Paul McCartney In John Lennons Glasses

Paul McCartney in John lennons glasses

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.

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in-spite-of-all-the-heartache

6 months ago

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

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in-spite-of-all-the-heartache

2 months ago

Can you diagnose fear? The red tree blooming from uterus
to throat. It’s one long nerve, the doctor says. There’s a reason
breathing helps, the muscles slackening like a dead marriage.
Mine are simple things. Food poisoning in Paris. Hospital lobbies.
My husband laughing in another room. (The door closed.)
For days, I cradle my breast and worry the cyst like a bead.
There’s nothing to pray away. The tree loves her cutter.
The nightmares have stopped, I tell the doctor. I know why.
They stopped because I baptized them. This is how my mother
and I speak of dying—the thing you turn away by letting in.
I’m tired of April. It’s killed our matriarchs and, in the back yard,
I’ve planted an olive sapling in the wrong soil. There is a droopiness
to the branches that reminds me of my friend, the one who calls
to ask what’s the point, or the patients who come to me, swarmed
with misery and astonishment, their hearts like newborns after
the first needle. What now, they all want to know. What now.
I imagine it like a beach. There is a magnificent sand castle
that has taken years to build. A row of pink seashells for gables,
rooms of pebble and driftwood. This is your life. Then comes the affair,
nagging bloodwork, a freeway pileup. The tide moves in.
The water eats your work like a drove of wild birds. There is debris.
A tatter of sea grass and blood from where you scratched your own arm
trying to fight the current. It might not happen for a long time,
but one day you run your fingers through the sand again, scoop a fistful out,
and pat it into a new floor. You can believe in anything, so why not believe
this will last? The seashell rafter like eyes in the gloaming.
I’m here to tell you the tide will never stop coming in.
I’m here to tell you whatever you build will be ruined, so make it beautiful.

Spoiler by Hala Alyan

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in-spite-of-all-the-heartache

3 months ago

Joy Sullivan, from "Long Division", Instructions for Traveling West

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in-spite-of-all-the-heartache

2 months ago

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

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in-spite-of-all-the-heartache

11 months ago

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

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in-spite-of-all-the-heartache

4 months ago

THE YEARS All the parties you spent watching the room from a balcony where someone joined you to smoke then returned. And how it turns out no one had the childhood they wanted, and how they'd tell you this a little drunk, a little slant in less time than it took to finish a cigarette because sad things can't be explained. Behind the glass and inside, all your friends buzzed. You could feel the shape of their voices. You could tell from their eyes they were in some other place. 1999 or 2008 or last June. Of course, it's important to go to parties. To make life a dress or a drink or suede shoes someone wears in the rain. On the way home, in the car back, the night sky played its old tricks. The stars arranged themselves quietly. The person you thought of drove under them. Away from the party, (just like you) into the years. -Alex Dimitrov

the years by alex dimitrov

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in-spite-of-all-the-heartache

3 months ago

Teddy boy Paulie ❤️

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in-spite-of-all-the-heartache

2 months ago

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.

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my writing personal vent

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