You will meet a tall dark stranger and he will fuck your shit up.
We don’t know why, some kind of cosmic joke.
It is terrifying how little you will be able to control yourself.
The bills will go unpaid. There will be flies in the kitchen.
A smile will insist on flirting with your lips. Too much
of a good thing will chew you up and swallow you whole.
The moon is in your house and has nothing to say
about all your nonsense. Now may be a good time to go
on a long journey. The stars think you need to clear your head.
The stars think you need to run.

Sun, 14th of September    4,594 notes    Source


brandon speck

Sun, 14th of September    73 notes    Source


here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

- e e cummings

Sun, 14th of September    208,812 notes    Source


I found a white piece of paper
with your name on it
your old phone number written in the dark
loop of your handwriting.
I was standing outside a restaurant
watching this one cloud
float by like foam on a pint of beer
and thinking about how good
you’ve become at not being here anymore, how you
finally broke
like a storm across the sky of everything.

—Matthew Dickman, opening lines to “Cloud” from The American Poetry Review (v.41 no. 4, July/August 2012)

Sun, 14th of September    335 notes    Source

This side of town, the sun goes down at the same time
no matter what time of year it is.
This side of town, the dark is always hungry,
the dark is always sharp.
The moon turns on its side and bears down
like a toothy smile
like a feral Cheshire,
and you swear it’s supposed to wax and wane
but all you’ve ever known is this sideways grin,
and it’s never been friendly.

You come home on a subway full of men
with hands like carving knives;
they’re all looking for a taste.
Their thick fingers find your hips
and ask if you’re willing to sell
because, oh, they’re willing to buy.
Like you are a commodity,
like they could have you for the right price.
They lick their lips like they know
how you look beneath all those clothes.
You do not flinch.
You do not cry.

Home is at the end of a hallway
that keeps getting longer.
The doorways leading up to it
feel different every time.
It’s an apartment complex,
but it’s a cemetery.
Nameplates like headstones,
you rented a space and they
gave you a key to your own grave.
Home isn’t home, it’s a wrought iron fence.
Home still doesn’t feel the same.

The secret is, Midas was a woman,
and everything she touched turned to shit.
But at least she’s honest.
Men just like thinking they’ve got gold
pouring from their fingertips.
But you know better.
And men never did you any favors.
In fact,
there was man standing at the corner
of every worst thing you ever did.

You dig your skeleton out of the mud
on the banks of the river. You find it
one bone at a time, like a jigsaw:
here is your femur, your kneecap, your ribs.
Here are your punched out teeth but you can’t
figure out where your head is.
The moon colors the trees ghostly white;
you can’t tell the muck from the blood, here.
You can’t tell the truth from the lie.
They call themselves sheep but in the light
their sharp teeth
You were the boy who cried wolf and you
howled at the moon because at least
the beasts
would listen.

  SHEEP’S CLOTHING, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)  
More than putting another man on the moon,
more than a New Year’s resolution of yogurt and yoga,
we need the opportunity to dance
with really exquisite strangers. A slow dance
between the couch and dinning room table, at the end
of the party, while the person we love has gone
to bring the car around
because it’s begun to rain and would break their heart
if any part of us got wet. A slow dance
to bring the evening home, to knock it out of the park. Two people
rocking back and forth like a buoy. Nothing extravagant.
A little music. An empty bottle of whiskey.
It’s a little like cheating. Your head resting
on his shoulder, your breath moving up his neck.
Your hands along her spine. Her hips
unfolding like a cotton napkin
and you begin to think about how all the stars in the sky
are dead. The my body
is talking to your body slow dance. The Unchained Melody,
Stairway to Heaven, power-cord slow dance. All my life
I’ve made mistakes. Small
and cruel. I made my plans.
I never arrived. I ate my food. I drank my wine.
The slow dance doesn’t care. It’s all kindness like children
before they turn four. Like being held in the arms
of my brother. The slow dance of siblings.
Two men in the middle of the room. When I dance with him,
one of my great loves, he is absolutely human,
and when he turns to dip me
or I step on his foot because we are both leading,
I know that one of us will die first and the other will suffer.
The slow dance of what’s to come
and the slow dance of insomnia
pouring across the floor like bath water.
When the woman I’m sleeping with
stands naked in the bathroom,
brushing her teeth, the slow dance of ritual is being spit
into the sink. There is no one to save us
because there is no need to be saved.
I’ve hurt you. I’ve loved you. I’ve mowed
the front yard. When the stranger wearing a shear white dress
covered in a million beads
comes toward me like an over-sexed chandelier suddenly come to life,
I take her hand in mine. I spin her out
and bring her in. This is the almond grove
in the dark slow dance.
It is what we should be doing right now. Scrapping
for joy. The haiku and honey. The orange and orangutang slow dance.

  Slow Dance, Matthew Dickman (via focloir)  
Sun, 14th of September    1,210 notes    Source


Gary Hume - Water Painting, 1999

Sat, 13th of September    319 notes    Source


This sentence is for the broken-hearted looking for someone to put them back together knowing that tape and glue and band aids don’t hold well overtime, bleeding and tears weaken the adhesive, yet they seek the temporary without realizing that the heart can only heal behind the protection of the…

Sat, 13th of September    262 notes    Source
If you think I miss you,
that I stay inside,
lay in bed and cry,
questioning the end and
asking myself why,
If you think I’m worried I lost a dime,
in a sea full of quarters with
much better shine,
If you think I’m fretting over
running out of time,
Remember who I am,
and remember to think twice, because
If you thought this was your chance at
being the heartbreaker,
you’re out of your goddamn mind.

  Kayla Kathawa - you can’t break my heart. (via ninakathawa)  
Fri, 12th of September    1,735 notes    Source


a tree with a human heart inside of it has knives
stuck into every spot where it branches off into
branches // a swarm of bees in a swarm of hands
thinking “dont stay angry” but closing fists and
punching clocks and bleeding honey //

Fri, 12th of September    93 notes    Source
The first poetry we hear is our mother’s heartbeat, and I think we are born expecting it.

  my modern english texts teacher dropping sum real shit (via mudslides)  
Thu, 11th of September    318 notes    Source
you held my hand all through the new kung fu movie
we were at the mall
and then we were buying popsicles
later we were naked
much later than that you were showing me the pinball machine you keep
in your garage
i felt like we were too old for everything
you kept pulling champagne out of surprising places
i said, “okay. i get it. you’re a fun person.”
but then stuff kept happening
stuff is still happening

  kyle flak, mabel my dear (via kdecember)  
He takes her in his arms
He wants to say I love you, nothing can hurt you
But he thinks this is a lie, so he says in the end
You’re dead, nothing can hurt you
which seems to him a more promising beginning, more true.

  Louise Glück (via opus-nocturne)  
It’s my job
to listen to other people’s heartbeats,
but you were the first person
who made me aware of my own.

  A doctor’s love note - Meghan Lynn (via merelyamadness)  

What if love is made and nothing else?
asked Narcissus, leaning over the green iris of water.

Nothing else,
cried Echo from the green cochlea of the woods.

And they were both right.
And they were both lonely.

  Kapka Kassabova, “And they were both right” (via rabbitinthemoon)  
Wed, 10th of September    3,788 notes    Source