Les Rêves de Mon Coeur
Oh, you're in my blood
you're like holy wine
you taste so bitter and so sweet
Les Rêves de Mon Coeur
the cinnamon peeler's wife: new york craigslist > personals > missed connections >by Megan Falley...
"…We want to live like trees,
sycamores blazing through the sulfuric air,
dappled with scars, still exuberantly budding,
our animal passion rooted in the city."
Adrienne Rich, Twenty-One Love Poems (via fernsandmoss)

They amputated
your thighs off my hips.
As far as I’m concerned
they are all surgeons. All of them.

They dismantled us
each from the other.
As far as I’m concerned
they are all engineers. All of them.

A pity. We were such a good
and loving invention.
An airplane made from a man and wife.
Wings and everything.
We hovered a little above the earth.

We even flew a little.

“A Pity. We Were Such A Good Invention,” Yehuda Amichai (via commovente)
"The Romans put skulls into their love poems.
Skeletons and dry bones along with love.
As if violet was only beautiful against
something black. We also talked of death,
I perhaps more than you. It made me happy
to think of the newly dead body being lowered
into the coffin of the other. You found
this idea impressive but terrible.
I longed for your agreement and approval.
Wanted you to understand the hugeness of love.
You whispered that our bones would be mixed
together, but probably it was your way
to get me to stop crying and go to sleep.
Which I did, contentedly. I wanted something
to be done, some enactment to prove this secret,
this illicit love. Something too large.
I wanted it made of actual things. Dirt
and corpses even. As real as the table you
said your love was, that I could sit down to
and eat from if I wanted something permanent.
I wanted absoluteness to be made of my heart."
“A Bracelet of Bright Hair About the Bone,” Linda Gregg (via commovente)

We stretched a ladder between our second-story
windows and tried to get the dog to go
across to see if it would hold but it didn’t.

My ambivalence must have made the dog fall, I
called across to him. He picked up his tin can
and said, I can’t hear you unless you speak

into the tin cans, remember? What did you just
say? Sono spiacente, I said. Nevermind. Slicha.
You are probably wondering now if the dog’s okay,

but do you think you could stay with me, anyway,
even if I never gave you the answer? This was
so long ago, farther back than yesterday,

when you and I spoke for the last time. You said,
Why did you leave so early? And I said I couldn’t
sleep and you asked me why I didn’t tell you

at the time; you would have hit me on the head
with something hard. Let me ask you, could you
imagine a cloudless sky above a Nebraska plain?

Could you draw it? Could you imagine yellow birds?
Could you visualize the soft sound a door
makes when it closes and sticks and I thought I

had problems, but seriously, look at yourself.
Look. I had this incredible dream last night
and I’m not even going to tell you about it.

In Russia, the young girls who die violent deaths
either end up like birds in Pushkin or like fish
at the bottom of lakes, where they comb each other’s

hair all night long, where they teach each other
the lyrics to every Talking Heads song
so they can lure sailors into their shadowy grottoes

and drown them. They say there once was a rusalka
who wished to be human so badly she gave up
her voice to be with her beloved and of course

he loved her because who wouldn’t love a girl
who can’t talk back, but then one night
at a masked ball he got distracted by a foreign princess

with an elegant neck and the rusalka was so despondent
she went to a witch and somehow communicated, I’ve
never been so unhappy in my whole life. What should I do?

And of course the witch told her to stab him with a dagger,
and of course the rusalka considered it. Like, seriously?
Seriously stab him with a dagger? But ultimately she

decided she would rather lose her human life and
go back to being an underwater death demon.
At least in the opera version the prince realizes

his terrible mistake and goes hunting for a doe
only to find the rusalka in her last moments and
kisses her knowing it means death and eternal

damnation. Here I am now, watching the moonlight
dance across the water in the retention pond, staring
at this scalpel and trying to forget your address.

