Binding Eos

2012-05-07

(by ¥¥¥¥¥P∆†¥¥¥¥¥)

The sky explodes above her with a flash of red light, the suddenness of it all wrenching her from the silent darkness behind her eyes. The world is alive, and she watches its heart beat from red, to blue, and back to red with fading eyes. The pavement beneath her is warm and wet against her back, her hair splayed across her forehead and her neck like tentacles. Her arm is twisted at an angle she doesn’t understand, her fingers propped upward by the thick metal of the northbound railroad track. She thinks she sees a splattering of something dark on the pavement, thinks she can sense the hot, sticky puddle spreading beneath her right leg.

She watches three men and a woman move swiftly through the darkness, between the twisted bodies on the pavement. She can see at least two of them – two bodies – but she knows there must be more somewhere else, still in the car, maybe, or behind her, hidden in one shadow or another. The bodies are so close, she thinks she can hear their hearts beating between the roll of the sirens. One of them is looking at her… she can’t tell if he is alive or not. She watches him, unable to tear her gaze away from his, until she cant see anything but the knees of the paramedics, and the soft, yellow foam of the brace they wrapped around her neck.

2012-05-02

I myself…. did not become alive until I discovered my invisibility

— Ralph Ellison, The Invisible Man

2012-05-01

(via issabellaeternity)

Source: frosey

2012-04-30

You must be ready to burn yourself in your own flame;
How could you become new if you haven’t first become ashes?

— Friedrich Nietzsche (via rabbitinthemoon)

Source: rabbitinthemoon

→

I realized these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder, thinking their parents had lived smooth, well-ordered lives and got up in the morning to walk proudly on the sidewalks of life, never dreaming the raggedy madness and riot of our actual lives, our actual night, the hell of it, the senseless emptiness.

— Jack Kerouac (via misswallflower)

Source: misswallflower

→

An Idea

Years from now, when your dining room table is cluttered with meaningless papers and the carpet is bubbling beneath the sinking armchairs, the old man with the beard will come out of his hiding place in the walls.

You won’t see him, at first. He’s quiet that way - treading across the floors in a sort of sacred silence. You won’t see him for a long time. You’ll let him, inadvertently, pick his way through photo albums, climb across countertops, sift through your dirty laundry. You’ll allow him to open the cardboard box of your mother’s belongings…. you’ll tell him, accidentally and without really telling him, to claim them as his own. You’ll pass right behind him as he smudges the dust off your old dress shoes.

He moves carefully, methodically, to every crack and corner in your newly remodeled home. He slips his hands beneath the carpets, he overturns rugs. He runs his fingers along the bottom edges of your endtables.

And still, you won’t see the old man with the beard.

But someday, after the old man has had his fun with your notebooks, after he has rifled through your receipt drawer and picked apart the most desolate corner of your closet… you’ll begin to see the old man with the beard.

just glimpses, only sometimes, and

the veins of his hands become less foreign to you

and his sunken face slips into your dreams.

But, by the time you’ve fully seen the old man with the beard,

You realize that everything in that house, everything you once claimed yours and yours alone,

is his, too.

Because he’s been everywhere.

And nothing in that house is yours.

→

A Sorry Attempt to Describe

You wanna talk about poetry?

Sit down, we can talk about poetry.

right here, in the hard wooden chair across from me

directly across from me.

I know your palms are sweating

and, to be honest, I find it kind of pretty

in a really fucked up sort of way.

Here, where I can swear to you

the buzzing of this everlasting

underlying

silence

is so much louder in your ears than it is in mine.

Here where the space we have to write

to talk

to listen

has no boundaries

and our pens never run out of ink.

Sit down, let’s talk about poetry.

Because every line, every word, every letter

of every poem

carries more than we can understand.

Lay your palms here, in front of me,

face up on the table,

and we can light candles and chant things

and attempt to seance these words into existence

but hell if you can get them to come to you.

Try to get them to land between you and I

try to catch them before they disintegrate

because they do, with time.

And someday

you’ll have to wipe the sweat off your palms

and let the poetry sit there, for awhile,

until you know it

as well as it knows you.

2012-04-28

This is it.

2012-04-19

“Prose is closest I’ve ever been to feeling like I’ve found it,

I’m not a writer, I just drink a lot about it” - Dessa

Explosions in the Sky

An Idea

A Sorry Attempt to Describe