how a resurrection really feels.

Drawn curtain: faded, black. We fucked. We hollered. Back-
tracked and let sunlight in. Repeated. Weekended
in secret. Got outed. Paused. Rebounded. Tended
belabored hearts, but badly. Madly loved. Attacked
covertly. Wept explicitly. Like sailors pressed
to duty on a ship, we gauged our endless trip
in knots; threw cannonballs of angry nots, then stripped
our decks with unexpected yeses. Reaped such bless-
ings, only to blaspheme them. Wars, then truces: meant
them. Didn’t mean them. Lost him and redeemed him. Pleased
him. Keened. Appeased no one. Repeated. When he ceased
his meanness, I retreated. Wanted, but discounted
what I needed. Didn’t know I ended when
this first began. But I would do it all again.

- Jessica Piazza, excerpt from People Like Us (via holdonmagnolia)

Like how high banjo trills make me go electric.
Like how charity. Like how gold.
Like I’d like to take you in & feed you a little
sweet milk. Like you’d mind, but I’m, like,
so tired of honesty like California fault lines.
Like how this is the big moment. The time of it.
And I’m ready now for the next time.
Like how cuteness rules the dating quadrants.
Like how sexy. Like when I say you look good
in white linen I mean sheets. Like I’d like to
rob your booty bank. Like how I’d take my
winnings to the grave.

- Betty Wheeler, Non-Sonnet for Telling You Everything (via grammatolatry)

I hate Men;
They irritate me.

I

There are the Serious Thinkers—-
There ought to be a law against them.
They see life, as through shell-rimmed glasses, darkly.
They are always drawing their weary hands
Across their wan brows.
They talk about Humanity
As if they had just invented it;
They have to keep helping it along.
They revel in strikes
And they are eternally getting up petitions.
They are doing a wonderful thing for the Great Unwashed——
They are living right down among them.
They can hardly wait
For “The Masses” to appear on the newsstands,
And they read all those Russian novels——
The sex best sellers.

II

There are the Cave Men——
The Specimens of Red-Blooded Manhood.
They eat everything very rare,
They are scarcely ever out of their cold baths,
And they want everybody to feel their muscles.
They talk in loud voices,
Using short Anglo-Saxon words.
They go around raising windows,
And they slap people on the back,
And tell them what they need is exercise.
They are always just on the point of walking to San Francisco,
Or crossing the ocean in a sailboat,
Or going through Russia on a sled—-
I wish to God they would!

III

And then there are the Sensitive Souls
Who do interior decorating, for Art’s sake.
They always smell faintly of vanilla
And put drops of sandalwood on their cigarettes.
They are continually getting up costume balls
So that they can go
As something out of the “Arabian Nights.”
They give studio teas
Where people sit around on cushions
And wish they hadn’t come.
they look at a woman languorously, through half-closed eyes,
And tell her, in low, passionate tones,
What she ought to wear.
Colour is everything to them—everything;
The wrong shade of purple
Gives them a nervous breakdown.

IV

Then there are the ones
Who are Simply Steeped in Crime.
They tell you how they haven’t been to bed
For four nights.
They frequent those dramas
Where the only good lines
Are those of the chorus.
They stagger from one cabaret to another,
And they give you the exact figures of their gambling debts.
They hint darkly at the terrible part
That alcohol plays in their lives.
And then they shake their heads
And say Heaven must decide what is going to become of them—-
I wish I were Heaven!

I hate Men;
They irritate me.

- Dorothy Parker, Men: A Hate Song (via holdonmagnolia)