Now the thunder is gone,. Who will lull me to sleep? You, my who, splintering in two. With each step, leaving a golden. Carapace behind, tarred angel wings slipping. Through the cracks in your spine and into the. Crude and oil-slicked, my who, you raise. A foot; plant it on the star. And break through the molted skin around your once-. Body You left a trail of you, my who, on your way to my. Wingtips glistening, you finlly step into my room.

8220;Of making many books there is no end . Welcome, my name is Peter. Because it sums up neatly my conception of good art, a combination equals parts absurd and sublime. The onion as a vegetable is such, in my opinion, being both delicious and ridiculous. More so even than the turnip or the carrot. So I made this site, my orphanarium, for my fragments and abortions. As the world is replete with people, so is .

Riff Raff on a Full Ride. Into constituency, innumerable ontologies. Of halt and proceed, crack apart and re-piece,. I find centers in disunities,. Make positions in the grid no philosophy. Is quite subtle enough to account for. My half-and-part brain is a systemic store. Body, the habit of which is as narcissistic.

Sure, everyone in the world loves Warsan Shire right now, but if by some chance you have been in a coma, your life should not pass without reading her. This poem, in particular, is so striking that it makes you want to choke on its beauty. For Women Who Are Difficult to Love. You are a horse running alone.