If You Write, Reblog And Put What Fonts You Use In The Tags

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 

– Anne Carson, “Short Talk on Van Gogh”

Do you ever realize how badly you’re going to miss a moment while you’re living it? Like wow, these are the good days. I am here and I am happy and I feel alive.

Unknown (via sunsetquotes)

I do not want to name it, / I want to watch it faint / heart-beat, pulse-beat / as it quivers, I do not want / to talk about it, / I want to minimize thought / concentrate on it / till I shrink, / dematerialize / and am drawn into it.

H.D., from Selected Poems; “Tribute to the Angel,” (via xshayarsha)

Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered faithfully not knowing how much I loved them. I am so lonely in my glory.

Allen Ginsberg, “Transcription of Organ Music,” Howl (via millionen)

The Darkest Truth About Love from Hannah Jacobs

@2wentysixletters come to Paris too!

friends— 

i am heading to greece/greek islands, croatia, slovenia, hungary, austria, czech republic and hopefully germany & the netherlands soon, if you have any recommendations on cool places (ie. museums, cafes, bookstores, etc) to visit, i wanna know! please send them through. 

love and light. 

the dirty & the imbecile

my heart, falling victim to a kidnap my own head had devised,

cries a thousand fears under a flickering lamp.

my heart, freed from a crime my own head once orchestrated,

sings hallelujah in the rain.  

- @skinthepoet

It is cold in this thing we call a body. / Who will tend to the fire with so few hands to go around?

Alison C. Rollins, from “Skinning Ghosts Alive,” published in Tupelo Quarterly (via lifeinpoetry)