oh, renoir

Coming at an end, the lovers
Are exhausted like two swimmers.  Where
Did it end?  There is no telling.  No love is
Like an ocean with the dizzy procession of the waves' boundaries
From which two can emerge exhausted, nor long goodbye
Like death.
Coming at an end.  Rather, I would say, like a length
Of coiled rope
Which does not disguise in the final twists of its lengths
Its endings.
But, you will say, we loved
And some parts of us loved
And the rest of us will remain
Two persons.  Yes,
Poetry ends like a rope.
--jack spicer, a book of music

nocturne communique/nocturnal e-mission
patti smith's pen(wo)manship

textual relations/e-ruptions
beast sting
a hole burns in yr hand and i stick my finger in it and it leaves a black streak summer spreads on an orange blanket
a bullet in the medicine cabinet
cum on a concrete patio or a wooden floor.

a flame makes sense
the flame is yes
the flame is no
shy hunter
record stores are closing in stockholm
shy hunter
i'm tearing you asunder.

a precious specimen
in dark martens
picked off the trash heap
and preserved in amber.

the laundry smell of street
on the outskirts of a kiss
so many bits of paper
ease of conversation on a page.

perfumed graduate
i'm gonna wrap duct tape round yr head
till yr eyes turn blue.

looking at:
firekites - autumn story
sannah kvist
new humans
yana payusova

listening to:
bat for lashes - wilderness
cave bears
dynamics
golden silvers
jens lekman - the summer never ends
liechtenstein
little big adventure
magnolia electric co. - it's made me cry
men
3 teens kill 4