Poetry

I want to know

if you are prepared to live in a world

with its harsh need

to change you. If you can look back

with firm eyes

saying this is where I stand.

— David Whyte, 'Self-Portrait' [from Fire in the Earth]

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rob hardy

ssilence

Jack Kerouac, Mexico City Blues

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LLolita

James Joyce to his wife:

My prick was stuck in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue came bursting out through your lips and if a gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual, fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole.

“Poetry can break open locked chambers of possibility, restore numbed zones to feeling, recharge desire,” Adrienne Rich