Antony Micallef www.antonymicallef.com
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When the Cowgirls Stop Riding
I avoid you like a house with no coffee. There is no dancing, only horses,
only Eskimo kisses on sun stained noses, only my ten-gallon hat.
When you approach, I gallop towards the sunset like cockroaches. My wings
are bruised and barely moving. I’m the fly caught between the window and
the screen. Lift me closer to the light.
My skin echoes. I’m a bus with no passengers. Feed me your weakness
like I’d prune without it. In the dark the bulb is bare and light is a moth of
remembrance, like when I remember you and burn for hours.
There was once a flame in your ribcage. There is now an empty parking lot
behind your eyes. I am the beaten dog, my leg dragging behind. I keep to
corners and eat when you aren’t watching.
- Alexis Pope, NANO Fiction 6:1
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Of Women’s Testicles
In a 1684 anatomy book, Humane Bodies
Epitomized, by Thomas Gibson, I find a chapter called
Of Women’s Testicles. Outside, Bryant Park
in bloom; fragrant hyacinth, daffodils, tall,
masculine tulips, low-lying purple pansies feminine,
frilled. Inside, alone with Thomas Gibson,
I read Humane Bodies Epitomized,
turn the brittle pages, learn Women’s Testicles
differ much from Mens . . . he’s nervous, carefully
proposing a new idea: maybe these
aren’t testicles after all. Alone against
the received wisdom of the followers
of Hippocrates and Galen, he stands over
some woman’s corpse, fresh-dug, brought
to his back door in the dark. To develop
the newest doctrine of the most accurate and learned
Modern Anatomists, he cuts her open, lifts
her ovaries out with his bare hands. He writes
in Latin about female ejaculate, where it comes
from, where he thinks it goes, concludes
these Vesiculae are analogous to the little Eggs in the Ovarium
of Fowl, since if you boil them, their liquor will have
the same color, taste, and consistency
of the white of Birds Eggs.
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Clarence Coles Phillips
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But you, you foolish girl, you have gone home
To a leaky castle across the sea, -
To lie awake in linen smelling of lavender,
And hear the nightingale, and long for me.
Short Story, Edna St. Vincent Millay (via crisolyn-uendelig, dialogues) (via back2-thebeginnings) (via deeplystained) (via goslinq) (via alonesomes) (via deeplystained)
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MINA LOY
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Human Cylinders
The human cylinders
Revolving in this enervating dust
That wraps each closer in the mystery
Of singularity
Among the litter of a sunless afternoon
Having eaten without tasting
Talked without communion
And at least two of us
Loved a very little
Without seeking
To know if our two miseries
In the lucid rush-together of automatons
Could form one opulent well-being
Simplifications of men
In the enervating dusk
Your indistinctness
Serves me the core of the kernel of you
When in the frenzied reaching-out of intellect to intellect
Leaning brow to brow communicative
Over the abyss of the potential
Concordance of respiration
Shames
Absence of corresponding between the verbal sensory
And reciprocity
Of conception
And expression
Where each extrudes beyond the tangible
One thin pale trail of speculation
From among us we have sent out
Into the enervating dusk
One little whining beast
Whose longing
Is to slink back to antediluvian burrow
And one elastic tentacle of intuition
To quiver among the stars
The impartiality of the absolute
Routs the polemic
Or which of us
Would not
Receiving the holy--ghost
Catch it and caging
Lose it
Or in the problematic
Destroy the Universe
With a solution.
- Mina Loy
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Sonnet
I follow thought and what the world announces
I lean to hear, and leaning too far over
Fall, and babied by confusion, cover
Myself in drowse, too tired by such bounces.
But in sleep are dreams across zigzagging snow
Descending quietly and slow, like minutes,
And on this peace the soul again begins its
Rhetoric of desire, older than Jericho,
And rails once more, like birds of early morning
Urchinous on branches and like newsboys,
“Extra, this is the meaning of life,
Here is the real good, beyond all turning,”
Till night goes home, astonished by such cries,
I wake up, and, to feel superior, I laugh.
-Delmore Schwartz, 1938
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i did not suffer from love,
i suffered with it.
we wore the same uniform.
we were both in the same barracks,
we fought beside each other on the front line.
your name was our war cry.
Salma Deera, “it was you,” Letters From Medea
(via lifeinpoetry)
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universe inside by LouiJoverArt
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One day my hands will settle inside themselves.
I feel most free in the dark where there are dozens of bodies
and no one knows me. I’m trying to text this boy
but my nails are wet with paint. When scientists tell me
there is the possibility of another universe I think yes
and I am better in it. I want fresh flowers on every table
and for tomorrow to be a gentler crime scene. My twenties
are teaching me that no one is ever as busy as they say they are.
Like, honestly, where you going with all that debt, honey?
I don’t know how to describe my kind of loneliness.
Maybe open wound, maybe stepping into a dress
with a broken zipper. I wish my lips weren’t dry for attention
I wish I was tough and hard like men. I know exactly
what you mean when you say you can’t wait to get out of here
but you're here now because money because god or fate
or whatever. Sometimes I just want to say what I actually
fucking mean. For someone who thinks she knows it all
I say I don’t know a lot to save my own ass. Am I crying
on this bus right now or is that just the sun. I go
an even darker shade of brown. I go and hide the body
which is really just my body. My friends say self-sabotage
and I say honest. During the quietest hour, it rains.
My heart is full. J pulls up in his car. I am lucky
and the night is behind us, laughing.
Kristina Haynes, “Girl, Why Your Heart Leaking Like That?” (via fleurishes)
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Lubomír Štěpán, Mladá fronta, Praha, 1966.
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In Every Poem (a poem)
In Every Poem
In every poem
there should be a woman
walking in the rain
hair and eyelashes dripping
holding a letter
in cool wet hands
so we know there is some
confusion in her heart
whether to send the letter
or not
though
since she is already outside
her decision is made
as she crosses the street
out of sight
and the rain falls
all the harder
for her deep absence.
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#Nikolai Lutohin
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