Monday, 11 March 2013
myimpossibleandyouacross
I read books, and slowly lose words, more and more. Then a red bird across my throat. Then my blood, and a child standing in the doorway. Then the night sky is thundering. Then there is a song for this sweat. Then there is stolen.
I love you innumerous. I love you gallant.
I am not writing. I am break out of an earth. Help me, champion—cavalier—wretch—god—wound.
I can't (clockwork) express (discomfit) what (the lambs) holds me.
What is not experimental, this cardboard, and skulking, over long, cold arms.
The only thing I ever wanted was a head full of daylight.
Thursday, 7 March 2013
I was in the sky, I took measurements
Loathsome to steal from myself—twice, and I am clubbed, till thrice, I let out.
(and then ratnest—skittering endless places.)
I am best when staring into a chair, and think it honeycomb and bee sting.
Still, these flashes of a great dog, before my world spinning upon.
I am borrowing, and must do to its time.
Then I think of the deep midnight of the ocean, and lightning that plays across the sky.
(but I feel a toothache, and wrenching eyes, and postcards, and death, and the sunlight/bruised elbows/world.)
I can only think it the tide without a moon inside my mind.
I am awed upon a vast empress.
I have no path of use.
Monday, 4 March 2013
Sunday, 3 March 2013
with quiet hands
—Ian William L.
Monday, 25 February 2013
yet tempests still see
"Love out loud. There are people all around you who need it, and you do not realise—their night, their sweat. Really, painfully, crash-into-goddamn love them. Louder than life can bruise them. Further than thought can force them. Love out-lasting."
—Ian William L.
the morning of the day inside of me
"How strange I feel, if as a lit match soaked in sweat, the bird of prey run through an ocean."
—Ian William L.
Saturday, 23 February 2013
Sunday, 17 February 2013
Thursday, 7 February 2013
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