Simone. 26, male, Italian.
Totally self-absorbed, and yet totally unselfish. Full of joy, empty of worries.
Likes music, art, quotes, poetry, the net, and photography.
Contributes to Black and White, The Final Sentence, and the Lit tag.
Mail / Last.fm / Goodreads / Ask
Totally self-absorbed, and yet totally unselfish. Full of joy, empty of worries.
Likes music, art, quotes, poetry, the net, and photography.
Contributes to Black and White, The Final Sentence, and the Lit tag.
Mail / Last.fm / Goodreads / Ask
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"Love is active penetration of the other person, in which my desire to know is stilled by union. In the act of fusion I know you, I know myself, I know everybody — and I “know” nothing."
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"Man’s happiness today consists in “having fun.” Having fun lies in the satisfaction of consuming and “taking in” commodities, sights, food, drinks, cigarettes, people, lectures, books, movies — all are consumed, swallowed. The world is one great object for our appetite, a big apple, a big bottle, a big breast; we are the sucklers, the eternally expectant ones, the hopeful ones — and the eternally disappointed ones. Our character is geared to exchange and to receive, to barter and to consume; everything, spiritual as well as material objects, becomes an object of exchange and of consumption."
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"When I kiss my daughter goodnight and wish her sweet dreams, she understands my wish for her is kind, but she knows, as all children do, that it’s impossible to be told by our parents what our dreams are supposed to be like. They know they have to dream themselves out of life and back into it, because life must always win us back."
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"She played with the night-lights burning on the table, making prints of her fingertips from the wax, and when he requested she give him one to keep for ever she told him her fingerprints were all over his body anyway."
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"I have never got a grip on when the past begins or where it ends, but if cities map the past with statues made from bronze forever frozen in one dignified position, as much as I try to make the past keep still and mind its manners, it moves and murmurs with me through every day."
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Eyes and Fingers
A child is
stooped over
picking flowers
with her fingers
storing away light and gifts.
A man is reading words
sitting
holding down the pages with his fingers
storing away flames and shadows.
Fingers connect
‘Reading and Picking’
Read, picked, and compiled
A child picking flowers. A man reading poems. -
Voyage
Sullen days. The corsair moves mechanically on its hinges. Beneath our proscenium arch wily ports ply their trade, measuring out the hours in skeletons and lampshades. The hold littered with props. Flat clouds drifting idly along the cardboard coast. (In the dawn they emerge, pale with grief.) I cannot remember biding time in the shallows with the air so steep. And the space behind the sun growing and growing, the stalls silent and empty on quiet nights. There were months when great shadows fell across the waves. And we moved, so it seemed, through lost oceans, past sunken islands from which the sounds of mourning stole. It is true that the flight was exhausting: my eyes reeked of distance. But when the blackness lifted, the horizon—beyond the dim circle of lights—remained featureless, unaltered. Now the shapes of our desires do not change but mimic, with each curtainfall, the appearance of a predictable set of stars. When evening transpires (at the appointed time, in the appointed place), the tide reverses; our loyal machines rise, assemble themselves across the deck. Wolf-like, sand-like. Waiting for that same, slow mirage: the familiar moon, hung from its lamprey sky. Swinging guilt. -
Blues
It’s moments like this
when the barman goes through the back
and leaves me alone
a radio whispering
somewhere amongst the glasses
- I’m through with love -
the way the traffic slows
to nothing
how all of a sudden
at three in the afternoon
the evening’s already begun
a nascent
dimming.
By ten I’ll be walking away
on Union Street
or crossing Commercial Road
in a gust of rain
and everyone who passes
will be you
or almost you
before it’s someone else. -
"That old saying, about how you always kill the thing you love, well, it works both ways."
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"We are not special.
We are not crap or trash, either.
We just are.
We just are, and what happens just happens." -
"One minute was enough, Tyler said, a person had to work hard for it, but a minute of perfection was worth the effort. A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection."
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Lust
If only he could touch her,
Her name like an old wish
In the stopped weather of salt
On a snail. He longs to be
Words, juicy as passionfruit
On her tongue. He’d do anything,
Would dance three days & nights
To make the most terrible gods
Rise out of ashes of the yew,
To step from the naked
Fray, to be as tender
As meat imagined off
The bluegill’s pearlish
Bones. He longs to be
An orange, to feel fingernails
Run a seam through him.
Theme: Linear by Peter Vidani
Disclaimer: I don't make any money from this. If you are an author whose work has been featured on my Tumblr and would like me to either change attribution or remove the work in question, please e-mail me and I will do it at once.
Disclaimer: I don't make any money from this. If you are an author whose work has been featured on my Tumblr and would like me to either change attribution or remove the work in question, please e-mail me and I will do it at once.
