1. finished 1/2 of my profile reports for the final clinical thesis due end of this month AND played with a puppeh in the rains.
*ohai*

    finished 1/2 of my profile reports for the final clinical thesis due end of this month AND played with a puppeh in the rains.

    *ohai*

  2. viperslang:

    how you came to be an unrepentant candle-mora
    inside the immigrant winter that was sharpening 
    the stray glass of each anguished
    icicle against the bronzed urchin’s
    while oleander ivories; the weather
    in itself was an icebound menagerie or
    a hush of diamonds hypnotizing the piazzas
    perfumed in a murmur of chrysanthemums
    the echelon of bungalows faintly flayed to
    a puzzle of their own brick-bones, ashen paint,
    bleach-worded halls, the whole spasm receding
    within the oblivion of veteran walls. here, my father’s
    violin, the knotted decibels of laughter; the recherché carpet
    of his coffee-stained diaries; his spice haggler’s enthusiasm; his approximations of the echoed mirror’s math
    his nomad’s jazz that always wanes into a nebula of fog
    that drags its camouflage behind clotheslines strung from
    the iron will of windows you could see the whole diorama
    of time as it tread its thread through the fabric of each
    fading year that hung itself wordlessly by a snare of lint
    you slept beneath the wide-eyed inspection from
    the incendiaries of dawns you sat curled under
    the dark green accent of the umbrella pines
    till the moon came out: just a tongue
    -tied sibling for the oillamp of a roman sun. you sat
    in a mute entropy, you came to be retailored from volcanic
    ash & cinnebar & the satin of a winter that kept sliding in
    & out of your shimmering grasp. it stowed its sailor’s song;
    its fragile tessitura,whispering its flawless pain
    into the back of your knees, begging you for a last dance,
    breaking into the pale crescent of a smile, small
    like a sandpiper who, when orphaned by the shore,
    thought that if it swallowed enough sand, it could
    perhaps birth a sea

    Night Train to Naples, Scherezade Siobhan©

    Reblogged from: viperslang
  3. lessons in emotional health: yr own silence is a lot more productive than the din of a 1000 tongues clacking around you in an empty language

  4. thewriterscaravan:

    ●  C O N T R A    E Q U U S    N I V E U S  ●

    BROADSIDE SERIES: CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

    FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

    Hexagon Press is pleased to announce a new broadside series entitled “CONTRA EQUUS NIVEUS” (“Against the White Horse”), a poetic attempt to advance our sight beyond the imaginative blockade of what the prophet Ezekiel and the poet Blake called the “Covering Cherub,” through publishing single compositions that act against the imposing egoism and phenomenological limitations of our fallen world. As an attempt to defeat that age-old conqueror, we now consider the first Horseman of the Apocalypse riding gloriously into the empire he has both built himself and was sent to destroy.

    Broadside I: “CONTRA EQUUS NIVEUS”

    And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer. (Revelation 6:2)

    Though endless interpretations of this Biblical passage are extant, both historical and futurist, we propose that the White Horse rides among us today. It is MASS CULTURE. Called by many names in the sphere of critical resistance (the Spectacle, the Matrix, the Symbolic Order, the Big Other, Simulacra, Capital, The Military Industrial Complex, Hollywood, the Music Industry, et al.), we have all been lulled to sleep by its rider’s white robes and crown falsely denoting innocence and authority. Though the White Horse’s hoof crashes seem to drown out all other sound, the poet is charged with carving a silent space in which real thought may explore itself.

    PLEASE INTERPRET AS YOU SEE FIT, LESSENING DEPENDENCE ON

    THE LETTER TO RETAIN THE SPIRIT IF NEED BE. YOU ARE FREE.

    Submission Guidelines:

    Up to three poems, no more than one page each.

    Up to three prose pieces, no more than 300 words each.

    Visuals may accompany text, including original artwork, but are not required.

    Please include a short biographical statement with each submission.

    Email all submissions as attachments (.doc or .pdf only) to hexagonpoetics@gmail.com

    This series will be published sporadically, as the right work presents itself. Broadsheet Number One will be printed in an addition of 200, individually numbered, 8.5” x 5.5”, cardstock sheets.

    Sincerely,

    James Bradley & Brittany Ham

    Co-Editors, Hexagon Press

    http://hexagonpress.wordpress.com

    Rachel, The Chief Editor for ISMS Press mailed this to me earlier. Any of you dadaists wanna take a shot at this? 

    Go on then. 

    cc @thethicknessofvulgarity

    Reblogged from: thewriterscaravan
  5. how you came to be an unrepentant candle-mora
    inside the immigrant winter that was sharpening 
    the stray glass of each anguished
    icicle against the bronzed urchin’s
    while oleander ivories; the weather
    in itself was an icebound menagerie or
    a hush of diamonds hypnotizing the piazzas
    perfumed in a murmur of chrysanthemums
    the echelon of bungalows faintly flayed to
    a puzzle of their own brick-bones, ashen paint,
    bleach-worded halls, the whole spasm receding
    within the oblivion of veteran walls. here, my father’s
    violin, the knotted decibels of laughter; the recherché carpet
    of his coffee-stained diaries; his spice haggler’s enthusiasm; his approximations of the echoed mirror’s math
    his nomad’s jazz that always wanes into a nebula of fog
    that drags its camouflage behind clotheslines strung from
    the iron will of windows you could see the whole diorama
    of time as it tread its thread through the fabric of each
    fading year that hung itself wordlessly by a snare of lint
    you slept beneath the wide-eyed inspection from
    the incendiaries of dawns you sat curled under
    the dark green accent of the umbrella pines
    till the moon came out: just a tongue
    -tied sibling for the oillamp of a roman sun. you sat
    in a mute entropy, you came to be retailored from volcanic
    ash & cinnebar & the satin of a winter that kept sliding in
    & out of your shimmering grasp. it stowed its sailor’s song;
    its fragile tessitura,whispering its flawless pain
    into the back of your knees, begging you for a last dance,
    breaking into the pale crescent of a smile, small
    like a sandpiper who, when orphaned by the shore,
    thought that if it swallowed enough sand, it could
    perhaps birth a sea

