“Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it logical; don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.”—Franz Kafka (via writingquotes)
i joyously ID as trashy. i love looking like this. i know it makes some folks uncomfortable and that only makes me like it more.
the haters clearly have not heard The Good News:
no neckline too low
no shorts or skirt or dress too short
who needs backs…
Yes I own pants through which you can see my underwear. No they are not assless. I don’t think I’m homeless, but I’m not sure. Could you point me to the nearest soup kitchen just in case? There is a hole in my shoe from a cigarette butt and my socks rarely match.
“While his wife earned the living, Rabbi Henry
studied the Torah, writing commentaries
more likely to be burnt than printed.
It was rumoured that they needed revision.
Smiling, kissing, he bent his head not with, ‘Please’
but with austere requests barely hinted,
like a dog with a bone he worried the Sacred Book
and often taught its fringes.
I have only one request to make of the Lord,
that I may no longer have to earn my living as a rabbi
‘Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image’
The sage said, ‘I merit long life if only because
I have never left bread-crumbs lying on the ground.
We were tested yesterday & are sound,
Henry’s lady & Henry.
It all centered in the end on the suicide
in which I am an expert, deep & wide.’”— john berryman, 136 (via manicxxpanic)
Dog-tired, suisired, will now my body down
near Cedar Avenue in Minneap,
when my crime comes. I am blazing with hope.
Do me glory, come the whole way across town.
I couldn’t rest from hell just anywhere,
in commonplaces. Choiring and strange my pall!
I might not lie still in the waste of St. Paul
or buy DAD’s root beer; good signs I forgive.
Drop here, with honour due, my trunk and brain
among the passioning of my countrymen
unable to read, rich, proud of their tags
and proud of me. Assemble all my bags!
Bury me in a hole, and give a cheer,
near Cedar on Lake Street, where the used cars live.
”—“The Poet’s Final Instructions,” John Berryman (via bitchkitty68)
“I have a tiny little secret hope that, after a decent period of silence and prose, I will find myself in some almost impossible life situation and will respond to this with outcries of rage, rage and love, such as the world has never heard before.”—John Berryman, in an interview (by Peter A. Stitt) in The Paris Review (1972)
“One comment in particular I remember. He said, ‘I never revise now’—you know how much he revised his stuff—‘but in the interests of a more passionate syntax.’ Now that struck me as a very good remark. I have no idea what it meant and still don’t know, but the longer I think about it, the better I like it.”—John Berryman, speaking about W.B. Yeats in an interview (by Peter A. Stitt) in The Paris Review (1972)
“Edmund Wilson…found the book hopeless. He said there were some fine lines and striking passages. How do you like that? It is like saying to a beautiful woman, ‘I like your left small toenail; that’s very nice indeed,’ while she’s standing there stark naked looking like Venus.”—John Berryman, in an interview (by Peter A. Stitt) in The Paris Review (1972)