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eastern promises, (2007)

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soft skin now i finally know what morrissey meant by everyday feels like sunday we’re as close as can possibly be and yet i want to find a way to be more inside of you somehow i roll over and cry because i know i’ll never get close enough to you in a way that will be satisfactory to me in my diary i write that in your armpit is my favourite place to be, sometimes i reread that line and it makes me smile tears streaming down my face, i wonder “is this is desire enough?” i’m consumed by you, i want to consume you and reproduce a million you’s why hasn’t science found a way for us to do that yet? i think this might not be love but something at once more and also less more because i’m addicted to you less because i’m addicted to the way you make me feel in a way that can’t possibly ever be enough a thirst that you cannot quench even though you promise to i needed you in a way that i needed to live without you to be free, i’m finally free

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#queer poetry #poetry #writers and poets #gay writing #gay poem #gayboys #poets on tumblr #poetic

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surrounded by paintings

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*read more at my substack.

#queer writers #poemsoftheday #poetry #poems about love #writers and poets #queer artist #gay writing #substack #gay substack #writeblr

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*read more at my substack.

#blog #writer #poetry #heartbreak #queer writers #writeblr

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slouched

today i thought of you for no reason in particular it just happens sometimes

the more i drink my matcha latte the better it tastes if i’m honest it sends me on an existential spiral i can’t tell what’s good and what i’m used to

someday i’ll reach out maybe a phone call i want to know, have you been writing? have you been sad, lately? but instead i’ll talk about myself just like i always do i’ll say, i found someone new, you have too and i won’t say it but i’ll think to myself i hope they make you happy like i once did and i won’t be sure if i mean it

it’s november and it’s getting cold i love this time of year now i don’t have to apologize to the skies for my less than sunny disposition

we’ll hang up the phone and that’ll be it and the kissing will never stop except not with eachother this time

*read more at my substack.

#poetry #sadness #thoughts #queer writers #queer poetry #gay poets society #gay poem #writers and readers #writeblr

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I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone. I just miss you...

Vita Sackville-West

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Sylvia Plath, from The Unabridged Journals

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© Dominique Issermann

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If no one attempts to recreate this actual Gilded Age look from the 1883 Vanderbilt Ball for the MET Gala, then what’s even the point?

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lydia davis, "what i feel"

[after spending weeks of trying and failing to read anything that might remind me of Lydia Davis, I instead, as always, just return to Lydia Davis.] -    These days I try to tell myself that what I feel is not very important. I’ve read this in several books now: what I feel is important but not the center of everything. Maybe I do see this, but I do not believe it deeply enough to act on it. I would like to believe it more deeply.

   What a relief it that would be. I wouldn’t have to think about what I felt all the time, and try to control it, with all its complications and all its consequences. I wouldn’t have to try to feel better all the time. In fact, if I didn’t believe what I felt was so important, I probably wouldn’t even feel so bad, and it wouldn’t be so hard to feel better. I wouldn’t have to say, oh, I feel so awful, this is like the end for me here, in this dark living room late at night, with the dark street corner outside under the street lights, I am so very alone, everyone else in the house asleep, there is no comfort anywhere, just me alone down here, I will never calm myself enough to sleep, never sleep, never be able to go on to the next day, I can’t possibly go on, I can’t live, even through the next minute.

   If I believed that what I felt was not the center of everything, then it wouldn’t be, but just one of many things, off to the side, and I would be able to see and pay attention to other things that were equally important, and in this way I would have some relief.

   But it is curious how you can see that an idea is absolutely true and correct and yet not believe it deeply enough to act on it. So I still act as though my feelings were the center of everything, and they still cause me to end up alone by the living-room window late at night. What is different, now, is that I have this idea: I have the idea that soon I will no longer believe my feelings are the center of everything. This is a real comfort to me, because if you despair of going on, but at the same time tell yourself that your despair may not be very important, then either you stop despairing or you still despair but at the same time begin to see how your despair, too, might move off to the side, one of many things.

- Lydia Davis, “What I Feel” from The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis

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"love was a miracle the flesh couldn't copy"

wei hui, shanghai baby

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Anne Sexton, “Is It True?” The Awful Rowing Toward God. 

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Breakfast    -     Yuri Pimenov , 1970.

Russian, 1903-1977

Oil on canvas, 80 x 80 cm.