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Something about under, something about hand: for days my nerves on end. The word a room we rent to write I found a wood with thorny boughs, the chemical-bright and the chemical-dark, plus these seedpods that strain and spend in dark, forest if left as desire is never left (at rest). What clatter, this. Forgive my clumsy genuflect. The way the adjective signals terror of the noun, adornment terror of the body: in words, like weeds, I’ll wrap you o’er. The word a rented room and there we do not eat our hearts alone. In words like weeds I’ll lay you down.
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In her new book, Danish poet Olga Ravn writes with open love, pity, and compassion for her strange yet familiar creations.
Draconian individual punishment distracts from systemic change and reinforces the cruelest and most racist system of incarceration on the planet.
Our well-being depends on a better understanding of how the logic of labor has twisted our relationship with pleasure.