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art blog(derogatory)

Janaina Medeiros
will byers stan first human second
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Xuebing Du
TVSTRANGERTHINGS

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Origami Around
todays bird
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YOU ARE THE REASON

shark vs the universe

ellievsbear
Mike Driver
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JBB: An Artblog!
Monterey Bay Aquarium
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@babiefool
Bonedog
a poem by Eva H.D.
[transcribed from its appearance in the film I’m Thinking of Ending Things (w/d Charlie Kaufman, 2020)]
___
Coming home is terrible whether the dogs lick your face or not; whether you have a wife or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you. Coming home is terribly lonely, so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything’s worse once you’re home.
You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks, long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing because you did not want to return. Coming home is just awful.
And the home-style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect, and made from a different material than those you left behind. You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots, seamy suit of clothes dishrag-ratty, worn.
You return home moon-landed, foreign; the Earth’s gravitational pull an effort now redoubled, dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead. You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of…
Anyway…
You sigh into the onslaught of identical days. One might as well, at a time…
Well… Anyway… You’re back.
The sun goes up and down like a tired whore, the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older. Nothing moves but the shifting tides of salt in your body. Your vision blears. You carry your weather with you, the big blue whale, a skeletal darkness.
You come back with X-ray vision. Your eyes have become a hunger. You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone. Everything you see now, all of it: bone.
OOOOOOHHHhhh
Me being born
of course the fuckign flubber gif doesnt work. my life is hell
bed bath and behind you
Do you think Oompa Loompas fuck
Senorita didn’t deserve a Grammy nomination but y’all ain’t ready for that conversation
Jenny Slate, Little Weirds