(via empty-the-moon)
I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.
Every day he poured his question into her, as you pour water from one vessel into another, and it poured back. Don’t tell me he was painting his mother, lust, et cetera. There is a moment when the water is not in one vessel nor in the other - what a thirst it was, and he supposed that when the canvas became completely empty he would stop. But women are strong. She knew vessels, she knew water, she knew mortal thirst.
(Source: muscovite)
There’s some tunnel I just exited from, some deep dark corridor or underwater lake I just surfaced from, I guess like SM says, surfacing, surfacing. The albino fish with no eyes and the horse paintings and the bones of the ancient cave bears crushed under our feet. I’m out and I can breathe again, the vice is gone from my chest, from my rib case, there’s some easing and slowing and calming. I can sit in the mornings by my new but old triple window where I see the elm, the maple, the birch, and the tall black bamboo, like I live in a treehouse. And his deer skull is there, the antlers still attached, the long graceful pheasant feather. And my plants, the philodendron, the monstera deliciouso, the ficus belize. The portulacaria africans, the jade, the begonia kautskyana. I say the names and they calm me down.
She said “Where ya been?” I said “No place special”
She said “You look different” I said “Well I guess”
She said “You been gone” I said “That’s only natural”
She said “You gonna stay?” I said “If you want me to, yes.”
—Bob Dylan, Isis
Dali.
(Source: 70galeri, via empty-the-moon)
dream of all dreams. greenhouses.
(Source: queen-ofthe-highway, via empty-the-moon)
its gonna be a wild ride
(Source: empty-the-moon)
(via empty-the-moon)
Siken <333
(Source: yourslaughterhouse, via empty-the-moon)
I want to be at least as alive as the vulgar. And if some aficionado of my mess says
"That's not like Frank!," all to the good! I don't wear brown and grey suits all the
time, do I? No. I wear workshirts to the opera,
often. I want my feet to be bare,
I want my face to be shaven, and my heart--you can't plan on the heart, but
the better part of it, my poetry, is open.
— Frank O'Hara
