Salinyay-blog - Bananafish

I hope, or I could not live.

H.G. Wells, The Island of Dr. Moreau (via kerryquotesquotes)

it goes too fast. 

hi again, tumblr

Dance is a body’s refusal to die. But, oh, your gone hair. The flame & orange flare. Our forms, our least known selves— barrel, sugar, & stench. Your pleas, looped in writing, the stutter of a body’s broken grammar. —Cathy Linh Che, from “I walked through the trees, mourning.” published in Poetry Magazine

skin the poet

skin open the poet to find out how books have been deceiving you: not all hearts pump blood; some, expand in rhymes & contract in line breaks.

skin open the poet to confirm the rumor that between the liver & the spleen lives a tiny being; an imp, absent in daydreams -a social drinker- & a lover of the sax.

1.- take the poet's arm, & rip off a tear of skin. behold a waterfall of metaphors soak your shoes in summer's breeze.

2.- on a surgical table, lay your poet down in such way that his pointy nose threats to drill into the ground.   & with the help of a sharp knife, split the meadow on his back into two nations that might have lost it all in war. proceed then to spread open these lands, & discover that a poet's spine abides as marble columns once did in falling rome: oh the burn or the glory? 3.- light a match & heat the poet's earlobes to 95 °. careful, the smoky smell of blue winter shades might stupefy your brains   whilst the poet's head gets caught in flames. if so: no stress, your poet's mouth muscles might stretch into a smile, but do keep in mind it's just an involuntary contraction. or not.

4.- once the fire's out & the buzzcut's ready, grab your baseball bat & crack the poet's tibia by the half. hollow bones & secret chambers. see that rolled up paper hidden in there? take it out & read it to the skies; correct, it is nothing but the transcripts of the poet's conversations with the moon. tally marks for bleeding hearts.  

5.- as a final act of this medical extravaganza, severe the poet's head & hold it between your hands. do you feel it slowly floating, as if being drawn toward the clouds?   stitch the head back in place using a silver needle & a thread of slurred speech. remember poets heal on empty illusions & broken things.

that is all for poetic anatomy 101...   ...now wake up the poet.

- @skinthepoet 

Heaven’s touch is when she kisses me.

thoughts #14 | r.m (via rmeisel)

I swallowed the entire ocean, just to make sure that you could never drown again.

dontforgetcoffee  (via wnq-writers)

So I entered. So I lost.       I lost it all with my eyes   wide open.

Ocean Vuong, Threshold (via: skinthepoet)

Lost to be found