word music
satinjapan:

Molly Zuckerman-Hartung, “Notley” (2013), latex housepaint, enamel, and spray paint on dropcloth (hinged, in two attached parts), 96 x 132 in 

satinjapan:

Molly Zuckerman-Hartung, “Notley” (2013), latex housepaint, enamel, and spray paint on dropcloth (hinged, in two attached parts), 96 x 132 in 

mattmorriswerks:

molly zuckerman-hartunglurch, 2014
currently on view at zolla-lieberman in chicago thru may 3rd.

mattmorriswerks:

molly zuckerman-hartung
lurch, 2014

currently on view at zolla-lieberman in chicago thru may 3rd.

because Barb Dylan



in the catacombs  
Barb Dylan is growing a beard of wolves
remember when she combed open the sky
with wolves and we could see all the wires
and birds were weeping
the wolves remember
when Barb Dylan was growing a bird
when she drove his car
under the ocean because summ-
er
and the Loch Ness monster
and tulips because Orb Dylan was    
showing us his wooden teeth
and she started crying and blood
spurted from his neck
the aliens

kdecember:


Bob Dylan’s voice
in the deep end of the sky
gathers all my eyes in it’s mouth

Bob Dylan’s voice
is trying to drown me
in a sea of light

and when I come up for air
sunlight is limping across the field
wearing Bob Dylan’s beard

this morning a rasp of light
is…

vjeranski:

Chris Martin

vjeranski:

Chris Martin


“I start in the middle of a sentence and move both directions at once.”
― John Coltrane

“I start in the middle of a sentence and move both directions at once.”

John Coltrane

killthecurator:

Howard Hodgkin

killthecurator:

Howard Hodgkin

stars



their thick glass eyes
the sun tries to drown them
in the deep end of the sky

and when they come up for air
wearing Bob Dylan’s beard
a rasp of light

this morning, bluebirds
wearing Bob Dylan’s beard

in the labor camps
I grew Dostoyevsky’s beard
one last tear of light
limping across the field




To ND

forgetlings:

by W. S. Graham

No two can meet the way that we have met,
Completely, like the marriage of fused stars
That streak their meteord lights each into each
And shuddering to the life of leaping light
Start down the sky charged to a double blaze.

No two can come the ways that we have come,
Like silver moonlight creeping over stones
On stream-banks, lighting every crystal vein
To Beauty’s sadness. No, they have no dreams
To break the steady darkness of their night.

chunky poem

alisonwritesinwordpad:

Doll arms never got strength
from those workout videos we half-assed;
my ankles always roll
when i trip on twings—

the clumsiness of living
tends to ask that of me:
the chunky breaths, all in patterns,
I take when I run up-hill
to the depths of my diaphram
when I cry and beg for the oxygen
my asthma gatekeeps in my throat.
(I guess I’m cheaply put together anyway.)