— Tracey Emin - My Life in a Column - Friday 5 October 2007 (via cyberwave)
Listen closely but shoot for rapt
try very hard not to vomit a little:
Winston Churchill dies every minute
you aren’t parading a steak ensemble.
It’s the glorious, meaningless thing
we call science. Science calls it art.
Congratulations, you are a primate
and you have…
The Rise of Imagination and How to Make It Stop
We are happy here on our ranch.
There are no cattle but the stars are bright
and the vacant lots sing with a pretty competent
The chilly days of winter are behind us.
You don’t have to come up with things to say as often.
Pictures just like hanging on the walls.
You get to admire your really delightful wife,
especially her first function, and her poetic primes.
I’ve got to ask if you’ve seen the way they braise the fish
in Southfort? It displays a real lack of effort
and subsequent regret.
Lest there be any doubt about that photo
I’m going to tag your face.
It shows us marching toward a samurai death mask
in order to engender a mood.
It was kind of you to tell us
about the cities and wood-nymphs.
seed text: Finders Keepers, by Seamus Heaney
art by Gustavo-Rocha
Antoine D’Agata - Ice (published 2012)
“…Pictures and texts in a disturbing testimony, showing the commitment of a photographer documenting drug-generated fictions…until he loses control.
In December 2007, Antoine D’Agata arrived in Phnom Penh and fell in love with Ka, a Vietnamese prostitute and drug dealer. In January 2008, they began to share a small and dirty flat downtown. Here started the oblivion.
Addiction to methamphetamines took over the photographic work and the frontiers between fiction and reality started to melt. This is where Ice came from. The horror that permeates the pages is not so much the ‘journey to the end of the night’ of a photographer as it is the violent filth and hypocrisy of a system that grinds the flesh of those who were refused speech.”
— Carl Jung (via arpeggia)
— Edvard Munch (via phytos)
[He’d rather not share…]
He’d rather not share
his oxygen supply
but if he must,
he’d better be
crawling into your
torso every night.
Little boy unable to sleep
without a call home,
those are your sheets,
Funny story: his discomfort
with your presence, intrinsic,
Inadequate; for the billions
of us, this Earth. Celestial,
find him when ecliptic orbits align
and he’ll rip the flesh from your face
when the moon is full.