a collection by Earnest Fitzgerald Salina.
On suffering
We expect | people to suffer because our suffering made us people
But to suffer is not a mark of good will and to have scars is not the reason you have a body (on which you can carve them)
Perhaps when we ask for justice what we are really asking for is more comfortable bandages
And perhaps progress is the ability to perform surgery without leaving scar tissue
THE BLUE ALIEN
I was supposed to be the sunshine kid, how did I end up such a sad human
-.
Today was a New Yorker Morning, and it passed on public transportation, thinking of how to scrub my house clean of my mother
Sage
When I was doing your portrait, I spent hours staring at your profile and noticed the thick, perfect symmetry of your eyebrows, the picture of beauty in your 5 o’clock shadow, the rhythm of the muscles moving beneath your brow. And maybe I’m a bit biased by how I shine through you (I love like a narcissist) But to me every part of you is beauty permanent through tides and changes, a painting of your profile, like ink on paper too thin my love shines through my skin too thin you cannot stop it from pouring out of you
When I watch you listen to your ugly music on tired early evening all my pretentious heart can say is just beauty.
Tinnitus
Would you please stop screaming.
Il
Is this the face that launch’d a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Illium? Sweet mirror I pray to die in gore for the pain the Immortals made me inflict with a kiss
Translation:
The job of swiping clear of someone’s life, throw away the clothes and the books and pick clean the empty skeleton of an apartment and own life that was of someone else.
A poem about Sufjan Steven
I starve my heart like I starve my liver
Ever since the days it growled with greed I starve like prisoners starve themselves (my famine is political)
I learned to eat cotton to cushion the pricks of love misgiven.
I starve my heart to save it from getting fat, and sweet and mellow: so it doesn’t melt on your tongue when you eat it
I starve my heart and like starved flesh every wound slashes deep into the muscle and bleeds.
tutte le foto di Max Miechowski.
