(via eletric-retard)
I'll up and sing another song.
And drop another grape in my belly down.
A Poem for the Old Man, by John Wieners
God love you
Dana my lover
lost in the horde
on this Friday night,
500 men are moving up
& down from the bath
room to the bar.
Remove this desire
from the man I love.
Who has opened
the savagery
of the sea to me.
See to it that
his wants are filled
on California street
Bestow on him lar-
gesse that allows him
peace in his loins.
Leave him not
to the moths.
Make him out a lion
so that all who see him
hero worship his
thick chest as I did
moving my mouth
over his back bringing
our hearts to heights
I never hike over
anymore.
Let blond hair burn
on the back of his
neck, let no ache
screw his face
up in pain, his soul
is so hooked.
Not heroin.
Rather fix these
hundred men as his
lovers & lift him
with the enormous bale
of their desire.
(Source: rebellious-kids, via margaretrose-)
(Source: fruittt-etc)
Great Serpent Mound - Mississippian Culture, Ohio, USA, c. 1070
1958
American Bison, or buffalo.
John James Audubon, from The quadrupeds of North America vol. 2, by John James Audubon and John Bachman, New York, 1851.
(Source: archive.org)
Dark Harvest, by Joseph Millar
You can come to me in the evening,
with the fingers of former lovers
fastened in your hair and their ghost lips
opening over your body,
They can be philosophers or musicians in long coats and colored shoes
and they can be smarter than I am,
whispering to each other
when they look at us.
You can come walking toward my window after dusk
when I can’t see past the lamplight in the glass,
when the chipped plates rattle on the counter
and the cinders
dance on the cross-ties under the wheels of southbound freights.
Bring children if you want, and the long wounds of sisters
branching away
behind you toward the sea.
Bring your mother’s tense distracted face
and the shoulders of plane mechanics
slumped in the Naugahyde booths of the airport diner,
waiting for you to bring their eggs.
I’ll bring all the bottles of gin I drank by myself
and my cracked mouth opened partway
as I slept in the back of my blue Impala
dreaming of spiders.
I won’t forget the lines running deeply
in the cheeks of the Polish landlady
who wouldn’t let the cops upstairs,
the missing ring finger of the machinist from Spenard
whose money I stole after he passed out to go downtown in a cab
and look for whores,
or the trembling lower jaw of my son, watching me
back my motorcycle from his mother’s driveway one last time,
the ribbons and cone-shaped birthday hats
scattered on the lawn,
the rain coming down like broken glass.
We’ll go out under the stars and sit together on the ground
and there will be enough to eat for everybody.
They can sleep on my couches and rug,
and the next day
I’ll go to work, stepping easily across the scaffolding, feeding
the cable gently into the new pipes on the roof,
and dreaming
like St Francis of the still dark rocks
that disappear under the morning tide,
only to climb back into the light,
sea-rimed, salt-blotched, their patched webs of algae
blazing with flies in the sun.
