i think your heart is a ship.
i think i am not the ocean you are looking for.
i am not your pacific. there is more salt
than ocean when you dip your tongue
into my waters.
i think i am the dead sea.
you do not care for king david. it’s the 21st century.
nobody will believe there is sacred in me.
there is nothing holy about me anymore.
i think you do not like the bodies i keep afloat.
i think you find my inability to drown the dead a curse.
i think you do not understand my desire to be soft
with even the devil. only the most cruel men
have ever reflected my kind of loneliness.
i think the world need only love and listen to them
before they melt into submission.
i think i am the wrong kind of softness.
i am almost all water and drowning,
but i can’t even do what water does -
hold a ship up. hold you up.
your heart is too heavy with meaning.
it means too much to me.
i think your heart is a ship that was built to sail away.
i think i was built to hold up the wrong bodies.
i think it was best like this.
i think i am the dead sea, Diana Rahim
I used to think that love was a nail and hammer
Starkly cliched imagery I know
Used to picture a bleeding palm and a crown of thorns
And eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?
I used to tell myself all I needed to understand about love
I could find in the pages of a leather-backed book
And if I couldn’t find it there
I wouldn’t find it anywhere
I used to tell myself that if this wasn’t love,
I didn’t know what love was
I used to lie on a bed stained with blood
Exhausted with the effort of cleaving as one
She bled once, you see
After we fought
(we always did fight)
with the spite and the spit
of two creatures caught
around sundown, just before night
And then after the violence came the rapture
But anyway I’m missing my point
I used to think love was found
in the tightly clenched fists and butterfly kisses
That every harsh word that went unspoken
was somehow a greater testament to love
Every resentful song I swallowed down without singing
Hanging by my thumbs from a precipice and swinging
I used to tell myself that if this wasn’t love
But of course it wasn’t
February twelfth, two thousand and ten
I saved her from an elbow to the face
(and the indignity, I think)
First-flush bare-blush romance
showed its ugly ugly teeth
I really did love her,
I hope you believe me
I loved her with passion and desperation
and a faith besides
Faith in something bigger
Faith in a narrative
Faith in adrenaline
Faith in morphine and in codeine
Drugs too many to count I bought her
But after the rapture came the violence
She used to tell herself that if this wasn’t love
She didn’t know what love was
And she was right, I was right
Jeff was right, Leonard was right
We weren’t nobodies who had seen the light
These days mercy cuts too deep, I hope you understand
Who has the time for love?
I used to tell myself nursery rhymes, you know
Sometimes I believed them
But Chucky, Chuck he had it nailed
I don’t know what love is.
“I will remember the kisses, our lips raw with love,
and how you gave me everything you had
and how I offered you what was left of me.”
― Charles Bukowski
Anyone and everyone who’s adventured across China on a train will know that it’s not just about getting from point A to point B; it’s about the journey itself and the people you meet along the way. Wang Fuchun took this to the next level ever since the 1970’s.- http://bit.ly/17Q6eas
wow.. two months ago. in a nutshell.