Annaleese Jochems

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Member Since
August 2012

Average rating: 3.33 · 205 ratings · 40 reviews · 1 distinct workSimilar authors

3.33 avg rating — 205 ratings — published 2017 — 5 editions
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Under Glass by Gregory Kan
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Because a Woman's Heart is Like a Needle at the Bottom of the... by Sugar Magnolia Wilson
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Gut by Giulia Enders
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Between a Wolf and a Dog by Georgia Blain
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The Essential Tales of Chekhov by Anton Chekhov
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My Sister, the Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite
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Call Me Evie by J.P. Pomare
Call Me Evie
by J.P. Pomare (Goodreads Author)
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Call Me Evie by J.P. Pomare
Selected Poems by Jenny Bornholdt
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Pink Mountain on Locust Island by Jamie Marina Lau
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Pablo Neruda
“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.”
Pablo Neruda

Louis-Ferdinand Céline
“If you aren't rich you should always look useful.”
Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Journey to the End of the Night

“a hand on your cock is more moral
-and more fun-
than a finger on the trigger.”
Lawrence Lipton

Antonin Artaud
“Poetry is a dissociating and anarchic force which through analogy, associations and imagery, thrives on the destruction of known relationships.”
Antonin Artaud

Christopher Fry
Of mankind. I have perpetrated human nature.
My father and mother were accessories before the fact,
But there’ll be no accessories after the fact,
By my virility there won’t! Just see me
As I am, like a perambulating
Vegetable, patched with inconsequential
Hair, looking out of two small jellies for the means
Of life, balanced on folding bones, my sex
No Beauty but a blemish to be hidden
Behind judicious rags, driven and scorched
By boomerang rages and lunacies which never
Touch the accommodating artichoke
Or the seraphic strawberry beaming in its bed:
I defend myself against pain and death by pain
And death, and make the world go round, they tell me
By one of my less lethal appetites:
Half this grotesque life I spend in a state
Of slow decomposition, using
The name of unconsidered God as a pedestal
On which I stand and bray that I’m best
Of beasts, until under some patient
Moon or other I fall to pieces,
Like a cake of dung. Is there a slut would
Hold this in her arms and put her lips against it?

Sluts are only human. By a quirk
Of unastonished nature, your obscene
Decaying figure of vegetable fun
Can drag upon a woman’s heart, as though
Heaven were dragging up the roots of hell.
What is to be done? Something compels us into
The terrible fallacy that man is desirable
and there’s no escaping into truth. The crimes
And cruelties leave us longing, and campaigning
Love still pitches his tent of light among
The suns and moons. You may be decay and a platitude
Of flesh, but I have no other such memory of life.
You may be corrupt as ancient applies, well then
Corruption is what I most willingly harvest.
You are Evil, Hell, the Father of Lies; if so
Hell is my home and my days of good were a holiday:
Hell is my hill and the world slopes away from it
Into insignificance. I have come suddenly
Upon my heart and where it is I see no help for.”
Christopher Fry

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