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ripe peach by louise gluck

1 There was a time only certainty gave me any joy. Imagine — certainty, a dead thing. 2 And then the world, the experiment. The obscene mouth famished with love — it is like love: the abrupt, hard certainty of the end — 3 In the center of the mind, the hard pit, the conclusion. As though the fruit itself never existed, only the end, the point midway between anticipation and nostalgia — 4 So much fear. So much terror of the physical world. The mind frantic guarding the body from the passing, the temporary, the body straining against it — 5 A peach on the kitchen table. A replica. It is the earth, the same disappearing sweetness surrounding the stone end, and like the earth available — 6 An opportunity for happiness: earth we cannot possess only experience — And now sensation: the mind silenced by fruit — 7 They are not reconciled. The body here, the mind separate, not merely a warden: it has separate joys. It is the night sky, the fiercest stars are its immaculate distinctions– 8 Can it survive? Is there light that survives the end in which the mind’s enterprise continues to live: though darting about the room, above the bowl of fruit– 9 Fifty years. the night sky filled with shooting stars. Light, music from far away — I must be nearly gone. I must be stone, since the earth surrounds me — 10 There was a peach in a wicker basket. There was a bowl of fruit. Fifty years. Such a long walk from the door to the table. __ From The Seven Ages (Ecco/Harper Collins, 2001)

@hijadeltofu

3d ago

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ROOM

My room is a corridor of doorways. Not a space, not a shelter, but a network of half-thoughts and abandoned exits. The floors reek of piss, like some wild dog marked its territory and then left me to rot in it. The walls pulse with memory. Or maybe delusion. Either way, it’s loud in here. Thoughts swarm like ants — frantic, mindless, pathetic — all scrabbling for something to hold on to. Information. Meaning. But there’s nothing. Just famine. Starvation of sense. A thousand tiny legs searching for crumbs in a house that hasn’t been fed in years. And every day the sky breaks open again. Not metaphorically. The rain here isn’t poetic. It hammers. It devours. It doesn’t cleanse; it drowns. The ants drown, but they don’t die. They keep moving, twitching, twitching, twitching. Not alive. Not dead. Just full of guts and nerves and the viscera that keep them twitching. That hard carapace we all grow when the storm doesn’t stop. That’s all they are. That’s all I am. Sometimes I think I’ll dig my way in. Crawl through the iris of my own eye — molecular, meticulous — and enter the network of my brain like a savior. A surgeon. Maybe a god. Maybe I’ll find the ants and teach them how to be more than twitching muscle and damp despair. Maybe I’ll name them. Maybe I’ll give them something like hope. But dry drowning is real. No matter what they say. And the terrifying thing is — there’s no evidence it isn’t.

@baileyxward

May 27, 2025

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FIRDANCER; O’sweet, O’Belov’D

My mind is made of bubbles Synapses pop here and there Take me in different directions Through alleyways and down steep stairs My emotions come and go like the mornings receding tide Shift like piss swift dribbling down drainage pipes and play-place slides My words are drool upon your feet My eyes are hung like frozen coals Or snot that freezes and puddles In jacket arms, on brand new clothes The mirror is a needle but these ropes are all the same I built my house on a rock in sands so that I can be displaced by strange rogue waves Sometimes screaming doesn’t help Today I can’t talk at all Self harm gets only a couple chuckles when friends come round to call My loves tears taste like cinnamon I can’t swallow without spitting up Ones once loved don’t talk to me because my medicine makes me less fun I cry every other night over folks I chose to hang around My room is set on fire every time I say something and don’t like how it sounds Good grief, bang the drum all day

@a2den

Dec 29, 2024

Top Recs from @a2den

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I watched too much YouTube as a kid

Meta-irony is the fantastical pallet in which I choose to paint my world. I find myself following confusing paths to strange allusions. Sentences that switch back on themselves and examine the writer for meaning, And truly burn them during a burial at sea to sink beneath waves of witticisms and filler words Like, it’s, okay, um, well, god; physical eye rolls careen over bodies of the learned  And silence is resented.  Seek visual silence and youre staring into space I seek the stimulation of little scrolling stories and their sixty second arcs The recaps of art I will only ever see from this side of the fence   Obscured by toggles and buttons. UX and UI blurring my experience and sharpening my understanding Trapped in a cage of something else’s design, in someone else’s device What I hold is not my own. It is not of me, it has grown attached to me. A leech I love so dearly we share skin. A parasite I make space for. My mind has holes where morals should be. Blasted out by years of prank videos Of multi-channel networks, family vlogging channels, relationship advice gurus, discord moderators I am the seed sown by excitement for lazer collections, gmod idiot box, and home made stop motion lego Star Wars parody music videos Perverted in bad faith at the hands of a digital monster let loose by its creator  To put the potential for profitability through exploitation in the hands of the proletariat too occupied by dreams of influence to see how they are being led to the altar by the collar. Asked to sacrifice time or spirit or soul to be left hollowed out by the house before it inevitably wins The will is no match for the cold, mechanical force of algorithms whose nature is dictated by watch times One sided engagement over engaged interaction I watched too much YouTube as a kid and now I know everything 

@a2den

Dec 29, 2024

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FIRDANCER; O’sweet, O’Belov’D

My mind is made of bubbles Synapses pop here and there Take me in different directions Through alleyways and down steep stairs My emotions come and go like the mornings receding tide Shift like piss swift dribbling down drainage pipes and play-place slides My words are drool upon your feet My eyes are hung like frozen coals Or snot that freezes and puddles In jacket arms, on brand new clothes The mirror is a needle but these ropes are all the same I built my house on a rock in sands so that I can be displaced by strange rogue waves Sometimes screaming doesn’t help Today I can’t talk at all Self harm gets only a couple chuckles when friends come round to call My loves tears taste like cinnamon I can’t swallow without spitting up Ones once loved don’t talk to me because my medicine makes me less fun I cry every other night over folks I chose to hang around My room is set on fire every time I say something and don’t like how it sounds Good grief, bang the drum all day

@a2den

Dec 29, 2024