#Paige Lewis

[havingapoemwithyou]

because the color is half the taste by Paige Lewis

[sicknessinmotion]

my god is different from your god

anne carson // paige lewis // la haine (dir. mathieu kassovitz) // anne sexton // frank bidart // dogma (dir. kevin smith).

[typewriter-worries]

the beast you made of me

The Truth and Grunewald, Juan Ramón Jiménez tr. W.S. Merwin | St. Michael,  Luca Giordano | The Bear - Episode 1, Christopher Storer | Fallen Angel, Alexandre Cabanel | Fury, Yevgeny Yevtushenko | Dante et Virgile, William Bouguereau | The Terre Haute Planetarium Rejected My Proposal, Paige Lewis | Study of a Man, Thomas Couture

[until-i-set-him-free]

"Diorama of Want" by Paige Lewis

[fiskakongur]

I want to tie a

string around your waist

--for you to adore my

gentle leading.

[beingharsh]

"The Deal", Mitski" / "Diorama of Ghosts", Paige Lewis / "The Torn-Up Road", Richard Siken

[lunamonchtuna]

— Paige Lewis, from Space Struck

[firstfullmoon]

Paige Lewis, “I’m Not Faking My Astonishment, Honest”

[myriad--starlings]

Lately, I've been feeling betrayed by names / the king cobra isn't a cobra the electric eel / isn't an eel, and it turns out my anger / was fear all along.

— Space Struck, Paige Lewis

[seekingstars]

I'VE BEEN TRYING TO FEEL BAD FOR EVERYONE - Paige Lewis

[havingapoemwithyou]

on distance by Paige Lewis

[d1anna]

“SACCADIC MASKING” from Space Struck by Paige Lewis

[typewriter-worries]

The Moment I Saw A Pelican Devour, Paige Lewis

[bad-art-every-day]

On the train, a man snatches my book, reads

the last line, and says I completely get you

[6peaches]

Paige Lewis - God Stops By

to show me how healthy He’s been. He’s sleeping more. He built his own gym.

Mostly muscle now, He gives me the fat off his steak. I eat because He offers, not

because I need—it’s hard to feel hungry when everything in this world tastes small

and wrong, like rubber grapes or sun-boiled eggs. When I was small, I was certain

that what was holy was mine—I caught moths in the garden, pressed their wings

between my thickest book, and waited for new moths to sprout up and out

of the pages. I ask God if He considers me a cracked seed of grace. He says,

Yes, dear. I understand. It would be exhausting to lead a life with careful consideration

for all things—stepping over anthills, saving lizards from pools. I mean, if I was God enough

to be idolized, every statue would be a golden depiction of me riding a goose-drawn chariot,

absentmindedly resting my shepherd’s scythe an inch away from their curved white

throats. Before God leaves, He clears the table, pats my head, and presses two messages into

my palms. In my left, You are the bridge. In my right, You are the dust.

[firstfullmoon]

do you ever feel like bursting into tears