facts and poetry

oscar wilde
  • had three middle names
  • spoke five languages
  • was sentenced to prison for sodomy
  • was 16 when he had his first kiss
  • loved to travel
  • had an eidetic memory
  • lied about his age on his marriage certificate
  • held seances at his house
  • spoke with his hand in front of his mouth bc he was embarrassed by how supernaturally white his teeth were
  • kept a vase of flowers on his writing desk to neutralize the smell of his ashtray
  • had a passion for interior design and aesthetics—his drawing room was painted blue and covered in dragons, he even pressed feathers into the plaster to make it look cool
  • the kids at his school called him “grey crow”
  • one of the reasons he didn’t commit suicide was bc he was afraid he would go to hell for it
  • his favorite word was ivory
  • his last words were “i am in a duel to the death with this wallpaper, one of us has got to go”
  • his grave, in paris, has become the target of mass quantities of lipstick kisses. no lie. it’s literally covered in lipstick stains. and a sphinx. he also asked to be buried with his former lover’s ashes
online friends

“my friend the electrical engineer,”
i say,
or of someone else:
“my friend the Canadian,”
“my friend in Denver.”
and i am down south,
states and miles away.

“how did you meet?”
they ask, puzzled by
how far-flung my friendships.
“the internet,” i say,
a little proud, a little defensive
because the next words
are inevitable.

they always ask with a mix of
amusement and horror. always.
“have you met in person? no?
how can you be sure
it’s not an old pervert
in his mother’s basement, a
serial killer on the prowl?”

how can we be sure of anyone?
the man who married a pastor’s
daughter, then shot his pregnant wife
in the back of the head–they thought
they knew him.
but these anonymous souls:
they’re my friends.

we talk of books and ideas, family and
differences in where we live and
why we do what we do, and
trade stupid jokes like candy,
sweet and inclusive and joyful.
my friends.
my soul friends, who i meet
on the internet.

friendships are not born
of handshakes.
they’re born of shared things and
shared interests and
sometimes just because you’re human
and i’m human, and that
praise God
is enough.

even over the internet, that
is enough.

ARIES, you are orange and gold encased in maroon skin, sweet as honey. hang loose and know that your best is it’s own reward.

TAURUS, you still make me lose my breath with the curve of your neck, and i’m counting vertebrae to fall asleep, your laugh an indulgence I control my intake of. you are the best screenplay i could never write.

GEMINI,  the skyline is trying to kiss the moon, but you’re lucky that you bring her home.  be gentle with the kind of starlight you find.

CANCER, you were the first chord of a piano I learned to understand and my favorite poem, my most repeated prayer. we’ve made it this far. tell me that means something, and i’ll believe you.

LEO, to know you is to breathe in the first feeling of tomorrow. you are ceaseless and a shooting star - my night time dream wish. i miss you written a hundred times in blue.

VIRGO,  i’m often left asking if this is even worth it, and i think you’re the same. i want to be there for you. it used to be easier, you used to be a reminder of love and now i swallow your silence like a prison sentence. please don’t forget who you are.

LIBRA,  we are interlocked hands and ankles swinging in sync; knowing you is a second chance, and i’ll learn for you.

SCORPIO,  it’s natural to be terrified of what comes next. call me a lover but i don’t think anything is quite as important as the diamonds in your teeth when you smile. you are my undercurrent of inspiration.

SAGITTARIUS,  you are in your moment of nebulae, make it spectacular. rebirth tastes like last year’s champagne and  snow. 

CAPRICORN,  the smooth engine of a car, and a highway of mistakes and constellations. the chase is yours if you want it.

AQUARIUS, your palms say that it’s too late for you but when I close my eyes and swallow the middle name of the girl you once were it’s not sacrifice, but a promise. i will never forgive you if you press pause.  an artist is a guttural cry, and you can’t stop.

PISCES,  i carry your happiness in a pendant, knowing that some times things do work out, and it can be good. you are the best friend i didn’t know i could have.

