More Sunrises And Less Screen Time.

the things we learn on our mothers’ laps

see that lady standing there between the window & the fire extinguisher? she’s just lost her father & i think her boyfriend just left her.

why the fuck would you say that?

i’m telling you, i’ve got this superpower. i just know.

how’s that? a superpower?

not a marvel studios superpower, u silly. more like this supreme capacity. i’ve always had it.

when my dad abandoned my mom, she lost herself in the world’s most dangerous drug: poetry.

she used to hold me on her lap while reciting emily brunte & sylvia plath.

i think that’s why i can read into people’s sadness.

when i come across sadness on the street, authentic sadness, the blues crawl out their host & come talk to me. i’m thinking of starting a mémoire or a blog on it. like that humans of new york, u know?

talk about those things we learn on our mothers’ laps…

i reckon everyone who’s lucky enough to have a mum will undoubtedly learn something whilst resting on her lap. my mom used to sit me on her lap while she revised old latin scriptures & tried herself at egyptian hieroglyphics.

that’s why sometimes tombs & churches murmur their secrets to me. they tell me stories about the afterlife & how, if demanded gently, fire can caress the soul the way water strokes the curves of an overflowing vase.

they find it hilarious that we make a big deal out of our own end.

when all there really is, is an everlasting void.

- @skinthepoet

there are some stains only a dark rain can make.

Stacey Waite, from “when someone asks if you believe what you just said,” the lake has no saint (Tupelo Press, 2010)

talk to a real person by Stephen Shore

by Herr Bohn

In urgent need to follow young poets!!!

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in a poetic effort to become, i named every contact on my phone after a feeling.

juliette was adventurousness, or that rushy vertigo hiding at the bottom of a whiskey sour.

mom was comfort, or that first breath running through your lungs shortly after skylines have tried to suffocate your throat.

daf was desire, or spattered instincts behind blue doors & scratched backs on wooden floors.

matt was liberation, or flooding open in thoughts, running through cornfields & chasing dreams in heavy storms.

my father was fear, or still shadows in dark alleys; static threats: apparently harmless & silent, but waiting patiently for their queue.

& then there's you, the feeling i've been trying to stick a definition to. a devised attraction, an affection that stirred out of control. my own frankenstein stumbling along the back streets in my head... hunting for an origin; mumbling the name of his maker.

lost in an endless glossary of blurry feelings, i wonder: what's the word for italian euphonies hymned to my ear?

what's the word for stolen kisses & three-days beards?

what's the word for that love we so eagerly hid & then forgot where we put it?

- @skinthepoet

I’m currently rereading Life On Mars by T.K Smith & I swear my feet might be grounded in this old city but my head is somewhere in between a burning star & the edge of a distant galaxy. 

Downtown

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We've been having so much fun in Italy; a lot of strolling, talking, swimming and diving into the Mediterranean. I've been writing a lot too; this country, a fistful of love.