the evening party ︎︎︎ a collection of writings, poems and photographs by the anonymous author ︎︎︎  2019—present ︎︎︎ Index of entries ︎︎︎ Email ︎︎︎ Instagram ︎︎︎ ‘Ah, we’re an ungrateful race! When I look at my hand upon the window sill and think what pleasure I’ve had in it, how it’s touched silk and pottery and hot walls, laid itself flat upon wet grass or sun-baked, let the atlantic spurt through its fingers, snapped blue bells and daffodils, plucked ripe plums, never for a second since I was born ceased to tell me of hot and cold, damp or dryness, I’m amazed that I should use this wonderful composition of flesh and nerve to write the abuse of life. Yet that’s what we do. Come to think of it, literature is the record of our discontent.’ —The Evening Party, Virginia Woolf

Her To Be Heavenly Here

And when I think of the words on
drunken some saturday night
Hail, Mary, full of grace
its solemn melody with me

in my childhood knees, the
subject & blue sky—the Lord
is with thee—over still water,
‘neath the brown leaves of my

blessed art thou spring yet so
much like a song amongst women,
and blessed is the night’s stare black
& bruised purple of thy womb, Jesus—

I want Her, away from history
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
not religion or golden spire
pray for us sinners as toward

over & over, with beads now
and at the hour of our death
away from when I wanted here to be
heavenly Her, dressed in blue—Amen.