I. This one starts out detailing the frustration of using language to describe the feeling of love. Next is a detailed description of an intimate moment between two lovers. It is then followed by, ‘there is no word to describe that’. The reality is, there are words to describe that. They just had to be arranged in a way to communicate such a feeling, exactly. This one is boring.

II. This one is a bit sadder. Maybe it’s a breakup poem. Here is some imagery that involves blood. This one is some kind of methadone, some kind of way to take away the sharp edge of losing love. Here’s the map of personal destruction, the anatomy of separation, the hole you want to crawl into. This one is a battle scar.

III. This one emotionally undresses for you while you gaze through the keyhole. Maybe it is the freckle underneath a lover’s breast. You’d like to think you are the only one who has seen it. Maybe this one is a hunger for familiar flesh, or a manifesto of a steady fuck. There are detailed descriptions of the naked Sunday morning religion. This one is a lovesick striptease. Too bad it ends too soon.

IV. Ah, this one is a goddamn masterpiece. It is marked in permanent ink in the bathroom of a dive bar. The last bit is a handful of numbers.

V. This one tries too hard and compares love to the ocean, or maybe outer space. Love is not the ocean. Despite what you’ve been told, love isn’t all we need. Love is never enough to make a soldier lay down his weapon. Putting flowers on a bayonet is a dangerous idea. Don’t you go swimming deep into the ocean thinking there will be love down there. Love is in accident. Don’t go looking for accidents.


Brandon Speck, “Five Naked Love Poems”  (via pigmenting)

For us, eating and being eaten belong to the terrible secret of love. We love only the person we can eat. The person we hate we ‘can’t swallow.’ That one makes us vomit. Even our friends are inedible. If we were asked to dig into our friend’s flesh we would be disgusted. The person we love we dream only of eating. That is, we slide down that razor’s edge of ambivalence.

The story of torment itself is a very beautiful one. Because loving is wanting and being able to eat up and yet to stop at the boundary. And there, at the tiniest beat between springing and stopping, in rushes fear. The spring is already in mid-air. The heart stops. The heart takes off again. Everything in love is oriented towards this absorption.

At the same time real love is a don’t-touch, yet still an almost-touching. Tact itself: a phantom touching.

Eat me up, my love, or else I’m going to eat you up.

Fear of eating, fear of the edible, fear on the part of the one of them who feels loved, desired, who wants to be loved, desired, who desires to be desired, who knows there is no greater proof of love than the other’s appetite, who is dying to be eaten up, who says or doesn’t say, but who signifies: I beg you, eat me up. Want me down to the marrow. And yet manage it so as to keep me alive. But I often turn about or compromise, because I know that you won’t eat me up, in the end, and I urge you: bite me.

Sign my death with your teeth.


Helene Cixous, “The Love of the Wolf” (via fleurishes)
I promise that I will love you as if it’s the only thing that I’ve ever done correctly.
Rudy Francisco  (via soundelics)
We have to learn to save ourselves, change ourselves,
or else we’ll come to a time when love won’t help.

Stephen Dobyn, “The Words We Have Spoken” (via lifeinpoetry)
so don’t tell me how love will rescue me,
I was carnivorous about love, I ate love to the ankles,
my thighs are gnawed with love

Dionne Brand, excerpt from “Ossuaries III”
(via thescurfofworse)

(Source: gotochelm)

The greatest lie ever told about love is that it sets you free.
Zadie Smith, On Beauty (via theglasschild)

(Source: larmoyante)


azorel:

seen in Gastown, Vancouver, BC

I could walk behind anyone and fall in love. / Don’t stop. Don’t turn around.”

- Dorianne Laux

“[Martin Luther King, Jr.] concluded the learned discourse that came to be known as the ‘loving your enemies’ sermon this way: ‘So this morning, as I look into your eyes and into the eyes of all my brothers in Alabama and all over America and over the world, I say to you,’I love you. I would rather die than hate you.”

Go ahead and reread that. That is hands down the most beautiful, strange, impossible, but most of all radical thing a human being can say. And it comes from reading the most beautiful, strange, impossible, but most of all radical civics lesson ever taught, when Jesus of Nazareth went to a hill in Galilee and told his disciples, ‘Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you.” 


― Sarah VowellThe Wordy Shipmates

Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.
Frida Kahlo, to Marty McConnell (via thenocturnals)

"I love you like I love the internet. You’re amazing, but I don’t understand how the fuck you work."

— Connor Sampson

“Calling it a simple schoolgirl crush was like saying a Rolls-Royce was a vehicle with four wheels, something like a hay-wagon. She did not giggle wildly and blush when she saw him, nor did she chalk his name on trees or write it on the walls of the Kissing Bridge. She simply lived with his face in her heart all the time, a kind of sweet, hurtful ache. She would have died for him.” 
― Stephen KingIt

To say he worshipped her is not hyperbole, but although his love was not requited he carried his sorrow without complaint, revealing it only in the slight widow’s hump that began to show across his shoulders. It was a load, always present, a pain, a pressure, and it was this which drove his engine, which kept him moving, dancing, talking, joking, as if the sheer pain would be too much if he sat down and let himself feel it.
Peter Carey
[as if banishing love is a fix.] as if the stars go out when we shut our sleepy eyes
D. A. Powell, from “corydon and alexis, redux” (thanks, kaylenebama)
i haven’t written a poem in so long
i may have forgotten how
unless writing a poem
is like riding a bike
or swimming upstream
or loving you

Nikki Giovanni, from "Habits"
I’m terrified what a love like this is going to cost me.
Jared Singer, from “The Only Love Poem I Will Ever Admit to Having Written, Version 2”