The literary love of my life:
Oscar Wilde’s tombstone in Père Lachaise Cemetery.
Happy belated Birthday, Mr. Wilde.
— William Campbell Gault
Essentially stream-of-consciousness writing. Even if I only have to fight the impulse for ten minutes, it’s still like an all-out war in my head; I’m exhausted afterward.
And it’s been three and a half years even, since the last time. Sometimes I wonder if it will ever go away completely.
— Charles Bukowski
— Sugar for The Rumpus, Dear Sugar: Write Like a Motherfucker (via fleurishes)
— The Tiny Book of Tiny Stories
Our kiss is a secret handshake, a password.
We love like spies, like bruised prize fighters,
Like children building tree houses.
Our love is serious business.
One look from you and my spine reincarnates as kite string.
When I hesitate to hold your hand,
it is because to know is to be responsible for knowing.
There is no clean way to enter
the heavy machinery of the heart.
Just jagged cutthroat questions.
Just the glitter and blood production.
The truth is this:
My love for you is the only empire
I will ever build.
When it falls,
as all empires do,
my career in empire building will be over.
I will retreat to an island.
I will dabble in the vacation-hut industry.
I will skulk about the private libraries and public parks.
I will fold the clean clothes.
I will wash the dishes.
I will never again dream of having the whole world.
—Mindy Nettifee, “This is the Nonsense of Love”
I love certain words, and how when they’re strung together exactly right, they can worm their way inside of you, and pull at certain parts of you. Make you ache. Make you cry. Make you love. Make you rage. Sometimes for reasons that you can’t even find; I love the way that certain words can elicit certain reactions, and sometimes you don’t even know why.
You don’t return my calls. In a month of missing days
Everything thwarts me, even the curls of my hair freeze;
My skin sheds, leaving flakes on my wool sweater. We are
Both, changing with the weather, but you think of it
As an astronomical progression. Last year you called me
Your little sunflower. Eleven blizzards later I think of how
To get you: calculating mercury, sighting along
Rehearsing the lines of a paid assassin— not know me, my Lord?
You cannot choose! I bide time,
Hoarse-tongued & blue as poison, the double
Line of my eye gone to slits. I hate like a tooth hurts
At the root. I will startle the bones
From their sockets, they will crack like glass
& catch in your throat. I will dazzle
Your heart from its cage. The lungs will knock & clap
Together in the empty place. The applause will make you rattle.