Pessoa, on nothingness.

In these random impressions, and with no desire to be other than random, I indifferently narrate my factless autobigraphy, my lifeless history. These are my confessions, and if in them I say nothing, it's because I have nothing to say.

your love

is like the grip
of a hawk's claw
into the flesh of some small furry creature.

"Ces personnes, du livre, je les connais, je ne connais pas leur histoire, comme je ne connais pas mon histoire. Je n'ai pas d'histoire. De la même façon que je n'ai pas de vie. Mon histoire, elle est pulvérisée chaque jour, à chaque seconde de chaque jour, par le présent de la vie, et je n'ai aucune possibilité d'apercevoir clairement ce qu'on appelle ainsi : sa vie. Je me demande sur quoi se basent les gens pour raconter leur vie. C'est vrai qu'il y a tellement de modèles de récits qui sont faits à partir de celui de la chronologie, des faits extérieurs. On prend ce modèle-là en général. On part du commencement de sa vie et sur les rails des événements, les guerres, les changements d'adresse, les mariages, on descend vers le présent." (M. Duras, « Le livre », La Vie matérielle, rééd. « Folio », 1987, p.99)

Jennifer Castle.

There's a very poor man who loves me
And just to know him keeps me drinking
And the drinking keeps me thinking.

begushkin.

mark a scratch when a bitch-wolf howls
on its back, its barmy jowls
breathing bite,
and I rub your belly too

and when nightly things arise
and flinting are your painted eyes,
I'll make a mess when I'm inside of you.

just trying to find the right mixture of light fixtures and exra-large windows of opportunity.

"I've always longed for a knife, a blade to lay bare my entrails, set my brain and heart free. A sharp blade that would scrape away all uncleanliness. Then, the so-called spirit would rise up from this meaningless carcass." -- The Magician.

distance.

There are women on the street.
They shine before me like teeth in a mine.

But the conversation is like the beating
taken in a dream,
where no real blows are landed.
The only harm is in memory.

All these moments have passed through me,
I have turned them all to waste.

haters be hatin.

it makes me wanna throw up
when whack rappers show up
it makes me wonder if and when they're ever gonna grow up.

I'd rather go to the ballet,
give the keys to the vallet
and rendez-vous for the weekend at the challet.

Litany.

We are two abysses -- a well staring at the sky. (Pessoa, Book of the Disquiet.)

some things last a long time.

Your picture is still on my wall.
The colors are bright
as ever.

my love is the like the XX album: "slow, brooding, extremely sensual"
and always in the background.

like a blade.

to wreath the moon in a head dress of neon flames
must take concentration from that heavy old bird.

Sent to a man who seemed to change his mind.

Since my heart placed me
on board your drifting ship,
not one day has passed
that I haven't been drenched in cold waves.

Alberta, I

have learned to love you,
like one learns to love
being a widow.
I have been thrown into you and abandoned
like a pair of African twins in the bush.
Your starkly composed yet beautiful complexion,
a path for me to trace;
your moods as unpredictable
as a mental patient.
So few loves are this difficult.