once tamed

Schroedinger’s Cat and the Last Eclipse of the Millenium

The one who begins this poem won’t be the same
As the one who will end it. Already
Fifteen minutes have passed since I wrote those lines.
I take my shirt off. The day is getting warm.

Yesterday I learned two words: Geheim, which is German
For secret. Temem, which is Arabic

For plenitude. In a few hours a hundred million people
Who do not speak the same language

Will gaze at the last eclipse of the millennium. Bonheur,
what a beautiful word when formed by the mouth

Of a French Buddhist. Didn’t I tell you words
Should be emptied like a vessel, didn’t I tell you I loved

Schroedinger’s cat. Kept for days in a closed box
The cat can either live or die, but until we look

It is neither dead nor alive. Next question. Ask me what light
Feels like, at the instant when it falls. The one

Who ends this poem is not the same as the one
Who will stand accused and be forced to deny it.

Can sorrow be weighed in gravitons? Is fear genetic?
Does the soul know it exists? Does it echolocate its way

In this world, looking for an exit? The inferno that we form
by being together. — Calvino. I use these words

To keep from looking away, ensorcelled by the radiantly
Mortal, but with zero yearning. X = wonder,

Vivid under the spell’s recurring question: Peut-on
Naitre-mourir? Lust kills joy

Instantly: half glass fully empty. Diamond cusp,
Be beautiful, brief, and blinding.”

Eric Gamalinda | Schroedinger’s Cat and the Last Eclipse of the Millenium (via swingingaxes)

(via missinglight)


Hush, my darling
Collab with Jas (jasremindmetobreathe)


Hush, my darling

Collab with Jas (jasremindmetobreathe)


we bury things
out of necessity
how can anything
take root and grow
if it is not buried
in good hearty soil
nourished, fertilised
and brought to bloom  
from spring’s vigour
to summer’s blossoms
toughened through autumn
and resting in winter
only to rise again
from the burial grounds
that lie within us



The silk which she loves
flows against her skin,
the white silk spun
from a cocoon of words,
spun and shimmering in her dark eyes
against dark skin
which tells her who she is
and who she is not,

am I the moth inside
her mouth where words
form, silk cocoon dark skin
against the words of need
I did not say love
until which of us can tell
I cannot
who is the spinner
who, the moth
who, the silk.

Alan Fox


Lunch pail - 1916 - (Via)


Lunch pail - 1916 - (Via)