I drifted into indiscipline and intellectual adventure that eventually became complete confusion. —  Carl Solomon (via emmaleetea)

(Source: emilyannherr)

Instead of arms to hold you
I want longer limbs, vines,
to wrap you twofold, threefold.

I wrap you, I pick you up, I carry you,
your knees drawn up, your head bent,
your arms crossed on your breast.

You are heavy.
I walk, I walk.
You say nothing.

Onward. Hill and dale. Indoors.
Out again. You say nothing.
You grow smaller, I wrap you fourfold.

I show you all the wonders you showed me,
infinitesimal and immense.
You grow smaller, smaller,
and always heavier. Why will you not speak?

—  Denise Levertov, “The Mourner” (via fragmentsshoredagainstmyruin)

Happiness is a byproduct of function, purpose, and conflict; those who seek happiness for itself seek victory without war. —  William S. Burroughs (via little-fighter)

Who knows, but that the universe is not one vast sea of compassion actually, the veritable holy honey, beneath all this show of personality and cruelty? —  Jack Kerouac (via thisadventuretour)

(Source: laurenaspencer)

magnicifent:

“Seems Like We Must Be Somewhere Else,” Denise Levertov, October 1958

there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it’s too late
and there’s nothing worse
than
too late. —  oh, yes by Charles Bukowski (via thechocolatebrigade)

effnicpunx:

Diane di Prima, “Revolutionary Letter #7”

singur:

“It gave a sense of the possibilities of an alternative culture. And it wasn’t just poetry that moved people. It was the sense of a community, of people with a vision.”
  ― Gary Snyder

taketheatrain:

On Joan Vollmer Adams, wife of William Burroughs. 

From Ted Morgan’s Literary Outlaw

I don’t have to tell you what I believe, because you don’t believe in belief, and neither do I, but I do believe… (I really do).
I believe in shelter from the cold, and good food, and drinks and many women all around, the interplay of sexes and much happy meaningless talk, and tales, and books, and Dickensy joy. I even believe in your existence. I believe that soon we will die, go mad, give up, drop off. I believe in children and everything (see how false that sentence is?) I believe that when I talk to you I feel I have to be false. Thus the hysteria of the subway. I used to be more truthful to you when I used to glare at you and call you names. Now I pretend to believe like you and to be like you. I don’t. —  Jack Kerouac to Allen Ginsberg, 1948 (via fearandslothing)

(Source: imposteurs)