky
Auburn soil out back, I etch
One word in the bark, the rest
Stay graved underneath
An Autumn Olive tree

You don’t listen to my whispers,
Why would you hear my cries?
I sit outside

as the sky breathes colder,
feeling the earth for snow.


Spaltan Catheter

maisonmartinmargielous:

“Malice in Wonderland” Christina Ricci shot by Mario Sorrenti for The Face February 1998
theme