time was our sweet noose
a cataclysmic beginning
to an end
so alluring
we could only dive
heart-in-feet first
.
I AM NOT THE PIG
I live between the cracks of ivory keyboards and pages of bounded works. I am storing some of my harvest here.
I am the proletariat, I am the people. I am not the pig.
I am the proletariat, I am the people. I am not the pig.
1
she asked,
‘you are in love,
what does love look like’
to which i replied,
‘like everything i’ve ever lost
come back to me’
(via miguu)
Poetry leads to the same place as all forms of eroticism—to the blending and fusion of separate objects. It leads us to eternity, it leads us to death, and through death to continuity. Poetry is eternity; the sun matched with the sea.
Georges Bataille, Death and Sensuality (via heteroglossia)
(Source: indigenousdialogues, via nomadmanifesto)
(via howitzerliterarysociety)
