The Years By Alex Dimitrov

ode to bitter affection

Every time I feel your breath next to my ear you smell different and male, but I know when it’s you. And the specific meter of tension you bring is far divorced from the fluttering giddiness of infatuation. The halt in brain and body is rather like the wait for the sensation to come rushing in after carelessly flinging your hand into a dresser corner, where you just stand there still as a panicked fruit fly and tense for the flaring of nerves you know will follow. It mellowed over time into the mild wince before biting into a slice of lemon with the juices cooked out, or leached of acid in a melting pool of tea and ice. The tartness on my tongue is tempered in the realization that you never brushed me over with any glossy luster, that I was always more of a sun bleached lucky rock in the back pocket of your favorite jeans. Rocks can’t lose a luster they never had. Sometimes I feel as though you have seen every decision I have ever made and never regretted. Others, you just stare like a scarecrow and I cannot tell whether it is out of an inability to interpret or an attempt to understand. They’re not quite the same.

📢📢📢

on my way! to live yet another day in my fucking life.

strawberry fields forever

literally forever thinking about morrissey "we're both bisexual. real hip, huh? i hate sex"

Teddy boy Paulie ❤️

I’m not blinded by starlight 

or drowned by sweeping ocean tide

when we lock eyes,

like how the lovesick poets describe.

Your eyes are November afternoons,

when the dusk falls early and the clouds grow sleepy, their eyelids

drooping as they disperse and fall to pavement,

their remnants rising into next morning’s mist.

Your eyes are a threshold, son of Hestia

an ancient siren song of quiet comfort,

calling to me as the mourning doves call

to predawn hushes of childhood.

Your eyes are the sweet dregs of honeyed tea

staining the ceramic of the mug by my bed,

growing colder as I extricate the fabric of my heart

and embroider them into these hopeless sonnets

with inkstained needle and thread,

so that I might trace and retrace the dips & curves & valleys of their letters

through the blurred eyes of an infatuated insomniac.

O Captain! My Captain!

by Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths — for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

Paul McCartney in John lennons glasses

in a complicated on again off again psychosexual situationship with late afternoon cup of coffee