these violent delights

My name is terri and this is where I write.

isaac  misha  the ballet  page  

My Top Five (so far in this life)

1. Frank O’Hara
2. Mayakovsky
3. David B. Goldstein
4. Rilke
5. Shakespeare

Silent Bodies

I wonder if people know how incredibly sad I am. I want to be around people and be drunk. I am tired of work and want. I need to be free. I do not know how to get there, is freedom a destination? (Of course it is.) I really want to fall in love. There is this boy, three years younger with evergreen eyes and dusty hair. I want to fall in love with him. My mother laughs. I was in love with his older brother and his sepia-ness. He looks like a bronze statue. Of a god. I thought he was the sun. I, obviously, was (or am) the moon.

Deborah is Singing

The sound of her voice, ivy twisting around my neck,
I wept,
The nails of Fear tearing into my flesh
And where, where, where was Sam
The Starlit Beggar?
I knew her name but dared not speak it,
My lover was too far gone
And would not hear it.

when your father sent raven out
I wept because he would not return

when he sent dove
I wept because she would


Romeo + Juliet (1996)

won’t you stay?

Where were we when Margaret lost her life?
I thought I’d die; I was misery, gluttonous.

The pain of loss, the sad slip of grief across my tongue,
I was strung up by bodiless Orpheus , —
The lyre never sounded quite right
Without a heart in those fingertips that played it —

I know I said I loved her best,
But that was before I knew she was dead.

I just finished The Virgin Suicides. I feel quieter.

May 7

I don’t know how to explain myself,
Why I often think of sprawling myself out in snow
And waiting to freeze,
Waiting to sit up and enter that faint trance
Where I am on fire and my fingers ache and throb
And I begin to undress — ‘I am on fire and the snow is just sand.’

The stars pay me no mind, but I look up at them
When the world is black and stand, with head thrown back,
As if there is nothing more beautiful than the spaces I can’t touch.

Before I learned that masturbation was a terrible thing,
I spent minutes in bed attempting to memorize the strokes of pleasure,
Quick and warm and receding, a quick heart, and the sudden close of eyes or squeezing that accompanied what I felt was love.

I never got past the way I wanted a cat
Or the way I felt when sisterly superstition sent that cat packing in the middle of the night when I was eight.

If I try to be happy, I am cut down by my reflection,
Judgmental of all the things I can never change
And all of the anger and misunderstandings inflicted
On a heart large enough to bury —

I don’t know anything about you, reader,
But I am sad, and I think you might be sad as well.

I finished my first book in a year today,
Always failing to sit still and feel my own misery,
I stopped and began to read poems,
Always the same ones, over and over again,
As if they would somehow remind me to breathe like a year ago,
Remind me of how affectionate I was of being alive,
And now, only seeing the destruction that awaits all living things.

I try really hard not be sad,
And letting go of books that I should read in favour of books
I want to read has given me a little peace.

I hope for more, soon.

I have forgotten every reason I loved you,
The season you walked into my life is my least favourite,
And I can still taste the bitterness of damp, heavy leaves
And condensed windows
As we waited for the storm of our youth.

I loved you, it seems, for only one day,
And have been stuck there for a decade.

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(Source: jesusquesada)

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