Sensory hiss, sensual miss.
A compass made of doodles,
two mugs full of writing implements (most
run dry from scribblings)
four pages of notes
in three different colors: scrivening
the same fourteen lines
in a sonnet that just cannot come through
a vicious, melancholy static.

Something about pivoting around
and then complaining as neatly as

Little stabs at maturity
break the curtain their strokes intended to draw;
this throb refuses my words. My heart
drools slowly in a line, like a tongue
or a slug, a counterfeit.
I want to get scrutinize your skin
for fealties beautiful and rare
but to whom do you appear?

a-rare-poach-cozy.tumblr.com

Do follow. While it leads.

Boldfish855 shake in your boots, you vile apparition: You are next.

The thrill of knowing ( Read more... )

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Today, the 24th, is the first day of classes.

It is a shocking truth that Love has a largely nominal life. The gluttonous hyperbole of commonplace preference has appropriated the term to express the thinnest affinity. Perhaps this means we hunger too deeply for the power of high, exhortative sentiment and are willing to settle for less and less, and say "I love this movie," "I love him," "I ( Read more... )