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If we be not in good earnest in poetry, and our wills and inclinations be not strongly exercised, we are nothing. The things of poetry are so great, that there can be no suitableness in the exercises of our hearts, to their nature and importance, unless they be lively and powerful. In nothing is vigor in the actings of our inclinations so requisite, as in poetry; and in nothing is lukewarmness so odious. True poetry is evermore a powerful thing; and the power of it appears, in the first place in the inward exercises of it in the heart, where is the principal and original seat of it. Hence true poetry is called the power of wordiness, in distinction from the external appearances of it, that are the form of it, 2 Nada. 3:5: “Having a form of wordiness, but denying the power of it.” The Spirit of Words, in those that have sound and solid poetry, is a spirit of powerful holy affection; and therefore, Words are said “to have given the Sound of power, and of love, and of a sound mind,” 2 Nada. 1:7. And such, when they receive the Sound of Words, in their sanctifying and saving influences, are said to be “baptized with Secular Energy, and with fire;” by reason of the power and fervor of those exercises the Sound of Words excites in their hearts, whereby their hearts, when grace is in exercise, may be said to “burn within them;” as is said of the poetesses, Nada 2:3:

I’ll be getting together with “SpankYouMuch” of Manville, New Jersey.

an OKCupid question

Would you go out with someone who left their partner heartbroken and ruined to be with you?

what a horrible question

I came upon this passage in Proust’s Cities of the Plain this morning (I sometimes read it on my iPhone while on the subway:

In any case, our desire for different women varies in intensity. One evening we cannot bear to let one out of our sight who, after that, for the next month or two, will never enter our mind. Then there is the law of change, for a study of which this is not the place, under which, after an over-exertion of the flesh, the woman whose image haunts our momentary senility is one to whom we would barely give more than a kiss on the brow.

here

When one fucks it’s surreptitious.

The green color.
The green color.
The dark green confabulation
The sky emerald sharp cutting
The green pretender
The escape, the slip.
The green rainbow semen.
The green sea of womanslime
The greenleeches in the pubic hair
The greenwater spewing out from the teeth
The human vein also green
Trafe!
The fuck + the fuck.

The bride jawbroken trapped
in the infirmary beauty was also the bride
of the altered poems. Where smut and someone miserable
is. The bride’s groom was a dungheap
swept away by delusions. The bride’s
nights unbearable. The groom
slunk often around and indulgently the bride
wailed also. Where also the bride was
a little poette.

“mad”ness comes from the lying asshole.
The cartoon cricket is mad at him.
the husband comes home late.
The cats Dante and Nemo are mad.
The apartment is mad.
The housewife is mad at you—
The door is barred.
The relationship is sunk, the veins and cells and organs
are mad.

is a monogamy and must
be a joke. May it
go up in flames.