I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true, but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within. —Gustave Flaubert (via
Secrecy flows through you,
a different kind of blood.
It’s as if you’ve eaten it
like a bad candy,
taken it into your mouth,
let it melt sweetly on your tongue,
then allowed it to slide down your throat
like the reverse of uttering,
a word dissolved
into its glottals and sibilants,
a slow intake of breath —
And now it’s in you, secrecy.
Ancient and vicious, luscious
as dark velvet.
It blooms in you,
a poppy made of ink.
, from “Secrecy,” The New Yorker
(August 28, 2006)
today i realized how much i love anubis like he just
this sarcophagus contains all the fucks i give. also your beating heart
talk to the hand cuz the face aint talkin
say that to my face horus you falcon headed fuck
calm down ladies
LOOK @ ME WHEN IM TALKING TO YOU YOUNG MAN