Part Of Scientists Fear is Inspired On A Story My Neighbor Told Me About This Boy She Used To Date.

Way.

Ph:DanSpb

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 

but how Great would it feel to be someone’s first choice

exposed, tortured, ecstatic—

Denise Levertov, from Sands of the Well: Poems; “Unaccompanied,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

So I entered. So I lost.       I lost it all with my eyes   wide open.

Ocean Vuong, Threshold (via: skinthepoet)

Both colour and language have their mundane, pragmatic, adaptive functions; we use colour to recognise objects in our environment, and we use language for everyday communication. But in painting and poetry, colour and language become as it were aware of themselves; it is indeed as though they know themselves better than any human being possibly could.

Elena Maslova-Levin, ‘Rainer Maria Rilke on Colour and Self-Awareness’  (via thebluesthour)

My heart, calling from a phone booth / in the rain.

Sarah Morgan, from “Train,” Animal Ballistics (via tristealven)

I swallowed the entire ocean, just to make sure that you could never drown again.

dontforgetcoffee  (via wnq-writers)