a bible in a bath of bleach.

Hi MTV, I'm Timberlene and welcome to my crib.

big-daddy-batman: Batman V1 #015
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November, 10th 2012 @ 10:13 / 558 / Permalink →
theparisreview: Google Poetics (via millionsmillions).
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misterbadger: Alice Neel, Frank O’Hara, 1960, oil on canvas, 34 x 16 1/8 in. Why I Am Not a Painter, by Frank O’Hara I am not a painter, I am a poet. Why? I think I would rather be a painter, but I am not. Well, for instance, Mike Goldberg is starting a painting. I drop in. “Sit down and have a drink” he says. I drink; we drink. I look up. “You have SARDINES in it.” “Yes, it needed something there.” “Oh.” I go and the days go by and I drop in again. The painting is going on, and I go, and the days go by. I drop in. The painting is finished. “Where’s SARDINES?” All that’s left is just letters, “It was too much,” Mike says. But me? One day I am thinking of a color: orange. I write a line about orange. Pretty soon it is a whole page of words, not lines. Then another page. There should be so much more, not of orange, of words, of how terrible orange is and life. Days go by. It is even in prose, I am a real poet. My poem is finished and I haven’t mentioned orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.
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wordboner: That quote was stolen about - tees - facebook - twitter
1021
uutpoetry: The Jack of Spades Men were kissing women’s hands in the cafeteria. I laid on the ground with lemon rind. I saw a way around the mound of peppermint. The forbidden word stayed up late fortifying tables with a staple gun, while the real table was uploaded to nowhere. A net somewhere in the ether catches every frog that played the jack of spades.
35

Winter: Calm

wearemostaliveindreams:

I felt.

For the first time,
since June.

I felt like,
a hopeless riot.

Like an ice cube,
melting and forgotten
at the bottom
of your cup.

Like the whole
of my existence,
could be buried
and remembered
only in passing.
A memory of
something that
only took
breath once, and
gave nothing.

I felt.

November, 10th 2012 @ 10:11 / 107 / Permalink →
"yeh go do it
honk, scream
uhuh yeh—history
love
blue clipped moments
of intense feeling."
Amiri Baraka (via uutpoetry)
November, 10th 2012 @ 10:10 / 24 / Permalink →
uutpoetry: Tearful madskill2: I dripped a bucket full of tear formed ocean of upriver flow tears didn’t drizzle, it rained fear by attaining love in its inglorious glow. I am cut by a glittering gaze of pretty disingenuous saint - alas I’m dazed by this inimitable disaffection of beaut heart row, dewed, and savagely brute I found bride in bosom of the blue pacific she has no memory of all she has taken I paddle all night in Path of a stormy Atlantic all to be taken and forgotten by a gustily queen
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uutpoetry: A Disjunction is a Dynamics A disjunction is a dynamics: ionotropic, yet sensationless, the misdirected cut-up ponderousness saving multiple black capes that stride forth, in ribbed-silk sensitivity, black and white as nuns. Every nation-state has something that needs disjoining— if only we allow the little scales of never to lord over the fields in bad times clenching their fists. The burning bush of our sexuality is balanced like a fan on the airborne knifegrinder of Circe who guides the thread of reflective gingkos in a theater right above me, the last hands that touch Monday with spacious pores.
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