"I was always attracted not by some quantifiable, external beauty, but by something deep down, something absolute. Just as some people have a secret love for rainstorms, earthquakes, or blackouts, I liked that certain undefinable something."
Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun (via rauchwolken)
  • swamped:

Thobias MalmbergSpectrum of the Body, 2013
  • swamped:

Thobias MalmbergSpectrum of the Body, 2013


Thobias Malmberg
Spectrum of the Body, 2013

جميعنا لديه جزء قديس، وجزء عاهر.

"I wish I could be more."
Six Word Story  (via onlinebabe)
"Lately, I am capable only of small things.

Is it enough
to feel the heart swimming?

Jim is fine. Our first
garden is thick with spinach
& white radish. Strangely,
it is summer

but also winter & fall.

In response to your asking:
I fill the hours
then lick them shut.

Today, not a single word, but the birds
quietly nodding
as if someone had suggested
moving on.

What is that perfect thing
someone who once believed in god said?

Please don’t misunderstand:
We still suffer, but we are
Olena Kalytiak Davis, “Postcard” (And Her Soul Out of Nothing, University of Wisconsin Press, 1997)
"I thought: please don’t grow
familiar. I think I said it out loud:
Please don’t let me love you
that horrible way."
Olena Kalytiak Davis, from “All the Natural Movements of the Soul, ” in And Her Soul Out of Nothing (University of Wisconsin Press, 1997)
"Morning after morning

The awakening village howls
Like an insect
About to be dipped in amber.

I separate myself from the sky

But still carry the inevitable
Dream of your body
Covered in butterflies or in bees.

Here’s a living blanket for your grave.

Here’s who I’ve quietly become:
A slightly wilder version of you. Your hands
Knead the dough for my bread

And my husband’s flesh, thick and smooth.
They wash my breasts and hips, they light
My cigarette, they crack my beer.

You’ve been dead too long.

Morning after morning
The heavy amber of you
Around my neck, inside the heels

Of my boots. I wear your gloves.
Your winter scarves, your winter hair,
and that heavy shearling coat.

Soon I will forget how to preserve you.

But for now I continue to dream daily,
Morning after morning: your body blooming
In yellow wings, thousands of butterflies alighting

And you just lie there.

Morning after morning
the orange grass keeps burning
Under the grey grey sky."
Olena Kalytiak Davis, “Buhrstone”, in And Her Soul Out Of Nothing (via hiddenshores)


Ulay, S’he, 1972.