Scientists Fear

We want so much, when perhaps we live best in the spaces between loves. That unconscious roving, the heart its own animal.

Tracy K. Smith, A Hunger So Honed (via: skinthepoet)

I know I used to live without you but that was before I knew the brown speckles of your eyes or the softness of your lips. Before your laughter became my favourite sound and your smile the brightest part of my day. That was before I fell in love with you. Now you’re a part of me like the blood in my veins or the air in my lungs and I need you just as bad. I can’t imagine a day without you and I hope I’ll never have to again.

(via ifthenightcouldtalk)

skin the poet

skin open the poet to find out how books have been deceiving you: not all hearts pump blood; some, expand in rhymes & contract in line breaks.

skin open the poet to confirm the rumor that between the liver & the spleen lives a tiny being; an imp, absent in daydreams -a social drinker- & a lover of the sax.

1.- take the poet's arm, & rip off a tear of skin. behold a waterfall of metaphors soak your shoes in summer's breeze.

2.- on a surgical table, lay your poet down in such way that his pointy nose threats to drill into the ground.   & with the help of a sharp knife, split the meadow on his back into two nations that might have lost it all in war. proceed then to spread open these lands, & discover that a poet's spine abides as marble columns once did in falling rome: oh the burn or the glory? 3.- light a match & heat the poet's earlobes to 95 °. careful, the smoky smell of blue winter shades might stupefy your brains   whilst the poet's head gets caught in flames. if so: no stress, your poet's mouth muscles might stretch into a smile, but do keep in mind it's just an involuntary contraction. or not.

4.- once the fire's out & the buzzcut's ready, grab your baseball bat & crack the poet's tibia by the half. hollow bones & secret chambers. see that rolled up paper hidden in there? take it out & read it to the skies; correct, it is nothing but the transcripts of the poet's conversations with the moon. tally marks for bleeding hearts.  

5.- as a final act of this medical extravaganza, severe the poet's head & hold it between your hands. do you feel it slowly floating, as if being drawn toward the clouds?   stitch the head back in place using a silver needle & a thread of slurred speech. remember poets heal on empty illusions & broken things.

that is all for poetic anatomy 101...   ...now wake up the poet.

- @skinthepoet 

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)

changing of the seasons - two door cinema club

thoughts on youth & this dusty skin. fear of years. a mirror maze. how great to drift in a city with no name. alone. 

please could you be tender and I will sit close to you let’s give it a minute before we admit that we’re through

hard feelings/ loveless, lorde

just booked flights & tix to Lorde’s concert in Germany with my best friend slash neighbor. it all feels idyllic.