literary fragments

Overflowing skies of squandered stars splendour over grievance. Rather than into pillows, weep upwards. Here, at the weeping, at the ending face

I don't reproach you. We must stop reproach. Isn't that the point? Before my open or my shutting eye something mighty always seethes ahead as if it were the sea. I think it is the sea.

How thirsty you are. God's cataract plunges through every vein. How you can be so thirsty. Abandon yourself to thirst. (How you have grasped me.)

His hand to brush a mark from his face it was her face.

He sought her in the word mistress but she wasn't there, he should have sheltered in that doorway from the beginning but now it was night.

You took my ring and threw it in the garbage I've been looking thru the garbage ever since if you find yourself beside the city dump sometime you'll find it covered with my fingerprints

To keep the mind from getting scorched by horrid, all-consuming malice; and if we both were saved from such a fate and didn't drink this chalice of jealousy, dark omens, lies, spoils, comets, opiates, pure menace, it was in order to entice us in the end to sketch its semblance.

My voice is still prophetic to your mind, like stories narrated by Scheherazade

So long had life together been that once the snow began to fall, it seemed unending; that, lest the flakes should make her eyelids wince, I'd shield them with my hand, and they, pretending not to believe that cherishing of eyes, would beat against my palm like butterflies.

So long had life together been that now the second of January fell again on Tuesday, making her astonished brow lift like a windshield wiper in the rain, so that her misty sadness cleared, and showed a cloudless distance waiting up the road.