1. 
Le baiser de l’hôtel de ville 
Photographer :  Robert Doisneau

 
someday.. to fully live in this picture. 

    Le baiser de l’hôtel de ville

    Photographer :  Robert Doisneau

     

    someday.. to fully live in this picture. 

  2. 'sup bae

    Reblogged from: desire7
  3. When she says margarita she means daiquiri.
    When she says quixotic she means mercurial.
    And when she says, “I’ll never speak to you again,”
    she means, “Put your arms around me from behind
    as I stand disconsolate at the window.”

    He’s supposed to know that.

    When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia
    or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading,
    or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he
    is raking leaves in Ithaca
    or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing disconsolate
    at the window overlooking the bay
    where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on
    while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway.

    When a woman loves a man it is one ten in the morning
    she is asleep he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels
    drinking lemonade
    and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed
    where she remains asleep and very warm.

    When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks.
    When she says, “We’re talking about me now,”
    he stops talking. Her best friend comes over and says,
    “Did somebody die?”

    When a woman loves a man, they have gone
    to swim naked in the stream
    on a glorious July day
    with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle
    of water rushing over smooth rocks,
    and there is nothing alien in the universe.

    Ripe apples fall about them.
    What else can they do but eat?

    When he says, “Ours is a transitional era,”
    “that’s very original of you,” she replies,
    dry as the martini he is sipping.

    They fight all the time
    It’s fun
    What do I owe you?
    Let’s start with an apology
    Ok, I’m sorry, you dickhead.
    A sign is held up saying “Laughter.”
    It’s a silent picture.
    “I’ve been fucked without a kiss,” she says,
    “and you can quote me on that,”
    which sounds great in an English accent.

    One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it
    another nine times.

    When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the
    airport in a foreign country with a jeep.
    When a man loves a woman he’s there. He doesn’t complain that
    she’s two hours late
    and there’s nothing in the refrigerator.

    When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake.
    She’s like a child crying
    at nightfall because she didn’t want the day to end.

    When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking:
    as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved.
    A thousand fireflies wink at him.
    The frogs sound like the string section
    of the orchestra warming up.
    The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes.


    David Lehman

  4. When you return I am going to give you one literary fuck fest— that means fucking and talking and talking and fucking— and a bottle of Anjou in between— or a Vermouth Cassis.

    Henry Miller in a letter to Anaïs Nin, A Literate Passion

  5. What I want is to hold you
    like a bell holds space
    between the hours.
    Miguel Murphy, Demon & the Dove
  6. If you are the rising sun
    I am the road of blood
    Octavio Paz, “Motion” (translated by Eliot Weinberger, in Collected Poems 1957-1987)
  7. Each act of tenderness
    amends the violence of history.
    Toi Derricotte, Love Story in Black and White (1941)
  8. i am complicit but clean-
    handed solitaire or loess;
    limbic repentance
    chemical addendum
    arch-sonnet in vitrescence
    i said i am culprit but crimeless
    wraithlike friction
    a volcanic etiquette
    didactic but dormant
    inside a cloven tense

    what is a body anyway?
    taproot treading lighthouse
    fingernails in griffonage
    ire, iris, inkhorn -
    pulsations in the equilibria
    serpent or puma
    cello or pianola

    this colonnade of vine roses
    this history of anomalies
    this city of breadcrumbs
    this mahogany & myrrh
    this steadfast wordlessness

    Lost Nocturnes, Scherezade Siobhan©

  9. if you asked me for maps

    the loose nails of broken rosaries
    the godless hour swallowed as psalm

    the poultice consoling the stage
    -whisper of sorrow in your sinew

    the seascape dressed as a stopwatch
    a tapered parsimony of clueless moments

    the velveteen coral of coxcomb alcoves 
    of questions clothed in that rhapsodic red

    the anemic moon; a bird-stirred marble
    castled in the exhale of beechwood

    the night as a glowworm miming a boat lamp
    a lesson in light & loss entombed in the waves

    the twisted braids of fingers scant to unknot 
    the sea as a lachrymose lullaby of a pink pupil

    the hills prodigal in their vermouth seedling
    a forest blackens its knuckle inside the forgetting

    the daybreak crystal as an unused knife
    the poised gravity of our own heartache

    Scherezade Siobhan©

    Reblogged from: viperslang
  10. To the Psalmist

    I want to slowly shell your sadness 
    as if paring the garnet-stained rind
    of an afghan pomegranate. I study 
    the accentuated aril, that husk-lilt
    of what is wilted; cradle-sacred 
    in the artesian well of a peeled

    portmanteau  - whetted hands, halcyon eyes

    For you, I am 
    an angle-kneed farmer of Mandalay rubies


    I want to garden your grief. 
    put my mouth to the cut lip 
    of that hemorrhaging earth where
    you christen yourself after another flood —
    a quicksilver fettle; a storm raking coals
    Here I train my tresses into a trapeze
    to halter your body when it evades its ebb 
    & flickers into a scintillated waterfall
    I collect your crescent frame 
    its molten litany; its lachrymal oath
                                                 pearl by pearl
                                                stone by stone


