Demon and The Dove by Miguel Murphy

The psychotherapist has a sad dove
dying in his eye. He looks at the light
like wood holding fire in it
reflected in small caves
and tells me there is a window where love weeps
over what it cannot know. The dove's

trembling, flickering like a sun alone
in the dark nest of his face, and the psychotherapist
is saying, there is nothing like losing your Self
for a Demon. We walk in to each other
as into a museum, and our portraits gleam. This sounds
like he's saying our deaths are old, they
may not even belong to us. In the end, our meeting
is just the fantasy

we've been looking for all along. Yes,
Yes, I say, I've come here to burn for you
all my illusions. Yes, I say, I can see
you for who you are like I can see
the mother huddling her chicks in the sea cliff
in your inkblot, before she pecks their eyes large
as blood grapes and eats them
alive, the storm

clouds rupturing that purple
slag of lightning. What I want is to hold you
like a bell holds space
between the hours. What I want is to get back
one with the other, self
with dove, desire with the storm

inside that destroys
absence like a murderous blood. What I want
is a therapy like a first love—merciless
fascination—my eyes looking in
like the crazed bells of silence
to startle the mortal
coil. This
romance of self

you can't escape, and you don't want to

OVER WINE by Wisława Szymborska

He glanced, gave me extra charm

and I took it as my own.

Happily I gulped a star.

I let myself be invented,

modeled on my own reflection

in his eyes. I dance, dance, dance

in the stir of sudden wings.

The chair's a chair, the wine is wine,

in a wineglass that's the wineglass

standing there by standing there.

Only I'm imaginary,

make-believe beyond belief;

so fictitious that it hurts.

And I tell him tales about

ants that die of love beneath

a dandelion's constellation.

I swear a white rose will sing

if you sprinkle it with wine.

I laugh and I tilt my head

cautiously, as if to check

whether the invention works.

I dance, dance inside my stunned

skin, in his arms that create me.

Eve from the rib, Venus from foam,

Minerva from Jupiter's head-

all three were more real than me.

When he isn't looking at me,

I try to catch my reflection

on the wall. And see the nail

where a picture used to be.

Designer Orgasms

If I could put this on a plack I would:

"Make me cum. Again: you’ll know. Orgasms are like the price of heels at Balenciaga. If you have to ask, get the fuck out." -Sarah Nicole Prickett, How To Have Sex With Me One Time

(via Thought Catalog)

A Moment of Dreaming

What does it all mean, she wondered, rolling over in her bed.  She had just awoken with a start: in her dream they had been standing there holding hands.  She knew she was smiling, and although she couldn't see his face, she knew that he was very unhappy.  As the perspective of her dream went from wormhole to landscape, she saw why he was frowning.  His mother was there in the corner, dead.

She touched him in her bed, fully awake now, and brushed away his hair.  He didn't know about her dream but she felt suddenly closer to him, as if she knew every dream he had ever had.