On a wednesday night in the Hungarian Cafe, New York City. by Gregory Muenzen
This post has been featured on a 1000notes.com blog.
31172
April
26th 2013
On a wednesday night in the Hungarian Cafe, New York City. by Gregory Muenzen
This post has been featured on a 1000notes.com blog.
i hope you guys can see the complexity of this piece. read once all the way through, then read it excluding the words in parentheses, and then read only the words in parentheses
literally the coolest thing ever
to whoever wrote this: you are crazy talented
(Source: praises, via staycasp-er)
Tell the world about my small hands. Tell them
about last summer and the floral mouth of dawn.
We are still swimming and the lack of air is crowding
my lungspace. All these exploding goldfish and I’m piecing
together a puzzle that looks a lot like a brick wall.
There isn’t enough oxygen in the room, so I’m leaving.
You never were very good at sharing. This extreme
ledge and I’m not trained to land on my feet. I’m training
this lion to act like a house cat. I am not good at a lot
of things. I am not good at you. I am building this wall
out of macaroni, but it won’t stop raining so I’m stuck
building a door with no door. I’m coming home
someday. I am building you a couch and stuffing
the cushions with scrambled eggs. It could be comfortable
but it’s going to smell soon. Tell your neighbors how
we are building a cemetery in our living room. How
we are taking applications and practicing our swan dives.
I am praying for a drought and a snapped neck. A life
without feathers. A life of hushed sentiment. The results
are always the same: a snip of fabric and soft swoosh
of string. My skin will stay on tight this time. I can feel it.
The path gets dark up ahead and if you shut your eyes
you might feel me winding around your ankles. There is
not a lot to be thankful for. We are fleeing to the surface
without knowing what’s next. I know we can make love with
our eyes closed. I’m not sure what happens when we stop.
(via waitingforarsenic)
