#poetry. i guess

[keysimash]

[llovely]

here's a fake interview about my me & my girlfriend that i transcribed from my head. enjoy!

[pigswithwings]

MYHOUSE.WAD - On Grief (1/2)

Sources: Jandy Nelson, "The Sky Is Everywhere" 🏠 Valeria Luiselli, "Faces in the Crowd" (translation by Christina MacSweeney) 🏠 @/greenmountainwitch 🏠 Rebecca Solnit, "A Field Guide to Getting Lost" 🏠 Elias Tigiser 🏠 Steve Nelson, myhouse.WAD Map 🏠 Amy Meissner, "Spontaneous Combustion" 🏠 Wikipedia - Grief

[crushing-on-nico-di-angelo]

and I'm sorry I left, but it was for the best my little dove...

absolute solitude: selected poems, dulce maria loynaz (tr. james o'connor) // the glass essay, anne carson // boyish, japanese breakfast // @uglyfruit // yves olade // hunger, harry styles // a not admitting of the wound, emily dickinson // no surprises, radiohead // fourth of july, sufjan stevens

[panthermouthh]

And I said, “Hello, Satan

I believe it’s time to go.”

[fixing-bad-posts]

[Image description: A vocabularyclept poem. Every time the words "good art" appear, they are highlighted in green. Transcription is below.]

---

good art sets off downward unstructured and obsessive wishes to destroy empower celebrate ugliness

good art hints at obfuscation, lies, resentment makes you feel weird clarifies the divine right to whining, coping, seething

good art confuses the mind spiral spiral spiral spiral faster

good art is a scam a drug metaphor essential momentum

good art a terrible duty join or burn

---

A vocabularyclept poem is a poem which is formed by taking the words of an existing poem and rearranging them into a new work of literature. | original post

[psicheanima]

Damn you……

[grendel-menz]

when I was a kid I scrounged up a little device and hid it inside of a book for years, and looking through it now is so strange - a time capsule of what I found important when I was nine

[troyandabedsnewapartment]

THE PLACE YOU MISS DOESN’T EXIST ANYMORE, HOME IS THE FIRST GRAVE.

1. Mateo Manaure, Suelos de mi tierra (1967) | 2. tumblr user @ryebreadgf | 3. Manuel Cabré - Sol en los cerros (1919) | 4. Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch | 5. José Antonio Quintero, Vista del Ávila desde la avenida Sucre hacia la Cota Mil (1977) | 6. Anna Kamienska, A Nest of Quiet: A Notebook | 7. Pedro León Castro, Armonía (1947) | 8. Vardges Petrosyan, “A Shirt Made of Fire” (trans. @metamorphesque) | 9. Próspero Martínez, Paisaje del Ávila —vista desde El Calvario— (c. 1920) | 10. James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room | 11. Jesús María de las Casas, El incendio del Ávila en 1883 —reverso— (c. 1915) | 12. Miriam Adeney | 13. Gabriel Bracho, (detail of) Cota 905 (1956)

[sosnastudios]

I Sing the Salmon Home: Poems from Washington State is an anthology of poems collected by Rena Priest inspired by the cycles, spirit, and wisdom of salmon. The book is bound bradel-style in salmon parchment drummed over mirrored boards, depicting salmon as they transform on their journey from saltwater sea to freshwater waterfall. The edges are graphite, with the top edge gauffered in the style of salmon scales.

Salmon parchment made and naturally dyed by the binder. Board. Original text block. Hook Pottery endsheets. Reflective mylar film. Graphite edges. Embroidery thread.

Part of the Guild of Bookworkers Traveling Exhibition: Night Circus, opening in Boston, MA in October, 2024.

[aboutmercy]

driveway by richard siken.

[keysimash]

Gather round everyone its edgy poetry time again

Everybody, I've got an interesting question for today's consideration:

how can I stop haunting myself?

I've lived in this state for as long as I've lived

I wish I could peel my past off of myself

I live fourty minutes from my hometown.

I used to live

here

Right turn there

I'm in the passenger seat and my best friend is driving me where my mom drove me a decade and a half ago.

