First, love absence. Lick darkness until you become darkness. Let the stars wear you as their sky. (Lucky, lucky.) Worship the dome of your limits. Listen to your heart’s mundane rhythm. Marry it. Fuck the ticking until time is born. Continue reading
Author Archives: Meghan Privitello
Kālī, Please Advise
#6 – Five Poems From Notes on the End of the World
On February 6, DMC celebrates its TWO-YEAR ANNIVERSARY! Holy mackerel, time flies. It’s been a great year. We’ve published hundreds of pieces this year that we feel proud and honored to share, and we also put out our first book! This week we will be counting down the Top Ten Most Read posts from our second year of existence, and will present #2 and #1 on Saturday, February 6. Thanks for being part of a wild and excellent two years. DAY 6 It is no dream to live in a house with blown out windows and molting snakes. Any child’s drawing would tell you so: the driveway, the garden, the smoking chimney. I sleep with a pistol between my legs so often that any man would be a soft nuisance. This quiet is the quiet of watching a living thing die, when you hit yourself for having believed the heart could ever resemble a red bird. I would give up all of my memories of trains if one passed through the foothills as I watched. All to say, there is enough emptiness to be buried wherever the weathervane stops. There is enough emptiness to feel holy. At night, the wind upsets the shutters, the shingles. And although I knew a bucket of morphine and a glass of scotch would kill it, I killed it. Continue reading
Five Poems from Notes on the End of the World
DAY 6 It is no dream to live in a house with blown out windows and molting snakes. Any child’s drawing would tell you so: the driveway, the garden, the smoking chimney. I sleep with a pistol between my legs so often that any man would be a soft nuisance. This quiet is the quiet of watching a living thing die, when you hit yourself for having believed the heart could ever resemble a red bird. I would give up all of my memories of trains if one passed through the foothills as I watched. All to say, there is enough emptiness to be buried wherever the weathervane stops. There is enough emptiness to feel holy. At night, the wind upsets the shutters, the shingles. And although I knew a bucket of morphine and a glass of scotch would kill it, I killed it. Continue reading
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