i meant to post this weeks ago lmfao but i’m moving blogs because i hate this one like death if bunnyrooms follows you/followed you a month and a half ago that’s me
jamesfitzjames reblogged
i have to stop reading franz wright before i lose my mind for good
jamesfitzjames reblogged
mnetha-deactivated20210525
“The word “Father” rotted in my mouth.”
— Agustín Gómez-Arcos, The Carnivorous Lamb (tr. William Rodarmor)
jamesfitzjames reblogged
ice ages exist, ice ages exist,
ice of polar seas, kingfishers’ ice;
cicadas exist, chicory, chromium
and chrome yellow irises, or blue; oxygen
especially; ice floes of polar seas exist,
and polar bears, stamped like furs with their
identification numbers, condemned to their lives;
the kingfisher’s miniplunge into blue-frozen
March streams exists, if streams exist;
if oxygen in streams exists, especially
oxygen, especially where
the chicory sky, like bluing dissolving in
water, exists, the chrome yellow sun, especially
oxygen, indeed it will exist, indeed
we will exist, the oxygen we inhale will exist,
lacewings, lantanas will exist, the lake’s
innermost depths like a sky; a cove ringed
with rushes, an ibis will exist,
the motions of mind blown into the clouds
like eddies of oxygen deep in the Styx
and deep in the landscapes of wisdom, ice-light,
ice and identical light, and deep
in the ice-light nothing, lifelike, intense
as your gaze in the rain; this incessant,
life-stylising drizzle, in which like a gesture
fourteen crystal forms exist, seven
systems of crystals, your gaze as in mine,
and Icarus, Icarus helpless;
Icarus wrapped in the melting wax
wings exists, Icarus pale as a corpse
in street clothes, Icarus deepest down where
doves exist, dreamers, and dolls;
the dreamers, their hair with detached
tufts of cancer, the skin of the dolls tacked together
with pins, the dryrot of riddles; and smiles,
Icarus-children white as lambs
in greylight, indeed they will exist, in-
deed we will exist, with oxygen on its crucifix,
as rime we will exist, as wind,
as the iris of the rainbow in the iceplant’s gleaming
growths, the dry tundra grasses, as small beings
we will exist, small as pollen bits in peat,
as virus bits in bones, as water-thyme perhaps,
perhaps as white clover, as vetch, wild chamomile,
banished to a re-lost paradise; but the darkness
is white, say the children, the paradise-darkness is white
but not white the same way that coffins
are white, if coffins exist, and not white
the same way that milk is white, if milk exists;
white, it is white, say the children,
the darkness is white, but not
white like the white that existed
when fruit trees exists, their blossoms so white,
this darkness is whiter; eyes melt
Inger Christensen, from alphabet (via themadsound)
jamesfitzjames reblogged
given limits exist, streets, oblivion
and grass and gourds and goats and gorse,
eagerness exists, given limits
branches exist, wind lifting them exists,
and the lone drawing made by the branches
of the tree called an oak tree exists,
of the tree called an ash tree, a birch tree,
a cedar tree, the drawing repeated
in the gravel garden path; weeping
exists as well, fireweed and mugwort,
hostages, greylag geese, greylags and their young;
and guns exist, an enigmatic back yard;
overgrown, sere, gemmed just with red currants,
guns exist; in the midst of the lit-up
chemical ghetto guns exist
with their old-fashioned, peaceable precision
guns and wailing women, full as
greedy owls exist; the scene of the crime exists;
the scene of the crime, drowsy, normal, abstract,
bathed in a whitewashed, godforsaken light,
this poisonous, white, crumbling poem
Inger Christensen, from “alphabet” (via themadsound)
jamesfitzjames reblogged
Why should I not want something better? Doesn’t everyone? Don’t you? A farmer wants his son to be afraid of beautiful women, so that he will not leave home too soon, so he tells a story about how one drowned his brother’s cousin’s friend in a lake, not because he was a pig who deserved to be drowned, but because beautiful women are bad, and also witches. And it doesn’t matter that she didn’t ask to be beautiful, or to be born in a lake, or to live forever, or not to know how men breathe until they stop doing it. Well, I do not want to be beautiful, or a woman, or anything. I want to know how men breathe.
Catherynne M. Valente, from Deathless (via luthienne)
jamesfitzjames reblogged
“it is difficult and oppressive to love me
and life is bitter for those who do.”
-Antonin Artaud, from a letter to Anie Besnard (June 22, 1946), published in Succubations & Incubations: Selected Letters of Antonin Artaud 1945-1947 [tr. Peter Valente & Cole Heinowitz]
jamesfitzjames reblogged
“[...] even at the moments when I live with the greatest intensity I still have the taste of nothingness in my mouth.”
-Simone de Beauvoir quoting her friend Zaza’s letter in ‘Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter’ [tr. James Kirkup]
jamesfitzjames reblogged
John Donne, Death’s Duel
jamesfitzjames reblogged
Love is a striking example of how little reality means to us.
Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time (via requiemforthepast)
jamesfitzjames reblogged
Blood and thorns. Come closer.
If you love me, I’ll love you too.
Federico García Lorca, from Adelina out Walking; Collected Poems (ed. by Christopher Maurer)
jamesfitzjames reblogged
I want to love you.
I want to scratch your arm to know my blood…
Saadi Youssef, from ‘The Spring’, Without an Alphabet, Without a Face: Selected Poems (trans. Khaled Mattawa)
jamesfitzjames reblogged
jamesfitzjames reblogged
“I could be a wolf for you. I could put my teeth on your throat. I could growl. I could eat you whole. I could wait for you in the dark. I could howl against your hair.”
— Catherynne M. Valente, from “The Red Girl,” The Bread We Eat in Dreams
jamesfitzjames reblogged
“It hurts to love. It’s like giving yourself to be flayed and knowing that at any moment the other person may just walk off with your skin.”
— Susan Sontag, Reborn: Journals and Notebooks, 1947-1963
jamesfitzjames reblogged
Don’t cry there’s a heaven above us heaving, retching, disgusted.
*
from “AXL ROSE” by Kell Connor
jamesfitzjames reblogged
Caroline Walker Bynum, Foreword to Gendered Voices: Medieval Saints and Their Interpreters