    Night Train to Naples, Scherezade Siobhan©

  6. Kano Eitoku (1543 - 1590) was a Japanese painter during the Azuchi-Momoyama period.

    Kano Eitoku (1543 - 1590) was a Japanese painter during the Azuchi-Momoyama period.

  7. ك trembles beneath a dissenting nucleus deep as light

    ت is a history roofed with corpses and the vapor of prayers

    ا a gallows moist with a muddy light

    ب a knife that scrapes off human skin and fashions it into sandals for two heavenly feet

    Syrian poet, Adonis | Excerpt from An Introduction to the History of the Petty Kings

  8. Language, in its attentive and forgetful being, with its power of dissimulation that effaces every determinate meaning and even the existence of the speaker, in the gray neutrality that constitutes the essential hiding place of all being and thereby frees the space of the image – is neither truth nor time, neither eternity nor man; it is instead the always undone form of the outside. It places the origin in contact with death, or rather brings them both to light in the flash of their infinite oscillation – a momentary contact in a boundless space. The pure outside of the origin, if that is indeed what language is eager to greet, never solidifies into a penetrable and immobile positivity; and the perpetually rebegun outside of death, although carried toward the light by the essential forgetting of language, never sets the limit at which truth would finally begin to take shape. They immediately flip sides. The origin takes on the transparency of the endless; death opens interminably onto the repetition of the beginning. And what language is (not what it means, not the form in which it says what it means), what language is in its being, is that softest of voices, that nearly imperceptible retreat, that weakness deep inside and surrounding every thing and every face – what bathes the belated effort of the origin and the dawnlike erosion of death in the same neutral light, at once day and night.


    — Michel Foucault, Maurice Blanchot: The Thought From Outside

  9. from reddening crosswalks …
    man is just a hollow outline
    an unskillful stroke of chalk …
    a dying out

    from Nocturne, Vahe Arsen 

  10. There is enough of unconsciousness to liberate things from their history.

    Mahmoud Darwish, In Her Absence I Created Her Image

  11. viperslang:

    the skyline as mnemonic
    for your stubble; a bracken 
    inkling, the ornery fallow
    such that each exhale

    adjoins the cornet of a 
    flotilla scathing the sea
    -coast we maunder in
    spindrift, carbonated

    vocals loosened from
    the windpipes of marina
    you, saline in foam-crest

    i, aquatic perforations, 
    a gill, water-logged
    wind-tugged
    Neptunian, distant tether

    quien ama sabiendo 
    por qué ama, no ama.
    whoever loves knowing 
    why they love, doesn’t love

    this waiting endures
    its rendezvous with rubble
    till it is a honeyed hymn

    its music blossoming
    from anemic ariettas
    into brass-breasted
    octaves, you bow

    the nautical ballast
    count the pirate-maps
    hidden in the archipelago
    of the moles & birthmarks 
    embroidering the shoal
                      of my waist

    you, breath of tidal darts
    you, olive-brown
    Poseidon, you
    kin of caramel twilight

    pillar your wrists
    in a debate with the 
    cartography of my cicatrices,
    my elegant geometry
    of skin prized like shipwrecks

    you gasp, body - a sanctuary
    of murmurs, each hour distilled
    from its frozen symmetry,

    you weep, an atheist returned
    to the altar of a soft-shell God

    you speak, a voice teeming  
    with volcanoes, minefields 
    naked under the phonemes

    you touch- the taproot of time 
    tutoring the nerve of scattered
    tectonics. i rise; an ancient thing 
    requiem-faced, arcane in the heat
    -wave beneath the cupped seabed

    i unlace;

    all cipher
    all citadel

    all filigree
    all fossil

    all angel
    all animal

    Scherezade Siobhan©

    (Italics : quote by Antonio Porchia from Voces)

    Reblogged from: viperslang
  12. viperslang:

    I write to translate the silvered alphabet of lightning, 
    to become the mapmaker for the lost 
    empires of thunderstorms, I write the tessellation 
    of Moroccan minarets - the mosaic of sigils; honeycombing
    the open sesame for the secret exits of ruined dynasties

    Scherezade Siobhan©

    Reblogged from: viperslang
  13. mickeymichal said: omg I did it it’s fun but my arms hurt a LOT THE NEXT DAY

    i try to include two schedules of rafting every year. grand goal is colorado rapids of course. if i don’t expire like cheap medicine in the interim tho.

  14. going whitewater rafting next weekend coz why pad yourself up with a colony of duvets and watch talladega nights on a saturday morning when you could clearly be hurling the meat bucket of your eminent self across grade 4 rapids like a disgraced republican shoved across the staircase to hell’s lowest infernos right into beelzebub’s gaping maw.

    cheers.

    if i die, you inherit nothing.  

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