Dá-me mais vinho, porque a vida é nada.


Install Theme
Every horror movie begins the same: a mouth swollen with rain water. We didn’t hear the dogs bark. Every night, a wishbone thrown on the porch. We thought only of her car sinking the bottom of the lake, of the skins we left in the backyard. We knew our place. The dinner table, our tongue ripe with nostalgia, smiling with no teeth, ghostwater leaking from the closet. We didn’t hear the dogs bark. And then, her hair like a halo, the killer ourselves, our mouths, empty, hands, still as water.
It’s a lie that poetry is only read by or “speaks to” people in the universities or elite intellectual circles; in many such places, poetry barely speaks at all.

Poems are written and absorbed, silently and aloud, in prisons, in prairie kitchens, urban basement workshops, branch libraries, battered women’s shelters, homeless shelters, offices, a public hospital for disabled people, an HIV support group. A poet can be born in a house with empty bookshelves. Sooner or later, s/he will need books.

— Adrienne Rich, What Is Found There: Notebooks on Poetry and Politics, 1994. (via insufficientmind)

(via pavorst)

(Source: one-expected, via flottant)


Jean-Luc Godard, First Name: Carmen, 1983.

(Source: micropterus-salmoides, via confondu)

(Source: acidhopes, via ohneinspiration)

ph. Martina Keenan

ph. Martina Keenan

(Source: opaqueglitter, via qiuyee)