The Glass Essay, Anne Carson | Molly Brodak, Molly Brodak

in a perfect world, those two are the call

and this is the response

As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh, Susan Sontag.

Go Back to Bed

The things that I love will someday become the things that destroy me I feel her hands wrapped around my throat I can feel the pressure before it pops and there's release And soon after I slip into the quiet darkness of dreamless sleep

I don't dream when you sleep next to me And as much as I thought that was a blessing it turns out I was wrong and need my nightly adventure A simple form of vacation and constant ego maturbation

I'm not afraid of anything anymore except for the fangs you wore in your mouth Claiming you were an "Anne Rice special" Without ever getting to close to the actual rituals.

"I love you. Go back to bed"

Words so simple and said in the dark the scrren in front of me drowning the room in soft artificial light I can still smell your attempt at cooking I always told you you shouldn't use that much oil Your an activist, but only when your active

I write your name on razor blades and bullets If I go I go knowing whaty ou really are I never believe in monsters until your roared in my face I can still feel your claws rip down my back

You may be a flower, but Nightshade is deadly

16th century ring that unfolds into an astronomical sphere

*For the people asking this ring is available HERE with free shipping

This is how I’m proposing to my partner in the future, I’m using this ring

I actually bought this and lemme tell you

It was the best decision of my life

Respectfully, fuck proposing. If I ever get this ring, it’s for me and me alone. It looks sick as fuck and I can fiddle with it and say My Precious just like Gollum.

I’m sorry… I’ve let this go by hundreds of times in the past [x] months and I just can’t do it any more.

…Armillary sphere.

Not astronomical. Armillary.

ARMILLARY SPHERE.

ARMILLARY.

…(sigh)

I feel better now. Thank you all for your attention.

On the Edge of a Dream

You're always there in my dreams Just standing off in the horizon shouting words that are lost to the static buzz that is my imbalanced circuit board brain Nothing is ever exactly how it seems And I have to remind myself as I start the long and arguos task of reaching the horizon It continues to change with each step I make forward Never being able to catch up and hear your words Forever marching on ward toward an impossible goal

You're always there in my dreams A figure that always just off the peripheal Whispering words that sound like hisses and hurt my hurts like needle stabs I'm never prepared for the things I see when I'm asleep Is it a dream or a nightmare, or is it another universe One that's created in synapses and collection A hard drive made for being crushed with black weights You're the carrot and I'm still the swine begging for the reward that will never show it's colors And that's why I'm a self-made insomniac

Orange cat and orange sky

— Franz Kafka, from Letters to Milena (via lumamonchtuna)

[text: I miss you deeply, unfathomably, senselessly, terribly.]

Rati Saxena, ed. by Kate Rogers and Viki Holmes, from Not a Muse: The Inner Lives of Women: A World Poetry Anthology; "Mountain nights"

Scum Bag Population

There's an unspoken bond between the strangers who share cigarettes outside of city bars they don't belong in

It's there, hanging from the very words we speak I know your secrets and you know mine even though we never learned how to expalin ourselves

We are the forgotten scum bag population For a brief period we were revered has kings and queens but the fall was coming fast and we knew it

We stand out front of churches As the rain starts to become more than a drizzle Soaking wet, sheilding nicotine from the water

Inside threre sits a circle of chairs Our plan of worship used to just be attack We're scared of everything but we just can't admit it

And we listen to stories told by vagrants hoping to snag a few bucks I pass them the largest bill in my wallet Not caring if it's drugs or food they're after I'll be doing the same goddamn thing later tonight In hopes of finding solace and comfort while sleeping inside a tube slide at the park

There's a whole world of the fringes We hang on the very edge of societal good graces Each one of us as already had an argument with god

With every word we speak

Julia de Burgos, tr. by Jack Agüeros, from Song of the Simple Truth: The Complete Poems of Julia de Burgos; "To Julia de Burgos"

Julia de Burgos, tr. by Jack Agüeros, from Song of the Simple Truth: The Complete Poems of Julia de Burgos; "Moments"

Fore!

I don't expect a thousand words Especially when my outpot is a daily reminder I do not control them They control me

They grind me to a halt to flash lines on any paper Some new idea to speak of the same moments I can't stop writing about Nothing really changes except it's rearranged

I relive my worst moments just to put it all on display

I pretend i do this freely When in all actuallity I am nothing more then a vessel

A funeral every day There's a graveyard of dead ideas That rivals in size to the 18th holes

Lawns made of dead grass and spray painted green

Nicole W. Lee, from "Even the Dust"

Sara Teasdale, from The Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale; "Song,"

Nicole W. Lee, from "Even the Dust"

like matryoshka, one inside another inside another inside another.