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by Gray Malin
Shooting from doorless helicopters, this series has been photographed around the world from the U.S. to Brazil to Australia. From above, a simple beach or pool becomes a blank canvas that allows me to start seeing the world as art. People and objects become patterns creating repetition, shape and form. These photographs are a visual celebration of color, light, shape—and summer bliss.
(via)
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To Begin With
I handed him a strand of hair
he twirled it between his fingers
and marveled at the shine
I pulled more out
one by one
and gave each to him
he kept losing them
I gave him my eyes
smooth and blue and white
he rolled them
round and round
kissed them for luck
and lost them in a game of marbles
I gave him my skin
he stretched it tight around him
stroked it with his fingertips
he poked and he pulled
it tight around him
and it tore to shreds
I gave him my breast
and then the other
he moved them
hand to hand
rubbery little water balloons
he squeezed them, smiled
and they burst
I gave him my heart
bloody, red mess
cupped in his hands
he held it to his lips
sucked it dry
let the empty mass slip
through his fingers
and fall to the floor
Standing here
head, no hair
face, no eyes
body, no breasts
flesh, no skin
soul, no heart
I asked for it back
for it all back
He shrugged
I never asked for any of it
to begin with
~ Lara Coley
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“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”
— Louise Erdrich Loading... -
Why Things Burn
My fire-eating career came to an end
when I could no longer tell
when to spit and when
to swallow.
Last night in Amsterdam,
1,000 tulips burned to death.
I have an alibi. When I walked by
your garden, your hand
grenades were in bloom.
You caught me playing
loves me, loves me
not, metal pins between my teeth.
I forget the difference
between seduction
and arson,
ignition and cognition. I am a girl
with incendiary
vices and you have a filthy never
mind. If you say no, twice,
it’s a four-letter word.
You are so dirty, people have planted
flowers on you: heliotropes. sun-
flowers. You’ll take
anything. Loves me,
loves me not.
I want to bend you over
and whisper: “potting soil,” “fresh
cut.” When you made
the urgent fists of peonies
a proposition, I stole a pair of botanists’
hands. Green. Confident. All thumbs.
I look sharp in garden
shears and it rained spring
all night. 1,000 tulips
burned to death
in Amsterdam.
We didn’t hear the sirens.
All night, you held my alibis
so softly, like taboos
already broken.-Daphne Gottlieb
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