When You Pick Something Up With Your Feet? Monkey Momence

"The Bull" Ocean Vuong

He stood alone in the backyard, so dark the night purpled around him. I had no choice. I opened the door & stepped out. Wind in the branches. He watched me with kerosene -blue eyes. What do you want? I asked, forgetting I had no language. He kept breathing, to stay alive. I was a boy – which meant I was a murderer of my childhood. & like all murderers, my god was stillness. My god, he was still there. Like something prayed for by a man with no mouth. The green-blue lamp swirled in its socket. I didn’t want him. I didn’t want him to be beautiful – but needing beauty to be more than hurt gentle enough to hold, I reached for him. I reached – not the bull – but the depths. Not an answer but an entrance the shape of an animal. Like me.

When I say I'm fr a freak this is what I mean

Art. Auguste Rodin, The eternal idol (detail)

i go back to may 1937 by Sharon Olds

what i didn't know before by ada limón

frog4scalpel

“I’ve got a bit of a repulsion towards drawing in a purely perspectival way, as it puts the optical at the top of some sort of hierarchy” - Mary Herbert

“When I was nine years old, the world, too, was nine years old. At least, there was no difference between us, no opposition, no distance. We just tumbled around from sunrise to sunset, earth and body as alike as two pennies. And there was never a harsh word between us, for the simple reason that there were no words at all between us; we never uttered a word to each other, the world and I. Our relationship was beyond language—and thus also beyond time. We were one big space (which was, of course, a very small space).”

— Inger Christensen, The Condition of Secrecy