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"i want to write a book
about how good it feels
to undress you but
no one wants to read pages of:
oh hell
and damn damn damn"

You are swearing in physical form | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

Dear Kitten. Damn. <3

(via herdirtylittleheart)

(via herdirtylittleheart)

"I pity the woman who will love you
when I am done. She will show up
to your first date with a dustpan
and broom, ready to pick up all the pieces
I left you in. She will hear my name so often
it will begin to dig holes in her. That
is where doubt will grow. She will look
at your neck, your thin hips, your mouth,
wondering at the way I touched you.
She will make you all the promises I did
and some I never could. She will hear only
the terrible stories. How I drank. How I lied.
She will wonder (as I have) how someone
as wonderful as you could love a monster
like the woman who came before her. Still,
she will compete with my ghost.
She will understand why you do not look
in the back of closets. Why you are afraid
of what’s under the bed. She will know
every corner of you is haunted
by me."

-Clementine von Radics (via oceanghosts)

(Source: clementinevonradics, via hibdonianhurricane)

"And you tried to change, didn’t you? Closed your mouth more. Tried to be softer, prettier, less volatile, less awake… You can’t make homes out of human beings. Someone should have already told you that. And if he wants to leave, then let him leave. You are terrifying, and strange, and beautiful. Something not everyone knows how to love."

— Warsan Shire, For Women Who Are Difficult To Love (via hello-lolo)

(via thinkivykink)


do you remember the first time you were called annoying?
how your breath stopped short in your chest
the way the light drained from your eyes, though you knew your cheeks were ablaze
the way your throat tightened as you tried to form an argument that got lost on your tongue.
your eyes never left the floor that day.
you were 13.

you’re 20 now, and i still see the light fade from your eyes when you talk about your interests for “too long,”
apologies littering every other sentence,
words trailing off a cliff you haven’t jumped from in 7 years.
i could listen to you forever, though i know speaking for more than 3 uninterrupted minutes makes you anxious.
all i want you to know is that you deserve to be heard
for 3 minutes
for 10 minutes
for 2 hours

there will be people who cannot handle your grace, your beauty, your wisdom, your heart;
mostly because they can’t handle their own.

but you will never be
and have never been
“too much.”


"this started as something completely different, but everything comes back to you, doesn’t it?" - tyler ford (via tylerthelatteboy)

(via the-wolf-and-the-fox)

Tags: poem poetry


I know/have known/have dated people that read in that horrible, fake poetry/reading voice when reading something in a public space. It&#8217;s awful. It kills me. 

Why don&#8217;t you sound like you when you&#8217;re reading poetry? Gross. Jesus Christ.


I know/have known/have dated people that read in that horrible, fake poetry/reading voice when reading something in a public space. It’s awful. It kills me.

Why don’t you sound like you when you’re reading poetry? Gross. Jesus Christ.

"God I want you
in some primal, wild way
animals want each other.
Untamed and full of teeth.

God I want you,
In some chaste, Victorian way.
A glimpse of your ankle
just kills me.


— Want, Clementine von Radics (via clementinevonradics)

(Source: clementinevonradics, via path-to-personal-eudaimonia)

"I want to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid
of nothing, as though I had wings."

— Mary Oliver, from New & Selected Poems (via violentwavesofemotion)

(Source: with-grace-and-guts, via champagne)


January 29, 2014.
You know how this is:if I lookat the crystal moon, at the red branchof the slow autumn at my window,if I touchnear the firethe impalpable ashor the wrinkled body of the log,everything carries me to you,as if everything that exists,aromas, light, metals,were little boatsthat sailtoward those isles of yours that wait for me.
-from If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda


January 29, 2014.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

-from If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda


Tell her she’s a bluet, but not blue.

And if it’s color that she wants, tell her she’s a blackbird, that she’s flying.
That she could only ever be flying.

If she’s a number, tell her she’s more than ten but less than twelve.
When you say this mean her legs, mean the long number 1’s wrapped around your back.

Tell her you feel most religious when she’s sitting naked in a chair.
Tell her religion is all you need.

Take her hands off your hips and put them on a statue’s hips.
Tell her This is hardness. This is what it’s like to want.

If she’s a herring, tell her she’s a dead herring. That she’s glowing.
That she could only ever be glowing.

