swimming eyes

pictures and words, photos and verbs. and songs.

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Carl Phillips, “Porcelain”

As when a long forgetfulness lifts suddenly, and what
we’d forgotten—as we look at it squarely, then again
refuse to look—is our own
                                                   inconsequence, yes, it was
mostly like that, sex as both an act of defacement and—
as if the two were the same thing—votive offering,
insofar as the leaves
                                        

  also were a kind of offering, or could
at least be said to be, as they kept falling the way leaves
do: volitionless, from different heights, and in the one direction.
altcomics:

Sarah Ferrick

altcomics:

Sarah Ferrick

(Source: butterstory)

I look at the pictures over and over.
To help me remember. We did that
and we did this. He did that. Covered
in leaves. She did that. They did that.
Salt in the water. I did that. Elk by
the side of the road. The elk by the side
of the road alive. You by the side of
the road alive. The calendar is impatient.
Borges explains it in his story with
the character that wants to name
everything. Wants all new numbers.
Wants one word for everything and anything.
I want to be an orange ball of music.
Could you hear me sewing in the dark?
Finishing something.
Emily Pettit, “Observing and These Photographs” (via renegadetongue)

(via renegadetongue)

They slowed down Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony so it stretched over 24 hours,” Gabbert writes: “The effect was of a continual climbing, with no resolution – just an ever-building terror, the slowest imaginable scream. In a state of heightened time, everything reduces to fear, a sublime fear. If life has any meaning, it comes at the end. Brian Pera reviews The Self Unstable by Elisa Gabbert (via therumpus)

(via therumpus)

magnificentruin:

Joel SternfeldWet’n Wild Aquatic Theme Park, Orlando, Florida, September 1980

magnificentruin:

Joel Sternfeld
Wet’n Wild Aquatic Theme Park,
Orlando, Florida, September 1980

jesseriggins:

chelsea, rockaway beach, 2014

jesseriggins:

chelsea, rockaway beach, 2014

Charles Bukowski, “An Almost Made Up Poem”

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’s all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’m not jealous
because we’ve never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ve told
us, but listening to you I wasn’t sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “her, print her, she’s mad but she’s
magic. there’s no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’t happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’t help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.

scarymansion:

Jan Mlcoch “Zawieszenie”, 1974

scarymansion:

Jan Mlcoch “Zawieszenie”, 1974

(Source: anal-desire)