I don't know what it is but some people draw you in and you just deeply crave to spend time with them in a room alone together, talking and listening to each other breathe. Wanting to drink in part of someone else's magic for awhile

Lets open up the gates
tounge and teeth
bone and hair
I need to feel your breath on my back
your fingers wrapped around my ribcage
eyes shattered like mirrors
Cutting me kaleidoscopic

I sang of death down by the river
Then felt the ground move from under my still feet
I know the earth breathes
As I feel it moving against your pulse
I know the wind has changed
As I've been pulled up into your storm

Down at the bottom of the deep black sea
Your naked body is waiting for me
Beneath a halo of underwater light
Reflecting red stars of madness
In your eyes, in my eyes...
And in the future there will be no one
And all the water will turn to stone
And in the desert where your memory lies
I'll kiss your shadow in the sand
Beneath the cold, blue, starlight...

Michael Gira

JH Engstrom

The Dream of Sappho by Agostino Arrivabene

The 2013 painting The Dream of Sappho, as a depiction of a state of creative being, is extraordinary. We see the poetess, her head turned away from the viewer, her eyes closed, and from the crown of her head a headdress of corals and pearls springs. Veiled, unreachable, the poetess dreams, her creative energy pushing its way through the bone limits of her skull, bringing new thoughts, new poetry into being, and transmuting her life force into the blood-formed corals and pearls of her poetry.

Paralytic Sylvia Plath

It happens. Will it go on? ---- 
My mind a rock, 
No fingers to grip, no tongue, 
My god the iron lung 

That loves me, pumps 
My two 
Dust bags in and out, 
Will not 

Let me relapse 
While the day outside glides by like ticker tape. 
The night brings violets, 
Tapestries of eyes, 

Lights, 
The soft anonymous 
Talkers: 'You all right?' 
The starched, inaccessible breast. 

Dead egg, I lie 
Whole 
On a whole world I cannot touch, 
At the white, tight 

Drum of my sleeping couch 
Photographs visit me- 
My wife, dead and flat, in 1920 furs, 
Mouth full of pearls, 

Two girls 
As flat as she, who whisper 'We're your daughters.' 
The still waters 
Wrap my lips, 

Eyes, nose and ears, 
A clear 
Cellophane I cannot crack. 
On my bare back 

I smile, a buddha, all 
Wants, desire 
Falling from me like rings 
Hugging their lights. 

The claw 
Of the magnolia, 
Drunk on its own scents, 
Asks nothing of life. 

She looks out for me

Lost in a time and space when I knew her

Her hair like straw and her eyes like fire

Living in a forest thick and dense with memories

Where clasping branches become thickets and growing flames burn on her doorstep

Twisting out words through her lips like smoke

The wind dances and moves through her the way I wish to

Her eyes close and darkness holds the landscape

Isolation has frozen her skin and her breath has caused cities to fall

She has lost herself amongst the passing hours

And as time moves she haunts me