#richardsiken

[luckystarinsky]

The first love does not die, but true love comes to bury it alive.

Mahmoud Darwish

[thewarmestyellow]

"...it heals how it needs to no matter how patient or impatient i am." — Richard Siken

[the-girl-not-next-door]

[theflourishingpast]

there are some things written by richard siken that I really don't understand but still get that sick feeling in my stomach from how melancholic is the way he puts his words or the words he chooses are.

[whimsical-tragedy]

Richard Siken - Crush / Dan Howell - Basically I’m Gay / Hozier - Take Me To Church

[melancholic-academia]

The blue of love --------------------

Love for me has always been blue.

Maybe because i never got it back. I got the part where love brings melancholia and longing with it but never the happy part. That part was shattered everytime.

The blue seeps into my skin. I'd bleed the blue oflove ifi cut myself. Somewhere on some moonless night, i feel in love with the blue and i never wanted to get out of it. Maddening blue. Lonely blue. Everlasting blue. To drown in the longing because that was all i had of love.

I was embarrassingly, shamefully, childishly desperate for love. Like a dog huffing in front of it's owner's feet asking him to throw the bone again so that it can go and fetch it again.

A hungry person will eat anything. So i eat the blue.

Hunger has grown ugly in me. It has claws and teeth. It is ugly and ashamed to be looked at.

Just running around looking for a home in abandoned houses.

Wretched desire fogs my brain and i can't distinguish real from the imagined. I knew it wasn't right and i wanted to explain myself to myself in an understandable way but i couldn't. I look at myself in the mirror and a starving, heidious monster looks back with bloodied hands trying to rip apart it's own chest.

I stood there, helpless, ashamed, staring back at it.

The enormity of my desire disgusted me.

~@melancholicacademia on Instagram

[stumblingoverchaos]

From my Good Omens art journal. Collage, acrylic paint, gel plate printing, washi tape, stickers from @mistysblueboxstuff

"We're shooting the scene where I swallow your heart and you make me spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls right out of my mouth. You swallow my heart and flee, but I want it back now, baby, I want it back. Lying on the sofa with my eyes closed, I didn't want to see it this way, everything eating everything in the end." -Richard Siken, "Dirty Valentine"

[eyeaesteria]

And all I can do is stand on the curb and say: Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.

[sunf10ra]

my whole being is completely made up of every richard siken poem i’ve ever read

[judexarmstrong]

-richard siken

[forlornpariahs]

I just think that

"are you eating enough" - I hope you're taking care of the body you call home;

"did you sleep well": I hope your fears don't keep you up too much at night;

"how's life been treating you?"- i hope sometimes you just look around in life and sense warmth and comfort

"are you feeling okay"- you know it's a journey even if you aren't, right?

[softbukowski]

Who am I? I’m just a writer. I write things down.

I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure,

I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow

glass, but that comes later.

And the part where I push you

flush against the wall and every part of your body rubs against the bricks,

shut up

I’m getting to it.

Richard Siken -“Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out”

[yourmotherisafraidofme]

“we are words” self penned

[starfishbloom]

Wounds of class (pt. 2)

Sometimes, almost inevitably, you’ll run into someone straight out of Pulp’s “Common People”. This person will be better than you in everything: they’ll have better connections, be abreast of the best and hottest authors, art, and music. They’ll be more curious have more energy and be more confident and better educated and much much better traveled, with a broad experience in radical politics (including an illustrious pedigree in getting arrested to...make a point). Deceptively, they’ll work at some extremely menial job like hospitality or set construction or anything very obviously classified as casual labour.

You’ll wonder how they did it? How did they manage to fit so much into their lives? They’ll also have a ready sob story about difficult family life which might even be relatable, and your big soft stupid working class heart will fall head over heels for this remarkable person, this fellow searcher and traverser of worlds who’s obviously superior to you in every way.

But something won’t sit quite right. They’re not kind, and they’re unashamedly self-centred. And slowly slowly, ten drinks or so into the night, the prosaic truth emerges. Little details or language slippages begin to paint the backstory “my mother’s driver once…” “I never speak with my dad, he’s a stupid banker in NYC”. Your heart sinks, you know this feeling.

At 15 drinks, the admission finally comes. “My family is super rich but I’m working class I believe in the value of human labour…I don’t accept any money from my family (except to pay cash for this apartment”). Your heart breaks at this. You know how it’ll go, you’ll be discarded once you fail to be consistently interesting. And they have a whole coterie of interesting people they surround themselves with, not to mention a fair bit of minority tourism.

So your superpower was money all along, and you “identify as working class” and think that working class people… fetishise work?! “You and your big stupid naive credulous working class heart.” I think. You fell for it again.

We’d probably willingly sacrifice a limb, or at least a few fingers to never have to work again, to have time and space that’s ours and ours alone, to create and study for the pure the pure joy of it, and never have to fear men like your father deciding that bottom line growth demanded sacrifice.

At 20 drinks, you stumble home, not having said anything you meant to say. Unlike the rich you find no joy in cruelty (“suckers” they call you behind your back) and you simply feel the weight of centuries of inferiority. They always warned you never to get in the ring with someone outside your weight class, you silly boy.

When “common people” was written, we were laughing at them, now that they’ve successfully assimilated and infiltrated culture, and they’re laughing at us. They can imitate us better than we can live us.

“There are many names of history, and none of them are ours”

[bellamysgriffin]

If you love me, Richard Shauna, you don't love me in a way I understand.

-Wishbone, Richard Siken