Monday, June 27, 2011

Thursday, June 23, 2011


by Michelle Brea

"I was sentimental about many things: a woman’s shoes under the bed; one hairpin left behind on the dresser; the way they said, “I’m going to pee..”’ hair ribbons; walking down the boulevard with them at 1:30 in the afternoon, just two people walking together; the long nights of drinking and smoking; talking; the arguments; thinking of suicide; eating together and feeling good; the jokes; the laughter out of nowhere; feeling miracles in the air; being in a parked car together; comparing past loves at 3am; being told you snore; hearing her snore; mothers, daughters, sons, cats, dogs; sometimes death and sometimes divorce; but always carring on, always seeing it through; reading a newspaper alone in a sandwich joint and feeling nausea because she’s now married to a dentist with an I.Q. of 95; racetracks, parks, park picnics; even jails; her dull friends; your dull friends; your drinking, her dancing; your flirting, her flirting; her pills, your fucking on the side and her doing the same; sleeping together"
— Charles Bukowski (Women)

via Michelle Brea on Flickr

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

she was only a fraud

hiding behind her many devices
quite witchy after all

it's an unattractive trait this self loathing
one that should not
be put on
this much I know

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Thursday, June 16, 2011


Underneath (13)

needed          explanation
because of the mystic nature        of the theory
and our reliance          on collective belief
I could not visualize the end
the tools that paved the way broke
the body the foundation the exact copy of the real
our surfaces were covered
our surfaces are all covered
actual hands appear but then there is writing
in the cave       we were deeply impressed
as in addicted to results
oh and dedication training     the idea of loss of life
in our work we call this emotion
how a poem enters into the world
there is nothing wrong with the instrument
as here I would raise my voice but
the human being and the world cannot be equated
aside from the question of whether or not we are alone
and other approaches to nothingness
(the term “subject”)(the term “only”)
also opinion and annihilation
(the body’s minutest sensation of time)
(the world, it is true, has not yet been destroyed)
intensification      void
we are amazed
uselessness is the last form love takes
so liquid till the forgone conclusion
here we are, the forgone conclusion
so many messages transmitted they will never acquire meaning
do you remember          my love my archive
touch me (here)
give birth to       a single idea
touch where it does not lead to war
show me    exact spot
climb the stairs
lie on the bed
have faith
nerves wearing only moonlight lie down
lie still patrol yr cage
be a phenomenon
at the bottom below the word
intention, lick past it
rip     years
find the burning matter
love allows it (I think)
push past the freedom (smoke)
push past     intelligence (smoke)
whelm      sprawl
(favorite city)   (god’s tiny voices)
hand over mouth
let light arrive
let the past strike us and go
drift        undo
if it please the dawn
lean down
say      hurt      undo
in your mouth be pleased
where does it say
where does it say
this is the mother tongue
there is in my mouth a ladder
climb down
presence of world
impassable       gap
I am beside myself
you are inside me       as history
We exist         Meet me

Friday, June 10, 2011


A whole summer I spent listening to that record. 
So that the emotion would not leave it 
I listened to it once a day. 
If I ended up hungry I went out to walk. 

The light sang that song in its way, 
the sea sang it, a bird 
spoke it. 
In one instant I thought: 
all this is happening to me so I might fall in love. 

Then the summer went away. 
The bird 
dryer than the branch 
didn’t open its beak again.

© 2002, António José Ponte
© Translation: Julie Flanagan

© Translation: Julie Flanagan

Photography by Abigail Berenika

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Out of the rolling ocean the crowd

"Out of the rolling ocean the crowd came a drop gently to me,
Whispering, I love you, before long I die,
I have travell’d a long way merely to look on you to touch you,
For I could not die till I once look’d on you,
For I fear’d I might afterward lose you..."
-- Walt Whitman

Photograph by Jock Sturges

Friday, June 3, 2011

Norah Jones - Thinking About You

just so

"Drink a toast to the sun 
To the things that never come 
To the break of the day 
That is all I say"


just two

Photography by Tim Walker