I WILL LOVE ON MY CAT MORE NOW
Currently rewatching the X-Files and blogging about it. (This "project" is on temporary hiatus, but will hopefully resume soon. Hopefully.)
if you just want to hear a playlist of my audio posts, well guess what, you can do that here.
I also run:
trouble minx, a tumblr about Spoon
Avedon & Erté, which posts one classic Richard Avedon photo and one Erté art deco masterpiece a day, or at least it does when I get around to filling the queue.
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I WILL LOVE ON MY CAT MORE NOW
Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water.
And everyone you love is made of stardust, and I know sometimes
you cannot even breathe deeply, and
the night sky is no home, and
you have cried yourself to sleep enough times
that you are down to your last two percent, but
nothing is infinite,
not even loss.
You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day
you are going to find yourself again.
Bonaparte Before the Sphinx by Jean-Léon Gérôme, 1868.
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Elegy for the Best Pair of Black Flats Ever
I don’t think anyone thought you would last as long as you did.
I don’t remember how much my mom paid for you
Or when I got you, or where.
(I think it was 5 years ago,
at Off Broadway or DSW
so I’m sure my hopes weren’t high.)
But since then
You’ve been everywhere I have been
You were with me in Washington D.C.
on that amazing weekend in January
(I remember because my feet were cold).
We’ve covered so much ground together
You and I
That one day I looked down
And I had walked a hole right through you.
I’m a little ashamed to say I kept wearing you for months even after that
Because as hard as I looked for a replacement pair of black ballet flats
Not patent, but not too matte either
No heel, no buckles, no bows
And just the right amount of toe coverage
I was really just looking for another you
And you are one of a kind
(Not that I didn’t try to track down a clone of you
But my walking wore away your brand name years ago).
When I couldn’t put it off anymore,
I settled for the least offensive replacement pair
I tried them on
I put them in your old spot on the shelf
And I threw you away.
(I threw some old moldy bread on top of you so I couldn’t change my mind and dig you out again.)
And maybe it’s weird that I’m writing a poem for my worn-out old shoes
But I just wanted you to know
That although there will be many more pairs of black flats in my future
You will always be my favorite.
Étrécissement #16: Screaming at the Ritz
Oh my god, Andrew. Was this one supposed to be hilarious?? I feel like I’m dying
The phantom’s house,
as it is called,
sits alone in a cornfield,
its ancient clapboards
painted crimson with the blood
of lost travelers,
creaking and moaning in the pale
glow of the gibbous moon.
A disfigured ghoul,
known only as “the violinist”
sits in the rafters,
his haunting theme
I wish I could “like” this about 50 times.
If it weren’t so damn
difficult, i would love to
write a real haiku
for you, or maybe
even a renga, but you
know i was never
good at math. instead,
you’re getting this, my half-assed
attempt at a po-
-etic form with a
rich tradition and specif-
designed to focus
the mind on a single im-
-age, but which we west-
-erners have trouble
grasping, so we make it a
i hope this doesn’t
make you mad, but I meant no
offense, if that helps.
I’m not much for poetry but this is my favorite of yours, so far.