And of all shapes: the circle. Days: Tuesday. Words: Brimful

When you take her to bed, take her slowly.
Then put her in parenthesis and keep (her) there, always.


"How to keep the one you love," Kimberly Grey (via notebookings)

(via nogreatillusion)

His twitch. His gaptooth. His meathook hands. His whiskey.
His cocaine. His lie. His momma. His lie. His girl. His lie. His lie.
His mask. His blame. His finger-point. His backstab. His loyal. His game.
His drunk. His spill. His fool. His freeload. His pass-out.
His breath. His dirt socks. His hole jeans. His unlaced laces.
His laundry but never a thank you. His you-a-thorny-motherfucker.
His train three hours for the dog. His guilt. His you-owe-me-now. His joke.
His charisma. His martyr. His bellow. His take. His not proper.
His cover up. His lie. His knotted fists. His wrist-pin. His twice your size.
His monster. His apology. His sleepwalk. His sweet talk.
His please-forgive-me. His let’s move on.
His wit. His shame. His slander. His pervert. His secret blog.
His secret bigot. His only for my boys on Long Island.
His not job. His not tonight. His better things to do. His lies.
His curse the friends who don’t cover his lies.
His beer bong and fried meat. His football and fried meat.
His don’t call on Sunday, got football and girls and fried meat.
His stoned. His hostile. His high. His reel-back. His snake tongue.
His silver tooth. His rant. His bellow. His heart. His heart. His saint.
His street corner kiss. His barroom kiss. His always in front of a crowd kiss.
His never in front of his ex kiss. His win. His only when he wins. His rant. His formula.
His legacy. His fantasy. His flair. His bathroom stall. His two at once. His brag.
His warrior. His broken. His moan. His she-got-married. His she-got-pregnant.
His lament. His commotion. His lie. His 6AM. His derail.
His marry me. His marry her. His marry her, too.
His not-on-her-birthday. His we’re-just-friends. His please-marry-me.
His I-can-give-you-children. His be-mine. His please please please.
His not call you back. His pocketful of condoms. His lie comes out.
His let’s-not-discuss-it. His details-don’t-matter. His cordial. His victim.
His won’t stop texting. His won’t stop emailing. His wound.
His mirage. His bewildered. His it’s-twenty-fucking-eleven-get-over-it.
His threat. His dare. His sociopath. His stalk. His grandeur. His monolith.
His king. His omnipotent. His everything. His lie. His everything. His everything.

Genetics of Regret

listen to this poem

I’m sorry I don’t call. Sorry I snuck down the stairs and out to the mouth of a boy who will never know my name. I’m sorry I ruined your carpet with a backdraft of whiskey. I’m sorry I told our secrets. Sorry I put them in a book. Sorry I didn’t tell you about it. I’m sorry for the freckles and the switches and the mean boys in grade school. I’m sorry I scratched your Neil Diamond record. Sorry I drew the picture of the dead cat. Titled it after my dead sister. I’m sorry they pulled her from your body like a sad wet sponge. I’m sorry no one came to the hospital. Sorry I felt sorry. I’m sorry about the stolen tampons and the nest of mice in the stove. The pennies for gas money. Sorry I drank all your rum. Sorry about the boy in the basement. And the one on the porch. And the back of your car. I’m sorry about the slashed window screens. And forearms. I’m sorry I lied about acid and the boy with the knife. The houseful of beer rats. Sorry for the weevils and the dead grass. I’m sorry I don’t call anymore. I’m sorry your life looks like this in photo albums. Sorry I was part of your stain. I’m sorry it took 36 years to say this. You hate me. You are too kind to say so. Sorry I told our stories. Sorry I am so small. Sorry I haven’t thanked you for sacrifice. For stereo and dolls and English and correcting my stutter and the big slumber party with all the gift bags. Sorry I vomited in the wash drain. Sorry I left. Sorry I came back. I’m sorry you still get so angry. Sorry I struck back. Sorry I loved you so hard-then turned like a coin that has run out of spin. I’m sorry the rock opened that boy’s forehead. Sorry I cursed you. Sorry I wouldn’t let you hit me anymore. I’m sorry I lied. Sorry I couldn’t tell you. Sorry I am a coward. My skin has started to yellow. My neck is curving into an ampersand. I’m sorry we can’t talk about it. I sorry we can’t talk. Sorry the world kicked you so hard. I’m sorry he’s sick, mama. Sorry all I can do is worry what happens next. Sorry I wrote the poems. Sorry I stopped calling. Sorry I don’t visit. Sorry you never wanted me. I can’t be fixed. We can’t laugh. I’m sorry I don’t need you like other girls. There’s so much decay in these bones. There are no grandchildren. Sorry I failed. Sorry I am alone. I’m sorry alone is easier than talking to you. I’m sorry it comes like this. Flood and undertow. Sorry I can’t sit comfortably in the same room. That I twitch like a startled moth. Sorry I came out hard and sharp and full of claws. Ruined your body. Only learned the wrong things. I’m sorry you’re so far. Sorry I have no intention of coming to find you.

