$LAYYYTER
art blog(derogatory)
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TVSTRANGERTHINGS
cherry valley forever
Origami Around
#extradirty
Misplaced Lens Cap
YOU ARE THE REASON
will byers stan first human second
Today's Document
if i look back, i am lost
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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ojovivo
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Stranger Things
wallacepolsom
Three Goblin Art
JBB: An Artblog!
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@afinevintage
There are only so many parallel universes that concern us. In one, he isn’t dead. In another, you drink light with your hands all winter. There is a universe in which no one is lying emptied in the street as the gas station burns, a universe in which our mothers haven’t learned to wrap their bones in each small grief they’ve found.
Franny Choi, “Introduction to Quantum Theory,” published in The Adroit Journal (via bostonpoetryslam)
Don’t introduce me to your parents unless you plan on marrying me bc they’re going to love me & ask about me for the rest of your life lol
More mirthfully macabre valentines for your spooky sweetie. These will be available at the Saint Vitus bar Valentine’s Day flea market on Sunday Feb. 8th.
etsy | instagram | facebook
am i a koala?
My girlhood was Microscopic: a locked window overlooking the Sea. An atlas of disaster: an un-lit hall…
Cynthia Cruz, from “January,” Ruin (via lifeinpoetry)
on the day you stop loving ghosts you will learn to fall in love with shadows instead of the bodies that cast them.
George Abraham, “How to Disappear,” published in Black Napkin Press (via bostonpoetryslam)
A part of my desk wall adorned in artwork of those whom I deeply admire.
© Nona Limmen Facebook / Instagram
Saint Francis, when he broke the wolf, Leaned into the stinking sea of wine and blood that was That animal’s body. I am The wolf. God is the night I must not creep into.
Cynthia Cruz, “Joe the Lion II,” from Ruin (via bostonpoetryslam)
The point for me never was to find the answer; the point was to live the question, line after line, poem after poem.
Traci Brimhall, interviewed by Todd Gleason for Drunk in a Midnight Choir (via bostonpoetryslam)
remember the white dress i wore all through that film? george came up to me the first day of filming, took one look at the dress and said: “you can’t wear a bra under that dress.”
“ok, i’ll bite,” i said. “why?” and he said: “because… there’s no underwear in space.”
he said it with such conviction. like he had been to space and looked around and he didn’t see any bras or panties anywhere.
he explained. “you go into space and you become weightless. then your body expands but your bra doesn’t, so you get strangled by your own underwear.”
i think that this would make for a fantastic obituary. i tell my younger friends that no matter how i go, i want it reported that i drowned in moonlight, strangled by my own bra.
rest in peace, carrie fisher (october 21st, 1956 - december 27th, 2016)
There is, let us confess it (and illness is the great confessional), a childish outspokenness in illness; things are said, truths blurted out, which the cautious respectability of health conceals. About sympathy for example—we can do without it. That illusion of a world so shaped that it echoes every groan, of human beings so tied together by common needs and fears that a twitch at one wrist jerks another, where however strange your experience other people have had it too, where however far you travel in your own mind someone has been there before you—is all an illusion. We do not know our own souls, let alone the souls of others. Human beings do not go hand in hand the whole stretch of the way. There is a virgin forest in each; a snowfield where even the print of birds’ feet is unknown. Here we go alone, and like it better so. Always to have sympathy, always to be accompanied, always to be understood would be intolerable. But in health the genial pretense must be kept up and the effort renewed—to communicate, to civilise, to share, to cultivate the desert, educate the naive, to work together by day and by night to sport. Directly the bad is called for, or, sunk deep among pillows in one chair, we raise our feet even an inch above the ground on another, we cease to be soldiers in the army of the upright we become deserters. They march to battle. We float with the sticks on the stream; helter-skelter with the dead leaves on the lawn, irresponsible and disinterested and able, perhaps for the first time in years, to look round, to look up—to look, for example, at the sky.
From “On Being Ill,” Virginia Woolf (via commovente)
Maybe the crab sleeping on the jetty isn’t lonely. Perhaps it wants to trade bodies with a pigeon. Perhaps the pigeon wants to be a worm. The worm, dirt. Dirt, sky. Sky, air. Air, the sun.
Gianni Gaudino, “Dysmorphic,” published in Muzzle (via bostonpoetryslam)
My love, this might be / all we know of forgiveness, this small time when you can forget / what you are.
Marie Howe, from The Good Thief: Poems; “The Meadow,” (via weltenwellen)
