good girls go to heaven
exquisite girls go and do 
wherever and whatever 
their heart & mind tell them to.

- the problem is that you always want more.
- i don't want more, i want it all.

{random poetry #102}

[ Wild Geese ]

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Oliver, M.

{random poetry #101}

[ For My Lover, Returning To His Wife ]

She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.

She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.

Let's face it, I have been momentary.
A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.

She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you your practical your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,

has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potter's wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,

done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons rising on the ceiling.

She has also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.

I give you back your heart.
I give you permission -

for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound -
for the burying of her small red wound alive -

for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother's knee, for the stockings,
for the garter belt, for the call—

the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.

She is so naked and singular.
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.

As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.

Sexton, A. (1928-1974)

create . overcome . endure . transform . love 

so, what makes you anxious these days?

{random poetry #100}

[ 24th September 1945 ]

The best sea: has yet to be crossed.

The best child: has yet to be born.

The best days have yet to be lived;

and the best word that I wanted to say to you

is the word that I have not yet said.

Hikmet, N. (1902-1963)


“there is a season for wildness 
and a season for settledness, 
and this is neither. 
this season is about becoming.”
Niequist, S.

[ do not ask me to remember, just love me

World Alzheimer’s Day - 21 September 2014

quasi-experimental bullshit & empirical lies

{random poetry #99}

[ We Grow Accustomed to the Dark ]

We grow accustomed to the Dark -
When light is put away -
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye -

A Moment - We uncertain step
For newness of the night -
Then - fit our Vision to the Dark -
And meet the Road - erect -

And so of larger - Darknesses -
Those Evenings of the Brain -
When not a Moon disclose a sign -
Or Star - come out - within -

The Bravest - grope a little -
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead -
But as they learn to see -

Either the Darkness alters -
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight -
And Life steps almost straight.

Dickinson, E. (1830-1886)

{random life stories #3}

partiram no mesmo dia. cruzaram-se no aeroporto e contemplaram-se. nunca se tinham visto mas, no entanto, reconheceram-se. 
talvez fosse o perfume dela entranhado na epiderme; ou o seu gosto agridoce que ainda rodopiava na língua, escorrendo pelo esófago até ao aparelho digestivo numa ruminação de sinestesias; talvez fosse o som rouco e paciente da sua voz que ecoava nas suas cabeças inertes; talvez sentissem o toque gélido das suas mãos ou a brandura da sua pele; talvez pressentissem o olhar vazio do abismo (que não souberam evitar), nas pupilas dilatadas de quem se julga indiferente. talvez fosse apenas ironia do acaso, sarcasmo da vida, desdém do poder de decisão.
nunca irão saber, nunca teriam coragem para saber.
partiram no mesmo dia. cruzaram-se no aeroporto e contemplaram-se. resignaram-se ao esquecimento. a vida seguiu.

"ela é pela felicidade."

{random poetry #98}

Time together,
Time well spent!
Time to know you,
Time to do it again!
in Time Together, Time Well Spent!

Our love is a gift, a treasure to hold,
a story in our hearts forevermore.

This gift of love we have been given
is one that is pure, constant and sure.
in Love Forever 

Rislov, C.

so, did you loved enough?

"i hate small talk.

tell me about how lonely you are or tell me about why you keep waking up in the morning or talk to me about your mum’s eyes and your dad’s laugh. I don’t care about the weather and you don’t care about how my job’s going." 
via @bukowskunt

{random poetry #97}

[ Sex Without Love ]

How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other’s bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health—just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.

Olds, S.

once upon a time there was an urge to dance...

"In 1518, one of the strangest epidemics in recorded history struck the city of Strasbourg. Hundreds of people were seized by an irresistible urge to dance, hop and leap into the air. In houses, halls and public spaces, as fear paralyzed the city and the members of the elite despaired, the dancing continued with mindless intensity. Seldom pausing to eat, drink or rest, many of them danced for days or even weeks. And before long, the chronicles agree, dozens were dying from exhaustion. What was it that could have impelled as many as 400 people to dance, in some cases to death?" 
Waller, J., (2008), "In a spin: the mysterious dancing epidemic of 1518"


“never undress
your wounds
for those who
have none of
their own, for
they will only
strip you of
your skin trying
to understand.”

{random poetry #96}

Love is a Dirty Thing by Macrae, J.

o amor quer-se sujo, a poesia visceral.

“the people we most love do become a physical part of us, 
ingrained in our synapses, 
in the pathways where memories are created.” 
O'Rourke, M., in The Long Goodbye: A Memoir of Grief