“I shall try to see many things, shall go to the libraries and read; and then, when things begin to grow a little lighter inside me, I shall be at home as much as possible and gather myself around the best that I have not yet lost.”
Rainer Maria Rilke, from a letter to Lou Salomé witten c. August 1903 (x)
pyer moss ss19 nyfw
he unfurled the string, but never tied the knot.
he poured the wine, but never sipped a drop.
he checked the time, and then crushed the clock.
he said that he was sorry, but then never stopped.
he planted a garden, and then let it all rot.
he wanted to be there, yet he always got lost.
but when he said he loved me, i almost forgot.
the women living between his sheets do not make
him any less alone.
he loved her tulip lips and cherry blossom eyes.
the ivy vines of his bed curl together to hold
him in their clutches.
arms gashed, arms bruised, arms mangled: the colour
of a red rose strangled.
champagne glasses tipped, honey liquid
dripping with bubbling bliss.
a memory gargled away in a half pint of abyss.
the daffodils curl up to greet his toes, grey and
green and wholly gold.castle upon castle upon castle
in a unrelenting dreamer vision.
he said- it feels like home
turned into a sore kneed prison.where the soft skin once grew
festivals of yellow, red and
pink
there lies nothing but tufts and tufts
of angel dust.he is everything he says he is not.
