
This is just a post to say thank you to passingboats for the submission (it’s in the queue) and to remind everyone to submit things!
Submit quotes, favorite poems, art, pictures, whatever you have and whatever you can find, I’d love to see it!


3
You wonder what he’s thinking when he shivers like that.
What can you tell me, what could you possibly
tell me? Sure, it’s good to feel things, and if it hurts, we’re doing it
to ourselves, or so the saying goes, but there should be
a different music here. There should be just one safe place
in the world, I mean
this world. People get hurt here. People fall down and stay down and I don’t like
the way the song goes.
You, the moon. You, the road. You, the little flowers
by the side of the road. You keep singing along to that song I hate. Stop singing.










line taken from “seaside improvisation” by richard siken.
(via balrogs)






the dislocated room by richard siken


Richard Siken in Crush.



“History repeats itself. Somebody says this. History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop, over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters. History is a little man in a brown suit trying to define a room he is outside of. I know history. There are many names in history but none of them are ours.” - Richard Siken, ‘Little Beast’


”(…) You’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.”
— Richard Siken
This is just a post to say thank you to passingboats for the submission (it’s in the queue) and to remind everyone to submit things!
Submit quotes, favorite poems, art, pictures, whatever you have and whatever you can find, I’d love to see it!
You can’t get out of this one, Henry, you can’t get it out of me, and with this bullet
lodged in my chest, covered with your name, I will turn myself into a gun, because
it’s all I have,
because I’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own. I’ll be your
slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this
bullet inside me”
Richard Siken