victims of a delusion

November 28, 2016

shoes-and-rails

I’ve often thought that there isn’t any “I” at all; that we are simply the means of expression of something else; that when we think we are ourselves, we are simply the victims of a delusion.

Aleister Crowley
Diary of a Drug Fiend

The Face Of The Body

November 28, 2016

david-dawson-lucian-freud-in-his-studio-painting-his-daughter-bella

The artist’s model sees everything but she never speaks.
The actor calls the chest and belly the face of their body.
She puts on her clothes to be unrecognisable. None of
them remember her face. The actor opens the face of his
/her body and engages with the audience. Maybe winks.
She must learn to not be naked. And to speak. Speak.

Jennifer Compton

I want you to see

November 28, 2016

torso

I want you to see the hole in my shirt where your
heart went through like a Colt 45, and opened
a dream at the back of the neck. Here, let me unbutton it for you.
Notice the ribs, those sweet things you loved, notice the insides,
the parchment lampshades, the books, the furniture. Notice yourself
sitting, holding my hand on a winter night, notice the look in
my eyes, now close it all up and walk away.

Stumble, pretend you’re dead. Just for me, pretend you can be
hurt by something so simple as a failed emotion. Pretend you have seen
loss. For god’s sake what was I holding when you said good morning.

Pier Giorgio di Cicco

Where Time Never Was

November 28, 2016

trees

The tree trunk leaned into the setting sun
like a hunchback, struggling
with the weight of clouds
upon his peeling bark;
where its essence rests
within my watching eyes.
Where flowers blossom
and the tree dreams
of winds dressing its fallen leaves;
and a man sleeps, and there
where time never was
a god resides
(and only there)
in a beating heart.

Ehud Sela

make your soul impervious

November 28, 2016

tide

Always learn poems by heart. They have to become the marrow in your bones. Like fluoride in the water, they’ll make your soul impervious to the world’s soft decay.

Janet Fitch
White Oleander

woman-in-forest

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?

Emily Dickinson
Selected Letters