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the pain lingers on


I have been alone for a very long time. I'm locked up in a room and I can't get out. Because I've been locked up in this room so long whatever desires are arising in me are rampaging around everywhere as wild and fierce and monstrous as gigantic starving jungle beasts. I don't know how to talk to people, I especially have difficulty talking to you; and I'm ashamed and scared 'cause I want you so badly, Dimwit.
Blood and Guts in High School

My true place in the world, it turned out was somewhere beyond myself, and if that place was inside me, it was also unlocatable. This was the tiny hole between self and not-self, and for the first time in my life I saw this nowhere as the exact center of the world. 
The Locked Room


he doesn’t know that a world exists outside himself


"Vladimir Nabokov claimed that the “initial shiver of inspiration” for “Lolita” came from a newspaper account of an ape in the Jardin des Plantes in Paris that produced the first drawing ever made by an animal. “This sketch,” he reported, “showed the bars of the poor creature’s cage.” The story neatly encapsulates the tragedy and comedy of Humbert Humbert: for all his preternatural brilliance — no one of his kind has ever set such things down on a page — he knows less than nothing because he doesn’t know that a world exists outside himself."

This red-haired girl of mine

This red-haired girl of mine tore a pine-cone from the pine, to cut into her palm, singing the song her sinking lover sung. I shut my eyes, ripped the train from off the line, but a sudden gust of snow blew through a hole in my girl's clothes. Well, my girl knows she's not all right, and I don't mind. Just give me time, baby, give me time. Her stinging eyes, and her sixteen-hour drive, and our shared, transparent rope, and our icy dive through hope I'll memorize, and I'll cut into my mind. I can't believe it can be so. I won't believe that my girl froze. Well, my girl knows I'm coiled tight and green inside. Just give me time, baby, give me time. And that weight you hold, it's getting light, and, love, I know you'll raise it easily up high. Just give it time, just give it time. Oh baby, just give it time.


My sexuality is not wanting to exist.

Some people think that I'm strong , stable, self assured. But I don't want to be, because I don't want to impose or control others. What I'm looking for is another power that's hidden, efficacious, and practical: the power to reclaim myself.

I write words to you whom I don't and can't know, to you who will always be other than alien to me. These words sit on the edges of meanings and aren't properly grammatical. For when there is no country, no community, the speaker's unsure of which language to use, how to speak, if it's possible to speak. Language is community.

My sexuality is not wanting to exist.
Kathy Acker

kissing your dim dear face

X-Factor 232

“I cannot help feeling there is something essentially wrong about love. Friends may quarrel or drift apart, close relations too, but there is not this pang, this pathos, this fatality which clings to love. Friendship never has that doomed look. Why, what is the matter? I have not stopped loving you, but because I cannot go on kissing your dim dear face, we must part, we must part.”
Vladimir Nabokov


 X-Factor #232 

your relentless absence


When I am at the centre
of my unrequited love
I cannot hold it as an object
It has no sharp edges
to torture anyone
I breathe the fragrance
of the longing
and the longing
has no proprietor
“O my love” embraces
the great wide sky
as the night picks through
the constellations
lifting necklace
after dripping necklace
for the delight
of Leonard’s true beloved
“O my love” cries out
from every pore of snow
and the forest answers
from a great height:
“O my love”
And one heart appears
and one heart dissolves
and they clasp in the place
where I am held up
in the storm
And I walk to you
on the waves of desire
walk across the distance
with something new to tell you
about your beauty
your good legs
and your relentless absence

the tumblr

Since NEXT YEAR will be the 10th anniversary of this blog, I might as well start looking it over now so it’s not such a pain next year. While doing so I've been reposting old posts I like on my tumblr. So for those tumblr inclied you can follow that.

I’ll love you ‘til the Goddamn stars go out.

Till death shatters

People like you an’ me don’t find each other too often in this damn world. What we have ain’t born of reason or logic ‘cause love never is. It’s stupid an’ crazy an’ irrational, ‘cause it comes from in here, ‘an that is one thing that never makes no sense. We don’t just gotta accept the way things are. Just like we don’t gotta let ourselves be lessened by death or any other damn thing. Just like we don’t need no God to shape the world for us. We can make our lives the way we want them - - or we ain’t worth nothing. Now take my hand an’ I swear I’ll love you ‘til the Goddamn stars go out.
Garth Ennis, Preacher
 till death shatters, intelligentsianervosa 

because it’s not linear


: I don’t want you if I’m going to have to feel this pain. I don’t 
want you, or rather I don’t want these feelings of wanting you
more than anything else in the world. If having these feelings
which you blithely call love means most of the days I live through
are spent in wanting that which can’t be relieved: this is no 
fucking way to live and I won’t stand for it.

: I have to erase you out of my life so I can keep in living.
no matter how passionate no matter how perfect no matter
how deep love, it fades and there’s nothing. I won’t stand for it.

: I’ve never felt anything such as this in my life. No. Those were
your words. I’m too tired to speak now, my darling.

: I refuse to give up a love which I believe’s good. I believe it’s 
good because it’s not linear, just an obsession; but calm, rich,
and many-angled.

Acker, Kathy. Don Quixote. New York: Grove Press, 1986.



If a man lives with a poem, he shall die lonely.


The New Poetry Handbook
by Mark Strand

1 If a man understands a poem,
he shall have troubles.

2 If a man lives with a poem,
he shall die lonely.

3 If a man lives with two poems,
he shall be unfaithful to one.

4 If a man conceives of a poem,
he shall have one less child.

5 If a man conceives of two poems,
he shall have two children less.

6 If a man wears a crown on his head as he writes,
he shall be found out.

7 If a man wears no crown on his head as he writes,
he shall deceive no one but himself.

8 If a man gets angry at a poem,
he shall be scorned by men.

9 If a man continues to be angry at a poem,
he shall be scorned by women.

10 If a man publicly denounces poetry,
his shoes will fill with urine.

11 If a man gives up poetry for power,
he shall have lots of power.

12 If a man brags about his poems,
he shall be loved by fools.

13 If a man brags about his poems and loves fools,
he shall write no more.

14 If a man craves attention because of his poems,
he shall be like a jackass in moonlight.

15 If a man writes a poem and praises the poem of a fellow,
he shall have a beautiful mistress.

16 If a man writes a poem and praises the poem of a fellow overly,
he shall drive his mistress away.

17 If a man claims the poem of another,
his heart shall double in size.

18 If a man lets his poems go naked,
he shall fear death.

19 If a man fears death,
he shall be saved by his poems.

20 If a man does not fear death,
he may or may not be saved by his poems.

21 If a man finishes a poem,
he shall bathe in the blank wake of his passion
and be kissed by white paper.