arpeggia:

Guy Sargent - Venice

See more Guy Sargent posts here.

(via langleav)


mymodernmet:

Broken Mirror / Evening Sky is a stunning series by New York-based photographer Bing Wright, who creates breathtaking images of sunsets seen through shattered mirrors. Richly colored skyscapes are distorted by the cracked glass, abstracting the traditional image of a sunset in a visually striking way.

(via dustybookinthecorner)


Touring by Audre Lorde

Coming in and out of cities

where I spend one or two days

selling myself

where I spend one or two nights

in beds that do not have the time to fit me

coming in and out of cities

too quickly

to be touched by their magic

I burn

from the beds that do not fit me

I leave staed

but without feeling

any texture of the house I have invaded

by invitation

I leave

with a disturbing sense

of the hard core of flesh

missed

and truly revealing.

I leave poems behind me

dropping them like dark seeds that 

I will never harvest

that I will never mourn

if they are destroyed

they pay for a gift

I have not accepted.

Coming in and out of cities

untouched by their magic

I think without feeling

this is what men do

who try for some connection

and fail

and leave

five dollars on the table.

 


The world is not full of Attractive People and Unattractive People. It’s full of people who are attractive to some and not to others. I hear from trolls all the time who complain that they don’t want to be “forced” to find nasty, ugly fat women attractive–which utterly baffles me, since the last thing I want to do is encourage fat-hating dicks to date fat women. You don’t find fat people attractive? Fabulous. Don’t date them. I will find a way to pick myself up and move on without your love. But to assume your lack of sexual interest in fat chicks must be universal–or that the mere existence of self-confident fat people having healthy relationships somehow “forces” you to find fat attractive–is the height of fucking narcissism.

But What Can You Teach My Daughter

What do you mean

no no no no

you don’t have the right

to know

how often

have we built each other

as shelters

against the cold

and even my daughter knows

what you know

can hurt you

she says her nos

and it hurts

she says

when she talks of liberation

she means freedom

from that pain

she knows

what you know

can hurt

but what you do

not know

can kill.


Bully your kids and they will learn to fear you. As in be afraid of you. Cringing in your presence and hiding their lives from you.
Publicly shame your kids and they will learn the only important character development is to be found in a good public persona and the fool’s gold of value based solely upon outward perception and public approval.
Mock your children as they struggle and they will learn to never share their struggles with you. Share their weaknesses with the world and they will find the world to be cruel and will put you in the role of the cruelest of all.
They will think they are a joke, not to be taken seriously. Their pain the only commodity to sell.
They will treat you as you have treated them.

The Same Death Over and Over or Lullabies Are for Children

“It’s the small deaths in the supermarket” she said

trying to open my head

with her meat white cleaver

trying to tell me how

her pain met mine

halfway

between the smoking ruins in a black neighborhood of Los Angeles

and the bloody morning streets of child-killing New York.

Her poem reached like an arc across country and 

“I’m trying to hear you” I said

roaring with my pain in a predawn city

where it is open season on black children

where my worst lullaby goes on over and over.

“I’m not fighting you” I said

“but it’s the small deaths in the gutter 

that are unmaking us all

and the white cop who shot down 10-year-old Clifford Glover

did not fire because he saw a girl.” 

 



The Women of Dan Dance with Swords in Their Hands to Mark the Time When They Were Warriors by Audre Lorde

I did not fall from the sky

I

nor descend like a plague of locusts

to drink color and strength from the earth

and I do not come like rain

as a tribute or symbol for earth’s becoming

I come as a woman

dark and open

some times I fall like night

softly

and terrible

only when I must die

in order to rise again.

I do not come like a secret warrior

with an unsheathed sword in my mouth

hidden behind my tongue

slicing my throat to ribbons

of service with a smile

while the blood runs

down and out

through holes in the two sacred mounds

on my chest.

I come like a woman

who I am

spreading out through nights

laughter and promise

and dark heat

warming whatever I touch

that is living

consuming

only

what is already dead. 

 


When the Saints Come Marching In by Audre Lorde

Plentiful sacrifice and believers in redemption

are all that is needed

so any day now

I expect some new religion

to rise up like tear gas

from the streets of New York

erupting like the rank pavement smell

released by the garbage-trucks’ 

baptismal drizzle.

The high priests have been ready and waiting

with their incense pans full of fire.

I do not know the rituals

the exaltations

nor what name of the god 

the survivors will worship

I only know she will be terrible

and very busy

and very old.