Nina Katchadourian - Sorted Books
“I suddenly recalled a moment in the university library when, looking for a book, I had turned my head sideways as I walked down the stacks and thought how spectacular it would be if all the titles formed an accidental sentence when read one after the other in a long chain. Standing amidst the bookshelves in Half Moon Bay, my next move was simply to make this imaginary accident real. I spent days shifting and arranging books, composing them so that their titles formed short sentences. The exercise was intimate, like a form of portraiture, and it felt important that the books I selected should function as a cross section of the larger collection.”
Posts tagged "poetry"
I start so many poems with
You are a
like if I find the perfect metaphor
it will make you love me.But really
you are you
and that is why
I am writing poems.
(via whatsmakingyouhowl)
“
later that nightWarsan Shire (via colinfirth)
i held an atlas in my lap
ran my fingers across the whole world
and whispered
where does it hurt?
it answered
everywhere
everywhere
everywhere.
(via theumbrellaseller)
“
Every mouth you’ve ever kissed was just practice. All the bodies you’ve ever undressed and ploughed in to were preparing you for me. I don’t mind tasting them in the memory of your mouth.Warsan Shire (via livingg-nightmareee)
Was it a long journey? Did it take you long to find me?
You’re here now, welcome home.
(via drlovebite)
i hope you guys can see the complexity of this piece. read once all the way through, then read it excluding the words in parentheses, and then read only the words in parentheses :) (this is what i do to avoid math) (it was so difficult and took me forever) (appreciate it please omg)
holy shit the parentheses
(via frozengodofmischief)
“
But my heart is an old house(via clementinevonradics)
(the kind my mother
grew up in)
hell to heat and cool
and faulty in the wiring
and though it’s nice to look at
I have no business
inviting lovers in.
(via wildunknownmen)
dancing in the revolution: Warning: Flammable
In Ancient Rome, the old women used to believe that after a night
of good love, it was possible for a couple to spontaneously combust,
leaving nothing but a pile of slightly smoking ashes behind, smelling
faintly of sweat mingled with olive oil for the relatives of the dead lovers
to sweep up and bury forty feet beneath the earth.
I’ve seen landslides pause in their paths, wishing to run themselves
to death down your skin instead of the old familiar muddy roads,
the ones that lead away from home but then return, again and again,
to the front door where it all began. Tonight I kiss the backs
of your knees, trying in a way to be a landslide too,
the kind that crushes everything before it but never
gives it up for dead. Last year on vacation in Italy
at the museum you climbed into a glass case of dinosaur bones
when the tour guides weren’t looking, and I matched you,
fracture for fracture, dimple for dimple, jaw to jaw,
the smooth white skin of your arm gleaming
like so many sharp teeth, eventually coming to the conclusion
that if spontaneous combustion were possible
in this day and age, I’d have burned up a thousand times by now
every time you bite your lip.