“How to Mend a Broken Heart with a Vengeance” by Leigh Stein (via commovente)

The lungs were my idea.
Shins, his.
Breasts, mine, though he agreed.

He tried to name his favorite organ
Mr. WInky, but titles were forbidden from the start.

Laughter was a vital sign,
amended to a ticking in the chest.

We called the heart the heart
because we could not say its real name
even to each other, even in the dark.

“Inventing the Body,” Dora Malech (via commovente)
"You remember too much,
my mother said to me recently.

Why hold onto all that? And I said,
Where can I put it down?"
Anne Carson, from “The Glass Essay (via upshot)

You are beautiful as a telephone, colors
of bone, rocket ship, and cocktail lounge—

Hmm, says the neon sign, starting
an unfinishable thought.

Where do we go from here?

I’m a balloon,
each minute you don’t call is a breath
you blow into me.

I want to be the crackers in your soup,
I want to be your brass compass. Oh, mister,
just thinking about you curls the ends of my hair.

The clock tisk-tisks.

Moon, you old spinster, don’t you mock me
with your pockmarks and your slow, slow travels.

Moon, what would you know, cold as cheese?

Hmm. Tisk-tisk.

Behind a far-off door, a thought about me is being formed
out of nothing but light.

And when that phone does ring—

“What Rings But Can’t Be Answered,” Rebecca Lindenberg. from Love, An Index (via vlorin)

I no longer need you to fuck me as hard
as I hate myself.
Make love to me
like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did.
Go slow.
I’m new to this
but I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop without jumping.
I have realized

that the moon did not have to be full for us to love it.
We are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it.

We Were Emergencies by Buddy Wakefield (via floatingmemories)

I love incorrectly.

There is a solemnity in hands,
the way a palm will curve in
accordance to a contour of skin,
the way it will release a story.

This should be the pilgrimage.
The touching of a source.
This is what sanctifies.

This pleading. This mercy.
I want to be a pilgrim to everyone,
close to the inaccuracies, the astringent
dislikes, the wayward peace, the private
words. I want to be close to the telling.
I want to feel everyone whisper.

After the blossoming I hang.
The encyclical that has come
through the branches
instructs us to root, to become
the design encapsulated within.

Flesh helping stone turn tree.

I do not want to hold life
at my extremities, see it prepare
itself for my own perpetuation.
I want to touch and be touched
by things similar in this world.

I want to know a few secular days
of perfection. Late in this one great season
the diffused morning light
hides the horizon of sea. Everything
the color of slate, a soft tablet
to press a philosophy to.

“The Confession of an Apricot,” Carl Adamshick (via clavicola)

They have photographed the brain
and here is the picture, it is full of
branches as I always suspected,

each time you arrive the electricity
of seeing you is a huge
tree lumbering through my skull, the roots waving.

It is an earth, its fibres wrap
things buried, your forgotten words
are graved in my head, an intricate

red blue and pink prehensile chemistry
veined like a leaf
network, or is it a seascape
with corals and shining tentacles.

I touch you, I am created in you
somewhere as a complex
filament of light

You rest on me and my shoulder holds

your heavy unbelievable
skull, crowded with radiant
suns, a new planet, the people
submerged in you, a lost civilization
I can never excavate:

my hands trace the contours of a total
universe, its different
colors, flowers, its undiscovered
animals, violent or serene

its other air
its claws

its paradise rivers.

“I Was Reading a Scientific Article,” Margaret Atwood (via clavicola)
"Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don’t regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the living room couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering
any of it. Let’s stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by."
Dorianne Laux, “Antilamentation” (via clavicola)

Unexpected meetings occur in a forest,
on a mountain,
by the sea.

I shook hands with the men.

I’m disappearing.

in me
is disappearing.

So. Is that a yes?

Some of us have taken off our wigs.
The immense, the colossal weight
of our hope. Sex is part of it.
Do you think I’m pretty?

[The future will present itself with unimaginable
ruthlessness. But we can guess.]

619 by Kate Greenstreet