—  DECEMBER MESSAGES FOR THE SIGNS, x.v

‘The Lost Generation’ is a sad poem about society that ends with “all this will come true unless we choose to reverse it.” If you read it backwards, each line has an opposite meaning, and it becomes happy.  Source


The Lost Generation 

I am part of a lost generation.
And I refuse to believe that
I can change the world.
I realize this may be a shock, but
“Happiness comes from within”
Is a lie, and
“Money will make me happy”
So in thirty years, I will tell my children
They are not the most important thing in my life.
My employer will know that
I have my priorities straight because
Work
Is more important than
Family
I tell you this:
Once upon a time
Families stayed together
But this will not be true in my era.
This is a quick fix society
Experts tell me
Thirty years from now, I will be celebrating the tenth anniversary of my divorce.
I do not concede that
I will live in a country of my own making.
In the future,
Environmental destruction will be the norm.
No longer can it be said that
My peers and I care about this Earth.
It will be evident that
My generation is apathetic and lethargic.
It is foolish to presume that
There is hope.
And all of this will come true unless we choose reverse it.

Backwards:

There is hope.
It is foolish to presume that
My generation is apathetic and lethargic.
It will be evident that
My peers and I care about this Earth.
No longer can it be said that
Environmental destruction will be the norm.
In the future,
I will live in a country of my own making.
I do not concede that
Thirty years from now, I will be celebrating the tenth anniversary of my divorce.
Experts tell me
This is a quick fix society
But this will not be true in my era.
Families stayed together
Once upon a time
I’ll tell you this:
Family
Is more important than
Work
I have my priorities straight because
My employer will know that
They are not the most important thing in my life.
So in thirty years, I will tell my children
“Money will make me happy”
Is a lie, and
“True Happiness comes from within”
I realize this may be a shock, but
I can change the world.
And I refuse to believe that
I am part of a lost generation.

~ by Johnathan Reed

guide to falling out of love

i. go back to the places where you felt safe. examine your feelings, do you still feel safe on your own? become self reliant.

ii. go grocery shopping. select your memories like frozen peas and wonder bread. most you won’t like to remember, some you will be grateful for.

iii. invent new emotions for yourself, like how a tree feels when the wind blows through it. you are an open window.

iv. find words to describe yourself in ways they never would. observe how your eyelashes make tender shadows on your cheek, how the soft fabric of your favorite teeshirt touches your skin. it is enough.

v. fall in love with everything else. become addicted to morning sunlight and the weeds on your lawn. the moths hovering around your porch light are meant to be there. invite them in.

anonymous asked:

have any great source of poetry about wlw?

i’ve got a wlw poetry tag but i’ll link you to a few of my fave authors / poems. i think an important thing to remember is that if you know they’re a wlw poet, then even if they don’t use pronouns in the poem, it’s likely a poem about wlw.

I know you want
to hear something different.
But the truth is,
if you want to be happy
you have to hold
your own heart.
You cannot give it away.
Oh sure, they
can build a home
inside of it.
But you get to be 
the landlord and decide
how long they can stay.
You get to paint the walls
whatever color you want.
And if they keep breaking things
you have to evict them.
At the end of the day,
it’s your responsibility.
Because when they leave,
you have to be
the one left
with the damage.
—  Landlord, V.P.

anonymous asked:

Say "goyim" one more time white boy

In this episode of our ongoing series Mod EJ Nerds, we will discuss one of my favorite pieces of Latin poetry. It’s technically just called Catullus 12, but I’ve always thought of it as “The Napkin Thief.”

Here is the original text with a literal translation and here is my (accurate in spirit) rendering:

Asinius Marrucinus, I know about the little prank you play when we’re all hanging out together. You steal people’s napkins when they’re distracted! Do you actually think this is funny? You’re such a dumbass. Seriously, even your brother Pollio thinks so. He would legit pay like 10K just to get you to stop; he’s a good dude. So here’s the deal: I’m gonna release a 300 line callout post for you unless you give me my napkin back right away. Seriously, dude, it was a present from my friends.

If that sounds like it cannot possibly be an actual 2000-year-old poem, you should check out some of Catullus’s other work.

You guys can always feel free to message me ❤