10 am

blagblagblag:

quarter conscious,
her first act is
to smile
like lovers in an airport
with eyes which whisper
between streaks of sunlight
"welcome home."
(Reblogged from blagblagblag)
After the 5th one night stand, with the 4th different woman for the 3rd time this month, he wrote a poem about how 2 is the loneliest number he’s ever known.
Miles Hodges “Doing It Wrong”
(Reblogged from orage)

Crack Pipes

I I’d give a twenty one gunshot salute
With the toy rifle that you bought me but it won’t shoot
And all is well because there’s been one too many shots
The sterile robots want to talk to me about detox

Stop the presses,
there’s been an update delivered via 1:30 AM phone call
When an only half-informative source talks discretely.

Meet me,
At the family room on the side of the Intensive Care Unit
Immediately
I carry a tune the sirens so loud, can’t hear my silence
Keep free
Of negative thoughts, everything’ll be fine.

We all assume That it would go back to the way things were
that it would go back to normal soon
that night I Saw the moon in a way that Ive never seen it before
When I looked into the sky
wondering why
Lookin’ for answers,
I’m guessing I didnt ask right.
Most of you out there know exactly what that’s like
Now tell me what’s that like?

It’s like a whirlwind of emotions that occurs when moms and dads fight
It’s like when a girl grins, an emotion of hers
That holds your arm, and grabs tight.

Hurl him into the ocean, one of them cold sweat heat flash types
But extreme fluctuations and temperature changes
Have been known to crack pipes.

Meet me
Half way and i’ll go that extra length just to help your strength
Meet me
At the AA meeting, needing to take more than 12 steps
Bring me to your hiding place so I can face your vice grip
I’ll chisel every single monkey off your back with this ice pick.

Come meet up
With me on the sidelines when the game is over just to say hello
Then backstage to let me know that you enjoyed the show
And go to grandma’s house for Sunday dinner
Sit at the head of the table, take away the fatal flaw
you made the day before,
I’ve seen you bleed.

Meet me
On Christmas Eve, we can fight but make up before you leave
Make visits with the rest of those who rest in pieces of my dreams

Meet me at the fork in the road where lost souls get indecisive
Meet me at the crossroads so I can have someone to walk into the light with.

- JZ & LM

My first duet spoken word performance from two years ago.

On Living Ashtrays

He no longer writes poetry for the girls he likes
he hasn’t picked up a pen in eighty-six days, five hours
and the last word he wrote was “you”
preceded by “fuck”
preceded by “why do I feel like a monster?”

He no longer writes poetry for the girls he likes.

He’s learned to read between the lines,
read between the sheets,
read between their thighs
he punctuates his nights with exclamation marks,
and mornings with question marks.

He no longer writes poetry.
You could say he’s still a poet,
he lives his life as a simile for cigarette smoke,
sweet and unwanted
because that’s all he ever is until he fills someone else’s lungs and they cough out his name
on dim Sunday nights.

He doesn’t want to be a poet.
He doesn’t want to be written about.

Binge on life. Purge negativity. Starve guilty feelings. Restrict unhappy thoughts. Count blessings, not calories. The only weight you ever need to lose is the weight of the world on your shoulders.

(Reblogged from gym-babe)
I’m not really sure which parts of myself are real and which parts are things I’ve gotten from books.
Beatrice Sparks, Go Ask Alice (via larmoyante)
(Reblogged from x-creativespaces-x)
I shiver, thinking how easy it is to be totally wrong about people, to see one tiny part of them and confuse it for the whole.
Lauren Oliver, Before I Fall (via psych-facts)
(Reblogged from x-creativespaces-x)

Brutalist Boston

Life is 8th Grade geometry

If I were a shape,
I’d be the only square that doesnt realize that life is a circle
and if a girl left her love triangle to tesselate with you
she still has two other faces ready to parallel
with that crooked little rhombus you never liked because
he reminds you too well of the person you actually are.


I don’t treat women like objects, I treat them like the ocean treats the shore…and I know they’re both objects, but they’re really beautiful, poetic objects.
Simone Stolzoff - “Boyfriend Material”

You really believed that you understood her better than anyone else on the planet. You know you knew too much and you know that is why she is gone. She told you things she had never told anyone before, and will never tell again.

You want to reach out across five states and the District of Columbia and simply say: I miss you, but what you feel is much, much more, and you can’t, because your words will not be returned and the silence at the other end means the same to you as a death.

You have written hundreds of thousands of words, and you know there is no word in the English language to describe how you feel. But you do recall a song you once heard by a Cape Verdean singer your wife wanted you to take her to see back when you lived in New York.

Saudade.

It is a Portuguese word, and it is the saddest word in the history of language, especially when you are overcome by it, that empty feeling of nostalgia, loss, and the understanding that she will never, ever return.

You can’t talk this pain away. You can’t write this pain away. You can’t sweat this pain away. You can’t drink this pain away. You can’t fuck this pain away.

That is saudade.


Jonathan Papernick

Inside Fort Revere in Hull, MA

Bus Stop Musings number whatever

Life’s a photograph and many just look at the negatives, but you gotta go through the dark room if you wanna develop it.

Busstop Musings #2

Let’s pretend,
that for once I have words,
but not just any.
Poignant, meaningful words.
Words born of hardship and pain.
Blood wisdom woven
and written into wrinkles
Onto the pages of young eyes.

Let’s pretend I had sandpaper hands
too rough to love but loving enough
to carve stone hearts
into rulers and
rulers into stone.