Courtyard in Budapest, Hungary | Tomislav Marcijuš
I’ve watched you long enough,
I can speak to you any way I like—
I’ve submitted to your preferences, observing patiently
the things you love, speaking
through vehicles only, in
details of earth, as you prefer,
tendrils
of blue clematis, light
of early evening—
you would never accept
a voice like mine, indifferent
to the objects you busily name,
your mouths
small circles of awe—
And all this time
I indulged your limitation, thinking
you would cast it aside yourselves sooner or later,
thinking matter could not absorb your gaze forever—
obstacle of the clematis painting
blue flowers on the porch window—
I cannot go on
restricting myself to images
because you think it is your right
to dispute my meaning:
I am prepared now to force
clarity upon you.
“It’s already clear to me how much of life is forgotten even as it happens. Most of it. The unregarded present spooling away from us, the soft tumble of unremarkable thoughts, the long-neglected miracle of existence.”__Ian McEwan
ALT
ALT
Sharon Olds, “The Chute”
credit: @eastcoastitnotes-blog
08|2018
Cosmea
— from The Unabridged Journals, Sylvia Plath (via)
— Dogfish, Mary Oliver, from ‘Dream Work’ (via)
— This is Home, Cavetown
— Little Weirds, Jenny Slate
“I’d given up, you know, resigned myself to the idea of the idea of desire, the body—my body— a locked door.”
— Long Distance, Cameron Awkward-Rich, in Dispatch (via)
— Me and Stephen Hawking, Manic Street Preachers