When i was little mom said if ghosts were real they were probably just recordings in places where time is thin

here

So clearly I can see my younger self here -- i ate at that restraunt dozens of times, here is where i tried to run away before I knew what running away was, when my get-away bag had stuffed animals instead of hundreds of dollars. God how many times have i passed that stoplight. That clocktower is a Pokéstop in Pokémon Go but stopped working long before the game was even conceived. Mom how many miles did you drive me?

enough to get recorded?

i used to live

out by a strip mall

by a big chain grocery store

i hated that store. i hated those apartments. i didn't know it then but I do now

Different friends have driven me there for different reasons. For new reasons the mind walks old paths. They live near where i used to live. I walked the snack and clothing aisles in that store like the hallways in my second house, which has been repainted now.

I've been to funerals and birthday parties in the same church that I've only ever attended as a guest.

This is just nostalgia, this is just getting old, but

If I can see my younger self, maybe if I look correctly I can see my older self too and ask them do you hate me as much as I hate i, who came before me? do your plans for meeting your past self still include gratuitous use of the nearest blunt object?

I flinch and I hate myself for it.

We turn a corner to go to the specialty Asian grocery store in the bad part of town and I think, in my best friend's car, this is where my sperm donor got struck by a vehicle while in the bicycle lane and god didn't even have the courtesy to splatter his brains across the pavement.

The city I live in is filled with ghosts that are much more violent.

There is the college where more of my friends go where they found a dead body just outside campus when semester started, right across the street from where I walked across broken shop-window glass and thought "thank god it wasn't my family's store." not twenty minutes from there is the creek behind my third or was it fourth house where I bled on the concrete and grass. There's the bridge the very tall very dark bridge on the way home from work. I had a birthday party so long ago I don't remember how old I turned at the same mall my friends and I went to over the summer. There's people I can never talk to again that work in this city every day just like I do and there's people I can never talk to again thousands of miles away

I wish I could peel my past off myself but I tried that and it just makes it more visible.

The house where i lived last is already up on Zillow, repainted. The kitchen cabinets weren't even blue for a year. I wonder what the realtors

thought

of all the holes in the hallway and the kitchen and all the mold in the bathrooms.

I wonder if they walked into a room and god I wonder if they got chills like I did. Emotions leave a presence. Did they stand at the back porch staring out at the backyard unable to move not knowing why. Or did they continue, unfazed, not even feeling a ghost's breath on their shoulders.

They've probably seen it all. Seen worse

Did someone else suffer in the home I live in now?

I am haunted by myself, the fact that i was here but I wasn't.

I've lived in this state for as long as I've lived

I walk the same pathways in the same familiar roads

Neurons going the same way they used to in recognition.

Already the way home is more mine than anything, even though it's only a few streets from where I used to live.

If I turn the wrong corner I'm back where i used to be.

though I'm too young to know much about how old recordings work

If I walk these paths enough times, with my friends, by myself

Maybe the ghosts will get taped over?

[play-now-my-lord]

finally ready after six months fermenting in the dark "CASTRATION IS FOR EVERYBODY" new poetry chapbook and #1 psychotic fugue of the summer, by the writer that brought you nightbitch and that one poem about horses and ponies social media likes already being described as "Foul" and "Like being chased down a highway on foot by the Oscar Meyer wienermobile" and "Ough" pay four dollars for it. pay forty dollars for it. pay zero dollars for it. send it to your friends and claim you wrote it. pretend to be me until you forget who you started out as. if god was going to stop you, wouldn't he have done something by now? pick it up or die wondering

[etchedstars]

violence as a form of love

the goldfinch, donna tartt / twin size mattress, the front bottoms / genius annotator thejluz / paper girls episode 5 / crush, ethel cain

[narcissistcookbook]

bone white stone towers

like the arms of a dead god

holding up the sky

no, more like fingers

worn to the marrow, scraping

at the coffin lid

no, not fingers, ribs

pried apart and licked pristine

by snotworms and birds

like arms like fingers

like ribs, bone white stone towers

divine, like whale fall

the leviathan

larger than the world entire

is devoured by it

[fixing-bad-posts]

on: making feminist art from tradwife facebook memes