Rec
✨
when i am on a pedestal
you did not raise me there
your laws do not compel me
to kneel grotesque and bare
Jan 16, 2025
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Rec
a post midnight morsel of delicious stirring to send you on a one way ticket back to dreamland
(poem by leonard cohen)
(poem by leonard cohen)
Rec
we’re careening— well, that
sounds dramatic. not
careening— but
sliding, holding you
and myself in place—
because my disposition
leads (and has always led)
to believing abandon reckless
will kill if I let it as close
as myself and yourself
held only by bicycle rope
or kayak rope or moving box rope
side beside inside truckbed
backseat forgone
throats slicked with City of Roses
forest gin and Artemis Moons
I’m sober and you’re not
I’m anxious and you’re not
you’re carefree spit-balling
about side parts and
saying love and love
as we pass long-haul truckers—
eyesclosed Lyft drivers—
that pinkie-promise
coworker to fast friend
elbow to elbow
barefoot to clogs
off in the cab
shallow river dipping
mask off cheek pinch
I-tell-everyone-you’re-my-cousin
kind of love
that no mother could ever
that no father could ever
that kind of love
that door we kicked
down and threw into that
mustard bonfire of before
that old worthless hinge
don’t work so won’t bother
not ever not now
not in this truckbed—
I toss my thoughts to traffic
fine me $900 for littering
lock me up for language
you say what a beautiful city
my glasses are in my pocket
those empty offices
stacked apartments and
windowbeam glitterblurs
fall into the nightvoid
I’ve seen beautiful and more unmatched in those words you weave so keep weaving them—
I’ll be here listening long after we pull into the driveway.
(& if u like it, I linked my poetry newsletter :)
I’ve seen beautiful and more unmatched in those words you weave so keep weaving them—
I’ll be here listening long after we pull into the driveway.
(& if u like it, I linked my poetry newsletter :)
May 14, 2024
Rec
I’ve never felt this skin touch air before. It’s pink and raw like fresh meat, like something not meant to see the sun. And here I am, half-naked in a garden that pretends to be Eden, if Eden were lined with thorns and mountain lions instead of angels. The shrubs rustle. I hear it breathing. I know it’s there.
Maybe I made it up. Maybe the fear is its own beast.
Tonight, sleep will come with teeth. That I know. You can’t talk to nightmares the way you talk to people, there’s no bargaining, no clever arguments. Just blood and the echo of screams.
There's a cartouche on my wall, etched in gold and dust, staring back at me like a curse I forgot I summoned. I think it’s watching. I think it knows. And where the fuck is my shoe? I had it a second ago. It’s absurd, isn’t it? That I’m thinking about footwear while being hunted?
It moves. I move faster.
There’s a crunch. A scream, mine, maybe. Or maybe the thing’s.
I look down. Under my Converse, something’s twitching. Then it’s not. Just a smear, just a stain.
I’ve killed it. I think. I hope.
And I wonder, briefly, stupidly, would Mother Gaia forgive me for snuffing a life because it frightened me? Because it was inconvenient? Because it was there?
Probably not. But it’s dead all the same.
Top Recs from @timofey
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when in the words of the great poet, DMX, you ask the “Lord to give you a sign“ and he replies you immediately
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because its was a hard week and you just can have one or two at 2am. you deserve it, bud
