March 2012
130 posts
February 2012
146 posts
3 tags
I will always love you, always.
Loop this over and over, it’s my new conceptual net-art piece.
I Will Always Love You Always. Steven Cottingham, 2012.
POETRYEATER: from Traci Brimhall, "What They Found... →
poetryeater:
Before midnight she plaited my hair, hemmed my skirt, sang lullabies she’d learned on the other side of the flood. She lifted her dress to show her bones shedding light on a stillborn fetus accidentally raptured into her ribs. She said she’d choose her death again, obey any pain heaven…
Two new projects
Please don’t let me come, please don’t let her go
and
I don’t know if anyone will read this
Every man needs a mystery.
On names
Do you remember days when I had nothing to do except lie around and think about you? I’d pass time admiring the shapes of the letters in your name; I’d turn your body into a single word and say it out loud over and over and over again. Now your body is a hundred different things to a hundred different men, our collective tongues wagging like the Hydra’s heads. I stay up nights...
“You have a heart of gold
and I am kneeling in your bloodstream
panning for the...”
– Andrea Gibson, from “Staircase” (via loveyourchaos)
“The other day, I asked a smart senior curator for whom I have a lot of respect,...”
– Sarah Thornton. “What is an Artist?”
“Before I talk about my own troubles, let me tell you about another book,...”
– How Bots Seized Control of My Pricing Strategy, via @topfife. (via new-aesthetic)
POETRYEATER: Sachiko Murakami, "Crow" →
I threw out that poem about the crows and the industrial park. I was wrong about crows. They aren’t metaphors for anything. It’s not just their multiplicity that’s scary, though I just wrote crow to contain the flock. Maybe Hitchcock was reading du Maurier in bed with a handkerchief tucked into…
In the time before land I could have passed as a...
I think you’re right, unfortunately, deep down I know you are. I have been selfish, I have put too much of myself in there and disrespected all the stories of everyone else. It’s esoteric and irrelevant and uninteresting. I wanted a complete entity, something with less secrets than the others, and now I’m scared as soon as something loses its sense of mystery it becomes boring....
Untitled (Metaphor)
I have long known that love is blind. I, myself, have often blind-folded it and bound it to a chair in a corner of the basement where I would beat it with my belt in one hand and the other holding my trousers up, screaming obscenities, trying to knock the mystery out of it. I want the names of past lovers, the men she thinks about when she bathes, the kid in eighth grade who first touched her lips...
from Anna Swir, "I'll Open the Window"
Tonight I am going to sleep alone on the bedclothes of purity. Aloneness is the first hygienic measure. Aloneness will enlarge the walls of the room, I will open the window and the large, frosty air will enter, healthy as tragedy. Human thoughts will enter and human concerns, misfortune of others, saintliness of others. They will converse softly and sternly.
Do not come anymore. I am an animal...
