the lime burner's daughter

I love the color that blueberries stain your fingers with

Fri, 24 May 2013 14:22:19 -0400

I love the color that blueberries stain your fingers with

"I want a red dress. I want it flimsy and cheap, I want it too tight, I want to wear it until..."

Tue, 21 May 2013 23:10:00 -0400

“I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.”

- Kim Addonizio, from “What Do Women Want?”

"This kind of love has to be a verb."

Tue, 21 May 2013 18:33:53 -0400

“This kind of love has to be a verb.”

- Andrea Gibson (via asfreetoflyasafeather)

weissewiese: Daniel Seung Lee, from the series Planted

Tue, 21 May 2013 18:33:22 -0400

weissewiese:

Daniel Seung Lee, from the series Planted

commovente: rolling stones 1970, breakfast at keith richards...

Tue, 21 May 2013 18:33:07 -0400

commovente:

rolling stones 1970, breakfast at keith richards home villa nellcote in the southern part of france. in pic are among others, keith - gram parsons - anita pallenberg etc.

"Give me the strongest cheese, the one that stinks best; and I want the good wine, the swirl in..."

Tue, 21 May 2013 18:28:18 -0400

“Give me the strongest cheese, the one that stinks best;
and I want the good wine, the swirl in crystal
surrendering the bruised scent of blackberries,
or cherries, the rich spurt in the back
of the throat, the holding it there before swallowing.
Give me the lover who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I’m drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.
To hell with the saints, with martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I’m nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it. I want to go
staggering and flailing my way
through the bars and back rooms,
through the gleaming hotels and weedy
lots of abandoned sunflowers and the parks
where dogs are let off their leashes
in spite of the signs, where they sniff each
other and roll together in the grass, I want to
lie down somewhere and suffer for love until
it nearly kills me, and then I want to get up again
and put on that little black dress and wait
for you, yes you, to come over here
and get down on your knees and tell me
just how fucking good I look.”

- Kim Addonizio, “For Desire”

Photo

Mon, 20 May 2013 13:13:06 -0400

"eyewitness, n. So much of my history resides in you now; so much of your history resides in me."

Sun, 19 May 2013 16:59:31 -0400

“eyewitness, n.
So much of my history resides in you now; so much of your history resides in me.”

- David Levithan (via weissewiese)

weissewiese: from January’s zine

Tue, 14 May 2013 19:27:12 -0400

weissewiese:

from January’s zine

weissewiese: Christo and Jeanne-Claude, Wrapped...

Tue, 14 May 2013 18:35:44 -0400

weissewiese:

Christo and Jeanne-Claude, Wrapped Trees (1997-1998)

"You were last seen walking through a field of pianos. No. A museum of mouths. In the kitchen of a..."

Tue, 14 May 2013 18:34:00 -0400

“You were last seen walking through a field of pianos. No. A museum of mouths. In the kitchen of a bustling restaurant, cracking eggs and releasing doves. No. Eating glow worms and waltzing past my bedroom. Last seen riding the subway, literally, straddling its metal back, clutching electrical cables as reins. You were wearing a dress made out of envelopes and stamps, this was how you travelled. I was the mannequin in the storefront window you could have sworn moved. The library card in the book you were reading until that dog trotted up and licked your face. The cookie with two fortunes. The one jamming herself through the paper shredder, afraid to talk to you. The beggar. Hat outstretched bumming for more minutes. The phone number on the bathroom stall with no agenda other than a good time. The good time is a picnic on water, or a movie theatre that only plays your childhood home videos and no one hushes when you talk through them. When you play my videos I throw milk duds at the screen during the scenes I watch myself letting you go — lost to the other side of an elevator — your face switching to someone else’s with the swish of a geisha’s fan. My father could have been a travelling salesman. I could have been born on any doorstep. There are 2,469,501 cities in this world, and a lot of doorsteps. Meet me on the boardwalk. I’ll be sure to wear my eyes. Do not forget your face. I could never.”

- Megan Falley, “new york craigslist > personals > missed connections” (via witandcynicism)

commovente: The Pederson Family

Mon, 13 May 2013 18:37:11 -0400

commovente:

The Pederson Family

"Christ but I’m thirsty, and I want to tell you something, come close I want to whisper it, to..."

Sat, 11 May 2013 22:42:16 -0400

“Christ but I’m thirsty, and I want to tell you something,
come close I want to whisper it, to pour
the words burning into you, the same words for each one of you,
listen, it’s simple, I’m saying it now, while I’m still sober,
while I’m not about to weep bitterly into my own glass,
while you’re still here — don’t go yet, stay, stay,
give me your shoulder to lean against, steady me, don’t let me
drop,
I’m so in love with you I can’t stand up.”

