I’m a film maker here in Dallas and I’ve come onto an amazing opportunity to get a studio space in 2014 but I NEED YOUR HELP. Here is a link to a film competition I’m in and you just have to click team “Pablo” if it doesn’t pull up and then vote. You can then vote every 24 hours after that and PLEASE do. If you know anyone that would be willing to vote for us as well please share with them as well! -> http://bit.ly/18syfRr <-
My darling, love, wait,
eyes half-closed or wide awake,
drenched in the monsoon
rain, dried - wrinkled as a prune,
after the hundredth moon
has risen and forty, white tinsels
did nest on your hair,
I am folding the days
to have the summers and
winters at their shortest.
Silence owned the space within my room for quite an age before the crash of clutter tried its own hand at the throne of dominance within my world. I glared at its obtrusion, but that too subsided when the deafness returned in an apt and timely manner. Nothing ever bothered me for very long, but despite that record it never seemed to concede the struggle either. Perhaps the books and bowls and little things that rested precariously upon my broken chair had finally had enough of their neglected existence. Foreign plans, idle ideas. They made no progress from the edge of my chair to the top of my floor other than a grand total of twenty-seven vertical inches. Perhaps that would tide them over for the time being, but if it did not then they would have to learn like the rest of us the consequence of action. If I had leaped at every canyon to see the new world, I very likely would have only seen the same one on either side. We were small, and there was nothing left to see that would not exhaust at the end of the reel with the rest of us. I stared at the pile, much more spread out than a stack now. They could move. They just had to wait, like they did before on that broken chair with a missing wheel. They had to wait for the right tremor to dislodge them into paradise. We all did, together. I plunged my nose into the cushions of the couch, the clock striking six empty beats and closed my eyes again – the ache of energy rejecting the command. Patience, I remembered, life’s most tangible virtue.
Canceling this blog. Thanks for the good times, y’all.
Take off all of your clothes, alone and in the bathroom. Stare at your nipples. Call yourself “Beautiful” and see what happens. Touch your thatch of pubic hair, your stretch marks, and your round belly. Call yourself “Ugly” and watch what happens. Pretend you’re on a trampoline and you just won the lottery. Touch the mirror like it’s a window and your lover is just an unlatching of a lock away. Pinch your thighs and turn around. Bend over and try to kiss your kneecaps. Ask yourself when was the last time you touched silk. Look at your eyelids. Think of them as drawbridges or dicks. Eat a sandwich or fig. Lay in the branches outside, sigh, how sad and architectural all of this can be.
If you can lick fish bones, then you can take a lover. For a moment, pretend that you are going to be alone for the rest of your life. If you can go outside and see a road kill as a sign from God then you are ready to take a lover. If you can see that euthanasia is a beautiful name for a pet then you are ready to take a lover. Be a poet for a day. Be an artist for a day. Read something. Find yourself, which is behind your skin and has nothing to do with your heart and everything to do with your spirit. Tell your best friend that you think that you are amazing and glorious. Be amazing and glorious. Bend your bird body to the doors of the house as though you could make love to them. Say yes, and mean it.
Put your hand in your pajama bottoms and reach for everything private in your life. Touch jellyfish, July hotels and loosened hair. Drink some Chinese tea, eat some chocolate, talk about aphrodisiacs until you’re blue in the face. Touch yourself there and there and there. Don’t stop. Please. Smile at your life before dawn, but moan at your life when it finally wakes up.
Tell me your lover’s name and I will tell you that you’re wrong. Listen – your lover is not bed sheets or willow trees or empty sleeves, but everything in this world without a name. Whatever is most nameless, is most beautiful. Find your best friend in a species not yet discovered, find your best friend in words not written and those deep throat sounds that you meant to say, but couldn’t. If he says he loves anyone more than you, then he is wrong. Whenever you say, “I love you too,” he will never say “what do you mean?” He knows you just said, “I love God I love language I love bodies I love spirit I love horizon I love the Pacific Ocean I love the color of peaches I love suitcases I love sickness I love panic I love life” and etcetera is the closest you will ever get to the meaning of your love.
- Heather Bell (from her book, Nothing Unrequited Here - download, receive instantly!)
Also from our FREE SAMPLE ISSUE, click here to download!
A healthy reminder to remember good things.
Source : wordsdancemag
Not Iambic….Do Not Accept…
These tags I’ll pop, and boast in rhyming verse
that what I wear puts swagger in my gait;
though twenty shillings have I in my purse,
my self-esteem and manhood both inflate
when lofty furs I purchase for a cent.
Thy grandpa’s clothes are worthy salvage, though
they smell a trifle musty. Still, I spent
much less to dress myself from head to toe.
To save or not to save? The question’s moot.
I’ll never give my coin to high-street crooks.
These dusty shelves will yield their hidden loot
to those, like me, more frugal in their looks.
Like ancient coins washed up on distant shores,
I’ll find my treasures in these thrifty stores.
- Macklemore, “Thrift Shoppe”
*Crying with laughter*
ITS IN IAMBIC PENTAMETER. THIS IS MY NEW FAVORITE THING.
Too fantastic not to reblog. Especially if you love Shakespeare. -H
Shakespeare > Macklemoore
Source : humortrain