I Swallowed The Entire Ocean, Just To Make Sure That You Could Never Drown Again.

* by Alexey Dubinsky

st-roch

Musée des Beaux Arts Marseille, France 10:27 a.m / 27 ° (prolly)

Jacques-Louis David (French painter) - 1748, Paris, FR St-Roch intércedant la Vierge pour la guérison des pestifecés Saint Roch Interceding with the Virgin for the Plague-Stricken

from old english 'martyr', late latin 'martyr' & doric greek 'martyr'; a witness, a proof, bystander, behoof. take all the blame in the world & thrust it upon a humble man until the weight of grief drowns him down to a single knee. to grab another man's mysery & wear it until fingers run black & every pore in the canvas of a body is painted in cold sweat. do we fold our hands in prayer to let our right tell our left there might be some wisdom in regret?

men and deity can't waltz in the dark; as men trip in shadows & deities only sway in the light. martyr & deity cross sights that hide words; martyr says grace; deity says wait (she's so hard to please but she's a forest fire).

belief turns to faith only when your feet run past the cliff's edge. it then whispers: roch, grab your fellow man's pain and make it your own; catapult it to the skies until the beads in your rosary become buboes under your skin. roch awaits a celestial intervention on the misery of humankind & holds dear the flames of disease. preaching hope & aching. miracles à la carte don't exist, roch later realized this when deities handed him his own cure while every standing being surrounding him, crumbled. but u a saint now, roch. u iconic.

- @skinthepoet

Puerto Vallarta, MX.

What’s closer to god: thirst or confession?

Kristin Chang, from “Outcall #,” published in The Wanderer (via tristealven)

lost o’clock  by jezzini 

but isn’t time just the carbon copy of a man-made concept brewed                           when a few thousand breaths                           twist their heads in reverse?

then there’s daddy hawkin saying time is an everlasting pie                           where its ending meets our cries &                           its purpose, don’t dare to fuckin’ ask.

some nights,                     when my minutes end their shift & my sighs wander adrift, i hear the clock                     spill its sins in pointless ticks;                                 the way those seconds come                                 climbing up these bones then diving down my throat                                 in emptiness. in the grey & the low;                                                        in these words i aim to draw                                                       on the skins of poems screaming love                                                       with perfect rhythms                                                               but no blood.

I’d rather be in the mountains thinking of God than in church thinking about the mountains.

John Muir (via wordsthat-speak)

Dear Dr. Frankenstein

I, too, know the sciences of building men Out of fragments in little light Where I’ll be damned if lightning don’t 

Strike as I forget one  May have a thief’s thumb, 

Another, a murderer’s arm,  And watch the men I’ve made leave Like an idea I meant to write down, 

Like a vehicle stuck  In reverse, like the monster

God came to know the moment  Adam named animals and claimed  Eve, turning from heaven to her

As if she was his To run. No word he said could be tamed. 

No science. No design. Nothing taken Gently into his hand or your hand or mine,  Nothing we erect is our own. 

- Jericho Brown (The New Testament)