etre moins volatile

mostly there, generally elsewhere.

I have a dream where you’re laid out outside
of a gas station, the asphalt is so cold, so rough
on your silky spine.

There is a hole in your chest and I am trying to fill it
with my hands, but they are so small.
You always loved them for that, but now
here you are, dying, and my hands are too small
to fix the broken dam.

My hands are growing soggy from being drenched
in blood, my fingers are slowly breaking off
and there isn’t anything else I can do.

I have a dream where you’re dying and I wake up
and you’re still dead.
You are a belly ache trying to rip my insides out
of me, a fever swallowing me whole,
the empty space in the back of my mouth
where the tooth is never going to grow back.

Keep telling me that you weren’t afraid.
Keep telling me that you’re okay wherever you are,
that when it rains it’s not because you are still
bleeding somewhere.

Your heart stops and trees are falling around us,
the world is bursting in flames,
your mother is screaming like lightning bolts
striking and I
have never heard a heavier silence
than this moment.


—Look What You've Done


You love me, and I love you, and your heart hurts, mine does too
And it’s just words and they cut deep but it’s our world, it’s just us two

(Source: motownsown, via lotsalipstick)

Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor,
for the eternal idleness of the imagined return,
for rare flutes and bare feet, and the August bedroom
of tangled sheets and the Sunday salt, ah violin!

When I press summer dusks together, it is
a month of street accordions and sprinklers
laying the dust, small shadows running from me.

It is music opening and closing, Italia mia, on Bleecker,
ciao, Antonio, and the water-cries of children
tearing the rose-coloured sky in streams of paper;
it is dusk in the nostrils and the smell of water
down littered streets that lead you to no water,
and gathering islands and lemons in the mind.

There is the Hudson, like the sea aflame.
I would undress you in the summer heat,
and laugh and dry your damp flesh if you came.

Derek Walcott, "Bleecker Street, Summer" (via commovente)

(via lifeinpoetry)


A qui me louer? Quelle bête faut-il adorer? Quelle sainte image attaque-t-on? Quels cœurs briserai-je? Quel mensonge dois-je tenir? — Dans quel sang marcher?


To whom shall I hire myself out? What beast should I adore? What holy image is attacked? What hearts shall I break? What lies should I uphold? In what blood tread?

— Arthur Rimbaud, Mauvais sang / Bad Blood (trans. L Varèse)

(via lifeinpoetry)

boyfriend has the best video games.

boyfriend has the best video games.


i have the body of a siren and the sea is so loathe to be parted from me that it left imprints of its waves on my thighs

(via norma--bates)

that corpse you planted last year in your garden,
has it begun to sprout? will it bloom this year?
or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?

T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land (via xiolet)

(Source: beryl-azure, via elucipher)

And thus,
I stood hunched by the window,
and my brow melted the glass.
What will it be: love or no love?
And what kind of love:
big or minute?
How could a body like this have a big love?
It should be a teeny-weeny,
humble, little love;
a love that shies at the hooting of cars,
that adores the bells of horse-trams.

—Vladimir Mayakovsky, A Cloud in Trousers (excerpt), trans. George Reavey (via mayakovsky)