"Go to sleep. Let darkness
lap at your sides. Give darkness an inch.
You aren’t alone. All of the continents used to be
one body. You aren’t alone. Go to sleep."
— Albert Goldbarth, from The Sciences Sing A Lullaby (via gothgirlsgettingmoney)
(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via traversefamilypicnic)
I have stolen
that were in
there were forty
for me to eat.
that’s as many
as four tens
and that’s terrible
Now that the soul has left its throne
Behind your mortal eyes,
And light, and colour and sound are gone
From the body’s palaces :
Still in his wood the blackbird calls,
But there is one too few to hear :
And one too few to watch the trout
Swim through the music of the weir.
And once I dreamt that you were gone,
As dust upon the wave ;
Or, as a drop in some deep well,
That none could sort or save.
But falling low between the stars,
So soon as I had such a fear,
At dusk and dawn a whisper came :
“The dead are near: the dead are near.”
The Fallen Poet, Herbert Ashley Asquith
From The Volunteer and Other Poems. 1917.
"I swear to every heaven ever imagined,
if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster
tell me that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare
from the grave so he can tell them every reason
why he wishes he were born in a time where
he could have a damn Gmail account.
The day after I taught my mother
how to send pictures over Iphone she texted
me a blurry image of our cocker spaniel ten times in a row.
Don’t you dare try to tell me that that is not beautiful.
But whatever, go ahead and choose to stay in
your backwards-hoping-all-inclusive club
while the rest of us fall in love over Skype.
Send angry letters to state representatives,
as we record the years first sunrise so
we can remember what beginning feels like when
we are inches away from the trigger.
Lock yourself away in your Antoinette castle
while eat cake and tweet to the whole universe that we did.
Hashtag you’re a pretentious ass hole.
Van Gogh would have taken 20 selflies a day.
Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers
nothing but heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words.
Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest Vine account,
and we all would have checked it every morning while we
Snap Chat our coffee orders to the people
we wish were pressed against our lips instead of lattes.
This life is spilling over with 85 year olds
rewatching JFK’s assassination and
7 year olds teaching themselves guitar over Youtube videos.
Never again do I have to be afraid of forgetting
what my fathers voice sounds like.
No longer must we sneak into our families phonebook
to look up an eating disorder hotline for our best friend.
No more must I wonder what people in Australia sound like
or how grasshoppers procreate.
I will gleefully continue to take pictures of tulips
in public parks on my cellphone
and you will continue to scoff and that is okay.
But I hope, I pray, that one day you will realize how blessed
you are to be alive in a moment where you can google search
how to say I love you in 164 different languages."
b.e.fitzgerald (Art is a Facebook status about your winter break.)
help me, i am trapped
in a haiku factory
save me, before they
(Source: litlpup, via nathantdean)
My sister doggedly read poetry to me while I played video games as a small child, and while I have since voiced my appreciation for it, I believe it’s not appreciation enough.
O vast earth-apple, waiting to be fried,
Of all life’s starers the most many-eyed,
What furtive purpose hatched you long ago
In Indiana or in Idaho?