I’m sorry I don’t call.

How to Talk to Dead Girls

listen to this poem

They console you over the dog.
Because she was alive once.
Because you loved her and she, you.
They avoid discussing the children you won’t have.
Refuse to speak his name.
Careful to omit words like ovary and abandon.
No one mentions the bridge anymore.
No one talks of pills or razors or hair dryers.
No one asks about the hole in your chest.
Its constant spill down the front of your shirt,
the rancid, oozing stench.
Ask instead, Did you get a new dog yet?

Frat Boy

listen to this poem

When I ripped her dress (down to her waist)
her size D’s flopping out like the happy hands
of a birthday clown;

when my eyes locked there:
the perfect quarters of her areola,
the carnation-pink gumdrops hard in the air-conditioned chill,
each flanked by tiny silver pearls;

when my mouth, which
(until that day)
had never offered her
a single word, spilled:
Damn, woman, I didn’t know
your titties were pierced!

I waited.

But that stupid bitch
wouldn’t even slap me.

JEANANN VERLEE is a former punk rocker who collects tattoos and winks at boys. Her work has appeared in The New York Quarterly, FRiGG, and kill author, among others. She is author of Racing Hummingbirds, recipient of the Independent Publisher Book Award Silver Medal in Poetry. Verlee serves as poetry editor for Union Station Magazine and curates the Urbana Poetry Slam reading series at Bowery Poetry Club. She lives in New York City with a pair of origami lovebirds. Learn more at [jeanannverlee.com].


when the one you thought, finally, wouldn’t, does,

where do you go? the hole in your hands
keeps getting bigger. first a pencil falls through.
then your teacup, then entire bodies

like light, like you’re made of nothing stronger
than tissue, than sugar heated and spread
to look like glass….



So early it’s still almost dark out.
I’m near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren’t saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take
each other’s arm.
It’s early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn’t enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.


— Raymond Carver (via speioritur)


praise the miracle body: the odd
and undeniable mechanics of hand,
hundred-boned foot, perfect stretch
of tendon

tell me there are no gods then,
no master plans for this anatomy
with its mobile and evident spark

someone says “children of light”
and another, “goddessfragment” and

"you have had love, and that means
your sternum is a divining rod

for both passion and grief. because the tongue is the body’s
strongest muscle, make it say

joy. make it say I am a factory of splendid things. make it say
the octopus is the smartest animal

in the animal kingdom, and I am an octopus.
I am an octopus.
I am happy. my survival

was not an accident, or purposeless."

— Marty McConnell, “zoo,” published on Roots of She (via bostonpoetryslam)


Every morning I sit at the kitchen table over a tall glass of water swallowing pills. (So my hands won’t shake.) (So my heart won’t race.) (So my face won’t thaw.) (So my blood won’t mold.) (So the voices won’t scream.) (So I don’t reach for knives.) (So I keep out of the oven.) (So I eat every morsel.) (So the wine goes bitter.) (So I remember the laundry.) (So I remember to call.) (So I remember the name of each pill.) (So I remember the name of each sickness.) (So I keep my hands inside my hands.) (So the city won’t rattle.) (So I don’t weep on the bus.) (So I don’t wander the guardrail.) (So the flashbacks go quiet.) (So the insomnia sleeps.) (So I don’t jump at car horns.) (So I don’t jump at cat-calls.) (So I don’t jump a bridge.) (So I don’t twitch.) (So I don’t riot.) (So I don’t slit a strange man’s throat.)


Jeanann Verlee; ”Good Girl” 

(via makelhaft)


(via mileswalser)

(Source: undare, via clementinevonradics)