       I bring you back from that descent
       wrapped in a song of soot; the ebony soil 
       of a skin still alluvial with sorrowed intent
    I have a tattered bedside, a bowl of hot water
            & a pulse that feels crushed into pollen. 
      Soon I will see you grow from man to music 
        I orchestrate the narrow hum in my fingers 
        across the ornate-wired harp of your shoulders
                             I invent another elegant geometry
                        to trace the paisley of your cicatrices


    I place my face in the trestle of your neck
    a blind dove eclipsed behind the attic’s window
    The night is drawn thick- an indigo sailcloth
                     I watch the rain shatter 
                     into mirrors upon the cobblestone 
    Do your dreams still dance as shadow puppets?
    To murmur a footstep into the corridor of  
    the oyster poise shaping your somnolent 
    ears, I borrow the light of orange sulphur
    as it cascades into the belly of a buttercup
            Each wing a wave
            a smallness that invents 
            a sea from an empty space

                 I tell you I love

    You; a quiet God erupts
    from the contours
    of the scarred tissue
    of your sleep

    Scherezade Siobhan©

    Reblogged from: viperslang
  11. March 4, 1932

    Anais:


    Three minutes after you have gone. No, I can’t restrain it. I tell you what you Already know - I love you. It is this I destroyed over and over again. At Dijon I wrote you long, passionate letters - if you had remained in Switzerland I would have sent them - but how could I send them to Louveciennes? 
    Anais, I can’t say much now - I am in a fever. I could scarcely talk to you because I was continually on the point of getting up and throwing my arms around you. I was in holes you wouldn’t have to go home for dinner - that we might go somewhere to dine and dance. You dance - I have dreamed of that over and over - I dancing with you, or you along dancing with head thrown back and eyes half shut. You must dance for me that way. That is your Spanish self - the distiller Andalusian blood. 
    I am sitting in your place now and I have raised your glass to my lips. But I am tongue tied. What you read to me is swimming over me. Your language is still more overwhelming than mine. I am a child compared to you, because when the womb in you speaks it enfolds everything - it is the darkness I adore. You were wrong to think that I appreciated the literary value alone. That was my hypocrisy talking. I have not dared until now to say what I think. But I am plunging - you have opened the void for me - there is no holding back. 
    Without you realizing it, I have been living with you constantly. But I have been afraid to admit it - I thought it would terrify you. Today I had planned to bring you to my room and show you the water colours. But it seemed so sordid, leading you to my miserable hotel. No, I can’t do that. You will lead me somewhere - to your shack, as you call it. Lead me there so that I may put my arms around you. 
    And I lie, Anais, when I tell you that I do not want to worship you. Did you expect me to tell you these things? When I saw Marcel Pagnol’s film Marius, I was dreaming of you, you are like the boat going out to sea, and your sails are full spread, and the sunlight is playing all over you. And like Marius, I have joined the boat at the eleventh hour - I have jumped out the back window and raced to the wharf.
    Still, I don’t know how much I dare write you in spite of your permission. I have a feeling that I may be committing sacrilege, but then that can’t be. My instincts must be right. Nevertheless, I await hungrily some word from you. Yes, you have told me, over and over again, in a hundred different ways, but I am slow, Anais, slow perhaps because it is such delicious torture. It is like waiting to see you rise from your throne. 
    And about Hugo - Anais, I can’t think of Hugo. It is impossible to think of him and of you. Please don’t lie to yourself now. Not before me! 
    I may call you tomorrow and let you know that this is waiting for you. I would call you immediately, only that Hugo will be there. 
    There is a telephone at my hotel, but I don’t know the number, and I am afraid it is not listed in the book. At any rate, if you should succeed in calling, the number of my room is 40. 
    Then I won’t see you Sunday. That is hard, too. But it is better - you are right.


    Henry.

  12. September 6,1932
    Henry:  

    Tonight everything hurts, not only the separation, but this terrible hunger of body and mind for you which every day you are increasing, stirring more and more. I don’t know what I am writing. Feel me holding you as I have never held you before, more deeply, more sadly, more desperately, more passionately.

    — Anais Nin,“A Literate Passion: Letters of Anais Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953”.
  13. did your metaphor travel from afar?

    ..coz it looks really tired.

  14. a baby jumped into my lap and then refused to go back to his mother.

    a priest declared this was a sign.

    now, i am pregnant with a large pizza.

  15. i did a thing.
also 14 hours of being away from home.
also missing the boy.
also boys are insensitive toads.

    i did a thing.

    also 14 hours of being away from home.

    also missing the boy.

    also boys are insensitive toads.

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