the things that i bought you

In the morning, through the window shade
When the light pressed up against your shoulderblade
I could see what you were reading



All the glory that the Lord has made
And the complications you could do without
When I kissed you on the mouth







In the morning at the top of the stairs
When your father found out what we did that night
And you told me you were scared



All the glory when you ran outside
With your shirt tucked in and your shoes untied
And you told me not to follow you



Sunday night when I cleaned the house
I found the card where you wrote it out
With the pictures of you mother



On the floor at the great divide
With my shirt tucked in and my shoes untied
I am crying in the bathroom



In the morning when you finally go
And the nurse runs in with her head hung low
And the cardinal hits the window



In the morning in the winter shade
On the first of March, on the holiday
I thought I saw you breathing



All the glory that the Lord has made
And the complications when I see His face
In the morning in the window



All the glory when
He took our place
But He took my shoulders and He shook my face

And He takes and He takes and He takes





Sufjan Stevens. Brilliant in its sad loveliness. Golly.

vive l'apocalypse

surreal afternoon walking on leaf-carpet through streets with no people. grey at four in the afternoon and drops on my cigarette. shiver a hug. throw some hail.
there are alarms going off at the city prison so we walk a very long way to find that in our absence, the city has closed down, and with no coffee we are confused.
shut down surrealism.

visual listmaking.

nice things.

add to this list;

apple season

pink cigarettes

the french language

and

dylan thomas.

you can make the pictures in your head.

reblog. it was too beautiful.

"Miss Peacock: “Love. This is another lie. I’m still waiting for the truth, so tell me another lie.”
Paul: Fuckin sport, sport fucking. The stoic Ukulhelen sings: Boyfriend in a coma. Isabel and Janet Winterspoon: I love you is always a quotation. Eric reading McGuckin’s poems, Megan reading Pessoa’s diaries, Bruce reading “When I was a boy in Kentucky” and Alberto The Poem of the Drunken Bride part II. The stranger stages an improvisational play featuring Miss Peacock with balls, aka John, Rudolph dedicated to Gabriel, Christopher wears a bag on his head and neologizes with Sarah. Jason goes bilingual and it’s fucking cool. So I take away a copy of his stuff ‘cause I want to put it in the report, and now I’ve lost it. Anna: “I like to to dream alone”, Marty introduces us to the whole work of P.K.R. Mieklejohn in Amour-Propre, Sarah writes poems on the metro, Rita is trapped in Budapest, Jessica: “Do you think I like you as a friend?” First kiss, followed by first sex, followed by first argue. We are aging. Let’s write about that. Alberto "

http://spokenwordparis.blogspot.com/

i wish that i had written this.
consider it a kind of late valentine.

grand plans

He paints in oils when he should be studying. Paint drips onto his shoes and through his worn-down carpet and he doesn’t really care.

He will not sit his exam tomorrow. He thinks it doesn’t matter, really. He’s considering someone he could call instead. They’ll smoke another cigarette on the balcony, drinking coffee saying nothing. Later, they’ll pretend that wasn’t all. Company is fickle. He knows this.

He writes in blue biro on public transport. He doesn’t care much for probationary licenses or rust-ridden cars. He likes delays and babbling strangers. There is no-one at his destination. He thinks he doesn’t mind.

He wonders about plurality and grammar in the collected works of William Shakespeare. Anything much beyond that is just a walking shadow, to him. Anything much behind is just a clutter of 26.

He’ll drop out and make coffee until his eyes burn with sting of caffeine and his clothes smell of sweat and espresso. His hands will fidget with the labels on takeaway cups, and his hair will be tied back, like it used to be. He’ll talk to the girl in the fruit shop next door and later they’ll pretend not to see one-another.

He misses kissing, sometimes. He says, just you and me, please, can we?

He paints in oils when he should be studying.

(He thinks it’s all a bit pathetic)

He will not sit his exam tomorrow.

even if i quit, there's not a chance in hell i'd stop

in a heavy front room we compare insomnias
breaking each others' fingers with each turn of
conversation; bigger than this night, or the next, or the next, or those that stretch
in front. like bottomlessness
there stops being a glamour to the light-headedness, hallucinations, falsely constructed words and grammatically awkward shake hands
and truly, you'd just like to finally hit the bottom where
at last the frustrations
we cynicize
become the ripped red insides of womanhood which
can curl around your cloudy mind.
go to sleep.

traumatism

these projections are the gaps between old train carriages where we shot up:
you, eyes gleaming with
metallic thrill, smiling crooked moving with the
tracks
while she
pulls her posture to forget.

'i don't want a career'

hopelessness becoming
units of our mapped out futures
placements in the twitching eyes

chasing another cigarette the way we used to chase
the things
to know, collector cards and grainy tv
worn scratchy blanket in shades of brown and
backs burning in the afternoon sun. my eyes water

at how young i am around you.

because people say clever things at various points of this technology-fest we call life

"all the little letters on the page represent pictures in your head, but you only paint pictures they want to read"

exit

- cornelia hediger
http://www.corneliahediger.com