We went into the fire as children, came out
gods. Flies dropped dead at our feet.
Now the villagers leave bouquets of horses
out on our doorsteps, strung
with ribbon, exhaling steam.
They ring once
and flee.
In the cold the horses
lose their hair—it settles
like snow across tops of buildings,
long miles
of red wire reminding us
of words like “Meaning” which own nothing
for themselves.
We throw their punches
for them and avoid
their black eyes.
We subject “Soul” forcibly
to costumed tea parties. We stitch egos
into lamp shades and bedding, line
the parrot cages with the pulp of our
discarded selves. If you shiver it is not
because somewhere someone
has been thinking
of you—and if some roses happen
to push through the surface of a familiar
burial mound it is best
not to mistake their purpose,
it is no business
of ours.
Like the hand that pushes the knife.
Like the knife going in.
The sun also breathes,
the sun continues burning even into the night.
Miles of ribbon,
red. Like the cold
bouquets of meat
for our bruises.
We drop dead at the feet
of the villagers, untie the horses.
We go into the womb as gods, emerge children.
Baptisms by Noah Dey is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
doomsday machine
The first duty of the novelist is to entertain. It is a moral duty. People who read your books are sick, sad, traveling, in the hospital waiting room while someone is dying. Books are written by the alone for the alone.
Courtney Love, 1995.
(Source: martinbormann)
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
(Source: angelasmassacre)
Last Folio presents Yuri Dojc‘s photographs from an old Jewish school in eastern Slovakia, a building frozen in time since one day in 1943 in which every teacher and child in the school was sent to concentration camps. Their abrupt departure left the halls and classrooms desolate; the books, their pages, still, until their discovery half a century later.
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Lipstick
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Papagena
Erin Kelso
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Theater
