voyalux

[voyalux]

up and go

up, up,

again.

soft trilling,

never again once

didn't expect to see you again.

[voyalux]

love

it is exhausting,

agonizing,

challenging.

but every day I wake up,

I think of you. what I can do to help you.

again, you, sorry.

but I dream of you.

[voyalux]

I feel ill trying to save face,

some new front.

I am trying out my new fingers.

[voyalux]

I already told you:

I don't want to go home

this is dying anew.

plenty more to give.

[voyalux]

first and foremost,

the best friend I have ever met.

I love you dearly

from our start.

sounds of cicadas, I hold you close.

I never want it to end.

you are my soul mate.

every second, I love you.

Meeko

[voyalux]

how do you go from

precious to prey in a

blink.

toys for tots, then soon something

much different.

greed.

such disgusting greed.

children are not your breeding grounds.

children are children, whether you choose to

believe

or not.

fuck you.

[voyalux]

it was always you.

[voyalux]

16 April, 1939 Letters to Véra by Vladimir Nabokov

[voyalux]

soft kisses bring me down slowly

I have it all

waiting

from the start.

are you here still?

motioning me back in?

kiss me, please.

am I welcomed

back in?

[voyalux]

black and white,

painted,

landscapes.

i see it as that.

deep red and viscous

smear it across the mirror.

wide swath.

just that.

"whatever."

[voyalux]

smouldering ash.

i burn yet,

smoking myself out,

little cinders alight.

i burn quiet now,

though i used to rage.

that fire is still there.

[voyalux]

my heart hurts

it's some feeling I never want

someone else to know

loose pools of honey

dripping down slowly

[voyalux]

the kindest person in my entire life was someone who would never ask for it

[voyalux]

Louise Bourgeois’s list of wants from her diary, 1962

[voyalux]

Sylvia Plath, The Letters of Sylvia Plath Vol. I: 1940-1956

[voyalux]

Rosemary Williams reading - photo by Stanley Kubrick (1949)

[voyalux]

Frankly, I prefer just to lounge under a tree. So why should I think I could ever be successful? Some days I fall asleep, or land in that even better place—half-asleep—where the world, spring, summer, autumn, winter— flies through my mind in its hardy ascent and its uncompromising descent. So I just lie like that, while distance and time reveal their true attitudes: they never heard of me, and never will, or ever need to. Of course I wake up finally thinking, how wonderful to be who I am, made out of earth and water, my own thoughts, my own fingerprints— all that glorious, temporary stuff.

Mary Oliver, from “On Meditating, Sort Of” in Blue Horses: Poems