Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous - to poetry. But it also gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd.
— Thomas Mann, Death in Venice and Other Tales (via honeyforthehomeless)
Thus the world, like a jaded coquette, spurns our attempts to give ourselves to her wholly.
— John Updike, from “You’ll Never Know, Dear, How Much I Love You” (via the-final-sentence)
Only erotic love that stamen to sublime confusion
And the heartshaped tongue on the escalators of detached corneas
Only this look creating by osmosis
Only this girl I drink
Drink and eat for eternity
— Philip Lamantia (via uutpoetry)
hot brushy country
the late autumn,
I saw a hawk
crucified on a
I guess as a kind
to other hawks,
saying from the pages
of a leading women’s
but burn all the maps
to your body.
I’m not here
of my own choosing.”
— Richard Brautigan, “The Double-Bed Dream Gallows” (via liveandletlive)