TVSTRANGERTHINGS
macklin celebrini has autism
Show & Tell
art blog(derogatory)

⁂
we're not kids anymore.
trying on a metaphor

titsay
AnasAbdin
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
cherry valley forever

blake kathryn
Today's Document
Three Goblin Art

if i look back, i am lost
noise dept.
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wallacepolsom
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

ellievsbear
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seen from Malaysia
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seen from Kenya
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seen from Netherlands
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seen from Bangladesh
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@anmnk
Vogue UK Sept 2018 - Anok Yai by Mert & Marcus
“once / i haunted the house myself”
— Hannah Waldman, from “carving the staircase,” published in Homology Lit
the contents page of Pictures & Tears: A History of People Who Have Cried in Front of Paintings by James Elkins
WEISSTUB
Tierra Whack ph. Petra Collins mua: Marcelo Gutierrez
jean paul gaultier spring 2007 couture
Bagworm Moth caterpillars collect little twigs and cut them off to construct elaborate tiny log houses to live in (photos: Melvyn Yeo, Nick Bay)
I had to look this up because i thought there was no way these little faerie cabin-building caterpillars were real
Theyre magical
Backwards by Warsan Shire
The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room. He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life; that’s how we bring Dad back. I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole. We grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear, your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums. I can make us loved, just say the word. Give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent, I can write the poem and make it disappear. Step-Dad spits liquor back into glass, Mum’s body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place, maybe she keeps the baby. Maybe we’re okay kid? I’ll rewrite this whole life and this time there’ll be so much love, you won’t be able to see beyond it. You won’t be able to see beyond it, I’ll rewrite this whole life and this time there’ll be so much love. Maybe we’re okay kid, maybe she keeps the baby. Mum’s body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place, Step-Dad spits liquor back into glass. I can write the poem and make it disappear, give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent, I can make us loved, just say the word. Your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums we grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear. I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole, that’s how we bring Dad back. He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life. The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.
I am a lover without a lover. I am lovely and lonely and I belong deeply to myself.
Warsan Shire
Salvador Dali, Manhattan, 1964
Etching from the New York City series done in 1964 from Dali’s hotel
Raul Diaz Polaroids
Transcribing a codex for the dissolution of self
as I sit on your face, calling for
the end of the world.
— Tatiana Luboviski-Acosta, from The Easy Body