The two men who have done the greatest harm to the world are Christ and Columbus. Christ taught us guilt and sacrifice, to live only in the other world, and Columbus discovered America and materialism.
The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934 // Anaïs Nin
Feeling then your warmth beside me
Little body, thigh and knee
In these arms, I thought, I’ll hide me
Here’s where they can bury me.
Sentimental Song No. 78 // Bertolt Brecht
I just wanted to tell you that with all your faults I love you. I love or revere very few people. As for the rest, I’m ashamed of my immense indifference to them… But for those I love, nothing and no one, neither I nor certainly they themselves, can ever make me stop loving them.
The First Man // Albert Camus
Twelve years now and we’re still eating off the ordinary:
We left our wedding china behind, afraid that it might crack.
We’re here for the time being, we answer to the query,
But nothing is more permanent than the temporary.
After a Greek Proverb // A.E. Stallings
I’m still trying in
Vain, with great struggle to be
Myself once again
3AM Thoughts // AKA “Haiku 35.”
Serpents change their outward skin and
permit their souls to grow and age.
// Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilyov
…a dark angel whispering to me to be easy on myself.
Half-Hanged Mary // Margaret Atwood
She is eaten up by clever words
Rotting with desire, she abhors the way
It makes her feel; tormented by illicit thoughts
Wondering if she should have acted sooner.
Eyelids shut in reproach, searching for oblivion
As I adorn myself in honey, chains, roses, thorns.
She watches with barely repressed ferocity making nimble fingers
She watched me peel it all off, she ached with
The thought of how soft
It could be;
The all-consuming desire to sway the
Pendulum of pleasure a little further her way.
3AM Thoughts // AKA “The Devil Is A Woman.”
Me, in the early hours
Of the morning, whispering your name
Until your fingers sleepily find mine, is the shortest
Poem I ever wrote
3AM Thoughts // AKA “KISS.”
She seemed, at once, some demon’s mistress, or the demon’s self.
// John Keats