mem0ire

congregation of thoughts. — siren. xxv. devoured by syllables.

[viperslang]

& i am a mouthful of mercury, marbled skin, strié, solar flares. a sandfire geodesy.

Scherezade Siobhan from “Father, Husband” (via viperslang)

[yvesolade]

in these brief minutes i have learnt something painful about love [           ] felt the sharp edge of pleasure where it cuts against bone touched the blunt end of pumice to crush herbs against calloused palms i hope you never love anyone

like you love me, again. honey and lavender by which i mean

              your dark red mouth open

against mine and the wreaths of violent green around shaking wrists.

i remember [               ], something sweet about pain

red earth under my fingernails reminding me to ask the sun

                 who always knows about love to

teach me how to set the gentle things                                                [       ] on fire again.

Yves Olade, Things I Grew In the Bathtub response to @nosebleedclub​ flower garden prompt  “lavender”

[lifeinpoetry]

In a field. With the moon. And the dark. And the dirt. With your mouth. And just one word: god god god.

Daphne Gottlieb, How You Talk. (via empiregrotesk)

[wordsnquotes]

May I write words more naked than flesh, stronger than bone, more resilient than sinew, sensitive than nerve.

Sappho, Fragments (via wordsnquotes)

[astranemus]

There exists no separation between gods and men; one blends softly casual into the other.

Proverbs of Muad'Dib - Dune Messiah, Frank Herbert (via xjehan)

[necrosisrp]

THE WAR HAS SHIFTED. MARAUDERS 1982. — COMING TO JCINK SOON.

[themooncriedout-deactivated2018]

You firestar. Pool of moonburst. You turned my skin to dust.

Jeanann Verlee, from Finally I Allow Him The Pen (via illuminosity)

[thelovejournals]

Not all love is gentle. Sometimes it’s gritty and dirty and possessive, sometimes it’s not supposed to be careful or soft at all. Sometimes it feels like teeth.

Azra Tabassum

[nottheabsenceofviolence]

Tonight you’re thinking of cities under crowns of snow and I stare at you like I’m looking through a window, counting birds. 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.

Richard Siken, Seaside Improvisation  (via punksokka)

[necrosisrp]

THE WAR HAS SHIFTED. MARAUDERS 1982. — COMING TO JCINK SOON.

[maximura]

niagra falls | original photography by dawn armfield

[4rtiste-blog]

LILY FÉLICE POTTER ( NEÉ EVANS )  —  22

ORDER OF PHONIX  &. PROJECT ALMANAC — SOPHIE VLAMING

and he comes, hair unkempt, hands in pockets. that boy from the spinner’s end.

              in her aperture, petunia is no longer the only focus, and it seems that petunia               does not like him as much as she does.

tar-stained words dripping from her sister’s mouth; it stings and she stands up for the boy, and there’s the boy, there’s the boy, there’s the boy in every portrait and she understands why                                                                     petunia said the thing she said. 

           the boy has what petunia does not: a world that            reveals more than the neighborhood. a story different            from what spills from mama’s bible.

[lifeinpoetry]

Run from the girl’s mouth. Escape                              from her hands.                              Run. Run rampant.                              Run red. Run like you were born to. You were born to.

— Lydia Havens, “Self Portrait as Terror,” Survive Like Water

[lifeinpoetry]

You are a theatre of hollowness.

Kim Hyesoon, from “Manhole Humanity,” I’m OK, I’m Pig! tr. Don Mee Choi (via lifeinpoetry)

[necrosisrp]

THE WAR HAS SHIFTED. MARAUDERS 1982. — COMING TO JCINK SOON.

[lifeinpoetry]

We have built cathedrals out of spite and splintered bone, of course they aren’t pretty, nothing holy ever is—

Brenna Twohy, from “To the Guy in the Back of the Room Complaining About Listening to Another Rape Poem,” Forgive Me My Salt  (via a-witches-brew)

[viperslang]

he hooks his ankle into her achilles’ heel; a nest of dactyls where the last nightingale is still  incantatory this lovesick, love-making this birdfeast breaking across their battle-lines

Scherezade Siobhan, His Gethsemane (From “Father, Husband”)