- Kim Addonizio, from “Glass”

Photo

Sat, 11 May 2013 20:36:29 -0400

"And when I asked you how you’d been, I meant I missed you more than I’ve ever missed anything..."

Fri, 10 May 2013 18:32:08 -0400

“And when I asked you how you’d been, I meant I missed you more than I’ve ever missed anything before.”

- Iain Thomas (via thenocturnals)

"My weakest spot is at the corner of 3rd and Main, where the lines intersect and teenagers meet on..."

Sun, 05 May 2013 21:22:00 -0400

“

My weakest spot is at the corner of 3rd and Main,
where the lines intersect
and teenagers meet on Saturday nights. There’s always
the lingering scent of cheap wine
and boys’ cologne on the trees,
as if nature really does remember everything. Even after all the cars are gone
and the empty wine bottles are carefully stashed
behind the bushes.

I can never make myself read my old journals
because there are just some things that still break open
and bleed after all these years.
And it’s almost like putting a bandage on a vein
without stitching it up.
Uncover it and watch it open again.
Watch it bleed worse than before.

The one thing I learned from my mother is that reopening
a closed envelope, especially a love letter, is terrible luck
and can bring a person the worst misfortune.
Last night I ripped open the letter I never sent you.
I went for a drive with the windows down
and let the letter hang out the window,
let the wind pick up any trace of perfume
and lipstick stains left on its pages. Before I knew it, I was two towns away
from the place we first met,
the radio was blaring,
and still the only thing I could hear was the shallow
beat of my heart.

I had it all planned.

Drive until the pages were cold
and no longer damp from all the tears I cried over you.
Maybe go out to eat at a restaurant I’ve never been to before.
Treat myself to one glass of wine.
Go home with the guy from the bar, and sneak quietly
from his bed in the morning, just before sunrise.
Make him believe that I had been a dream.

But as I gripped the letter in my hands, I felt the blueprints of
the life I always wanted with you pounding
through my body. I could hear the hammers,
feel the floor shake. I could see your smile
in the dimly lit alleyway of some gas station I had no memory of driving to.
Damnit, I could even feel your hands on my face.

You; knowing exactly what to say and how to say it.
You; knowing too much
and loving me anyway. You; wearing that old t-shirt I always
loved peeling off your body after a long day of work.
Me; stumbling my way through the pitch black hallways of your apartment, and
You; catching me every time I stubbed my toe on that old
coffee table.
Us; meeting at the corner of 3rd and Main. Where the lines intersect
and teenagers meet.

You looked at me with buttery-sweet hazel eyes
and in that moment I saw everything I ever wanted
in a man.

In you.

I rolled my windows up
and turned off the radio. I spent the rest of the drive home
listening to the letter
with faded lipstick stains
and old promises hidden between Dear and Love always.

”

- Meagan Grisham, “I Wrote This When I Was Drunk”

"For love, I disappear."

Sun, 05 May 2013 20:00:09 -0400

“For love, I disappear.”

- Kim Addonizio (via andillaskforthesea)

"It’s true I can’t forget any part of him, not the long vein rising up along the underside of his..."

Sat, 04 May 2013 19:22:00 -0400

“It’s true I can’t forget any part of him,
not the long vein rising up along the underside of his cock,
or the brushy hair around his balls, dank star of the asshole,
high arches of his feet, strawberry mole on his left cheek-
imperfection that made his face exquisite —
and the freckles scattered over his back,
white insides of his wrists, I remember those too,
and the scar on his belly oh I’m kissing it now,
he belongs to me so purely now he’s left me,
he’ll never come back, his face as he lets go inside of me,
I’ll never see it again, I stand dripping
in the shower where I once knelt
before him to drink whatever came
out of him, sometimes he would watch
me as I walked naked around the room,
here I am, it’s the same room, I’m still
seeing his face the night it closed
to me forever like a failed business, iron grillwork
across the door, dirty windows, trash scattered
over the floor and the fixtures taken out, I turned
away and stumbled down the street, the one bar
was open, the saddest bar in the world, filled
with painted clowns and a few drunks, the owner had passed out
in a booth, covered by his coat, his girlfriend was working
and said The usual, right? and I couldn’t say a word
except Please, and I took a stool and drank
what she served and served and served.”

- Kim Addonizio, “Beginning With His Body and Ending in a Small Town”

I don’t know what to do with my hands now that you’re gone

Fri, 03 May 2013 20:27:00 -0400

I don’t know what to do with my hands now that you’re gone

"Sometimes I am out of touch; but go on."

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 18:14:56 -0400

“Sometimes I am out of touch; but go on.”

- Virginia Woolf (via commovente)