I’m Lucrezia, this is Giulietta, and this is Art History 106 *theme song plays*
littlebitchromance replied to your photo “this was the coldest thing I’ve read all day and i was caught…”
Did you see the one “the only thing about ebola in the US is that the Rutgers buses will be less crowded”? Because that one was my favorite
Oh yeah. I’m absolutely dreading winter this year, we’re going to have a hell of a time cramming our asses onto these busses. I got onto an A train in NYC at rush hour the other week and the people I was with were all laughing about how it’s so nice to have personal space.
*re-reads sex chapter of fanfiction over breakfast cereal like it’s the morning paper*
In the Deep South, God is a cotton king,
Trussed up in plantation whites and powdered over smooth
with a little bit of talcum from Momma’s compact.
He’s the Georgia dust that gets on everything, in everything,
Caking the soles of bare feet
sifting through cracks in church pews,
and catching in your lover’s eyelashes.
In the Deep South, the Devil is a beautiful boy
who swears and cheats at billiards on Sunday.
He is the one who reaches up your skirt,
pulls out the prayers your were saving for someday
and lights them on fire with his tongue.
He will sing hymns while feasting on your forfeit heart,
call you blessed while peeling away dignity like stockings,
then drag you out in front of the church to be stoned.
In the Deep South, the Holy Spirit is an old woman
with hands brown and gnarled as the nuts she boils
and a voice soft and dark as the Appalachian sky.
She is the swamp kingdom matriarch children are sent to
when sins need to be wished away like warts,
the presence of whom straightens the spines of wayward souls
and coaxes a “Yes Ma’am” from the devil’s own.
In the Deep South, Jesus is a mixed-race child
with drops of destiny mingled into his blood
and the names of the saints tattooed along his spine.
He has his mother’s bearing, one that wears suffering nobly,
and baleful eyes that speak of the sins of his forefathers.
The word of God flutters from his mouth like butterflies
with bodies baptized in tears and wings dipped in steel.
In the Deep South, angels drink too much.
They sashay and guffaw and forget to return calls.
They tell white lies and agonize over what to wear.
In the Deep South, angels look very much like you and it,
and they cling to each other with dustbowl desperation
and replenish their failing reserves of grace with ritual
in the hopes of remembering what they once were,
what wonders they once were capable of performing.
we have been told in the wake of the great recession
that english is not the thing the world needs.
success is measured in binary code.
web yourself with numbers;
this earth tires of verse.
poetry will get you nowhere.
put a dollar value on yeats.
measure for me in hard cold cash
the contributions of every starving artist.
give me exact numbers;
tell me to the cent the impact of shakespeare.
cummings may burn within your bones,
but what is his net value?
they gave ginsberg a million
for his soul.
we stamp out art to repair a system
artists sure as hell didn’t break.
if it is not business, not numbers,
it is useless. where is the money in it?
words mean nothing to an entrepreneur.
who taught businessmen
how to write?
the struggle is real
Tiniest foot tutorial. Can add toes or just have shoe. Is good. Have day.
THANK YOU SO MUCH
Ah, Bisexuality Day, when Freddie Mercury visits all the bisexuals who’ve been good the past year and gives them presents
Ha ha, I can’t believe you still think Freddie Mercury is real. Everybody knows it’s really your parents.
IT IS FREDDIE. I’VE SEEN HIM! HE COMES TO YOUR HOUSE AND LEAVES YOU OSCAR WILDE BOOKS AND MARLON BRANDO MOVIES.