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Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again.

Richard Siken

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Richard Siken
Age: 57
Born: 1967
Born: February 15
Poet
New York City
New York
Warm
Clothes
Tell
Lake
Dream
Lakes
Body
Pull
Dress
Bodies
Dresses

More quotes by Richard Siken

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Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars for you? That I would take you there? The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube?
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The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I’m alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling.
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When you have nothing to say, set something on fire.
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Do we simply stare at what is horrible and forgive it?
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I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you've taken something out of me and I have to search my body for scars.
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Here I am in a rabbit run, here I am in a valley of pine, waiting for you to find me. I could pretend I’m speaking to everyone—assume a middle distance and transcend myself—but I’m taking to you and you know it.
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Who am I? I'm just a writer. I write things down. I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure, I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow glass, but that comes later.
Richard Siken
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Wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour, pretending that this skin is your skin, these hands your hands, these shins, these soapy flanks
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You are playing cards with three Jeffs. One is your father, one is your brother, and the other is your current boyfriend. All of them have seen you naked and heard you talking in your sleep. Your boyfriend Jeff gets up to answer the phone. To them he is a mirror, but to you he is a room.
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Fairy tales have rules. You are a princess or you aren’t. You are pure at heart or you aren’t. If you are pure at heart, or lucky, you might catch a break.
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He was pointing at the moon, but I was looking at his hand.
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You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back.
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I sleep. I dream. I make up things that I would never say. I say them very quietly.
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You wanted happiness, I can’t blame you for that, and maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy but tell me you love this, tell me you’re not miserable.
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I'm bleeding, I'm not just making conversation.
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We laugh & it pits the world against us.
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I'm battling monsters, I'm pulling you out of the burning buildings/ and you say I'll give you anything but you never come through.
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I am singing now while Rome burns.
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I’m not suggesting the world is good, that life is easy, or that any of us are entitled to better. But please, isn’t this the kind of thing you talk about in somber tones, in the afternoon, with some degree of hope and maybe even a handful of strategies?
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I don't know where I end and the world begins. My best guess? Skin. It's the only actual boundary between the body and the world, between a body and any other body.
Richard Siken