“My soul’s youth I gave him, night by night. God speed. Good hunting.”
“…human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars.”
“I think we ought to only read the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? … But we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is my belief.”
Advertising, stop. Just stop.
“Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress of Burgundy. Sun’s heat it is. Seems a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered.”
“Mild fire of wine kindled his veins. I wanted that badly. Felt so off colour.”
“Staunch friend, a brother soul: Wilde’s love that dare not speak its name. His arm: Cranly’s arm. He now will leave me. And the blame? As I am. As I am. All or not at all.”
I accidently unfollowed one of my followers last night (I think). I tried looking for you to rectify my mistake, but alas. You had a thing for Rimbaud and interesting images and poetry. If this sounds like you send me a message and we can begin anew. If it wasn’t you, but this sounds like you, send me a message, I could do with more Rimbaud/poetry/imagery in my dash!
(Apologies everyone else. I’ve been distracted the last couple of days, as evidenced by above. I’ll get back to spamming you with Joyce and stop with the ridiculous soon enough.)
“A warm human plumpness settled on his brain. His brain yielded. Perfume of embraces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore.”