“Faith in the king comes easily in lovely times,
but be faithful now and endure, pale lover.
No cure exists for this pain but to die,
So why should I say, “Cure this pain”?
In a dream last night I saw
an ancient one in the garden of love,
beckoning with his hand, saying, “Come here.”
On this path, Love is the emerald,
the beautiful green that wards off dragons,
I am losing myself.
If you are a man of learning,
read something classic,
a history of the human struggle
and don’t settle for mediocre verse.”
You walk into a room, and you’re like, “Something’s different. I’m in a different dimension. It smells so good in here!” [And then you realize] “Oh, David Bowie’s here.”
It smelled like if an ancient pine forest had a massive forest fire — but like, a month ago. So you get the new growth of the grass and the moisture, but still there’s an undercurrent of pain. But also of smoke, so kind of like marshmallows…? It’s powerful.
I spent hours dreaming of conversing with Bowie, but I will never know what he smelled like. I curled up next to a boy that smelled right to me and was able to share just platonic touch and breathing. There is a girl I love, but she doesn’t smell right to me at all. We are mammals, and I have more sense than sex.
you got a lot of nerve
defyn’ your old man’s word
blood on your boots
you got lust in your veins
Why do I have to be named for the mother of God? Why can’t I be named after a poisoner or someone more inspirational? I would suit de Medici superbly.
kept amongst the horseflesh–
you have an eye for what you like to ride.
something that kicks and purrs and moans
beneath as you straddle astride.
Does it matter if the tires grab the road,
or the hands grasp the sheets?
If the engine chokes or the throat is throttled–
if it’s the squeal of agony or rubber on the street?
Every hour has its story,
Of a hundred days
that flow into it like a river.
A composition of elements
that will never intersect again,
But go tumbling downstream–
to what ends we cannot know.
Some to spin the millwheel,
some to flood the fields,
And we cannot tell
if they are wicked,
in the manner they are spent.
For a virtuous hour,
may as likely turn sour,
as one concupiscent,
reaps sweetly of scattered seeds
on barren and borrowed time.
Iliad V. 364–382
Blood follow’d, but immortal; ichor pure,
Such as the blest inhabitants of heav’n
May bleed, nectareous; for the Gods eat not
Man’s food, nor slake as he with sable wine
Their thirst, thence bloodless and from death exempt.
Misericordia, heart mercy,
heat death, ardor mordant,
the love that perishes in its own flame,
what is left of a cold universe,
silent in expanse of bed and night.
When the corporeal pulse ceases,
the soul repopulates the stars.
Sic itur ad astra.
I cannot coax love back from pomegranate seeds;
What belongs to death, Hades must have.
And I am his.
Lady Catherine: “I told him he needed to decide whether to live or die, and then get on with it with as little possible inconvenience to others.”
Elizabeth Bennett: “I’m sure he appreciated the clarification.”
Darcy to Georgianna: “Marry for love, marry the one your heart cries out for, and when you have, do not doubt them for a single second.”