On verra.
“I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.”

Charles Bukowski (via feellng)

you were detestable. a poet. a poem. a metaphor.

“Writers are always interchanging in some way, just as the air we breathe doesn’t belong to one place.”
“If there weren’t a sky
within your chest
worth breaking, believe
me, you
would have stopped
all this singing
by now.”
Kundiman In Medias Res

needful:

and I like sometimes to begin
in the middle of things
your breastbone/navel
the small of your back
your hand’s syntax pausing
at the comma of my thumb
I love your 700 questions
each strand curled long
across my lips the sudden
punctuation of your spine
Your mouth an interrogative
sliding from unknown
to unknown They say
one sign leads to another
I say each tastes vaguely
like blood Along my body’s
broken lines I am still unwritten
by your fingers’ calligraphy

Love—decipher me
Speak me with your first tongue

Patrick Rosal

Patrick Rosal, “You Cannot Go to the God You Love With Your Two Legs”

poem-locker:

And because you’re not an antelope or a dog
you think you can’t drop your other two limbs down
and charge toward the Eternal Heart. But
those are your legs too, the ones that have hauled
your strangest body through a city of millions
in less than a day, at its own pace, in its own pain,
and because you cannot make the pace of the one whom you love
your own, and because you cannot make the pain of the one you love
your own pain, your separate aches must meet somewhere
poised in the heaven between your bodies
 —skylines turned on their sides—reminders
of what once was, what every man and woman
must build upon, build from, the body, the miserable,
weeping body, the deep bony awkwardness of love
in the bed. If you’ve kissed bricks in secret
or fallen asleep where there was no bed or spent time
lighting a fire, then you know the beginning of love
and maybe you know the end of it too,
and maybe you know the far ends, the doors, where
loved ones enter to check on you. It’s not someone else speaking
when you hear I love you. It’s only the nighttime
pouring into the breast’s day. Sunset, love. The thousand
exits. The thousand ways to know your elbow
from your ass. A simple dozen troubled hunters
laying all their guns down, that one day
they may be among the first to step
into your devastated rooms
and say Enough now, enough.

“It’s enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.”
paintgod:

"I don’t give a damn what men find attractive. It’s unfortunate what we find pleasing to the touch and pleasing to the eye is seldom the same"
Pulp Fiction, 1994
un-gif-dans-ta-gueule:

Paul Hippolyte Delaroche - Louise Vernet (the artist’s wife, on her deathbed) 1845-46