savvy?

i've got a jar of dirt, and guess what's inside it!

[achillieus]

There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.

Mark Twain (via dolcreshaze)

[capnsparrow]

dennace‌.

dennis laughs, and it comes out as ugly and unpolished as a stranger might expect after getting a look at him. he hasn’t trained himself to clip or fake them yet, so it’s a genuine thumped-in-the-chest-with-comedy honk of a thing.

         ‘ i have no. ’ he’s deep into his drinking day, too. ‘ no idea what you just said to me. ’

     she could try to gather her wits enough to trace the steps backward on her plan, or she could straighten her spine, throw her shoulders back, and — gods above, the floor is as unsteady as the sea. could be just as likely it’s only in her head. but what was the point, here? ... right. she should try to recount the plan. might be the proper thing to do. were he to understand the intent, he might be more willing to follow along.

     ... yeah, bugger that. too much effort.

     ‘ come on, then. ’ she pushes his shoulder. ‘ comeoncomeoncomeon, ’ she says, the words blurring together in a rush. ‘ you’ve nothing better to do with your day, have you? ’

[capnsparrow]

i thought you were dead!          ... am i not? 

[capnsparrow]

@dennace.

     ‘ it’s a good plan, mate, is-- that’s all i’m sayin’. ’ 

     she’s already two shots of tequila in, which wouldn’t be too bad, company considered, except she’d entered the bar an hour and a half into her own pre-game, which also wouldn’t mean much, necessarily, considering her general state, but -- well. actually, nothing has shifted, has it? so, if she sways and leans in too close to dennis’ space, that’s no one’s business but hers. ‘ robert’s your uncle, fannie’s your-- y’bloody aunt. you know. we’ve got this covered. ’ she waves a finger between them like a sloppy metronome. ‘ you’n me. ’ 

[sexualsportswear]

🙈🙉🙊

[capnsparrow]

"mind if i just hum?"

TROUBLED BIRDS. / accepting.

          ‘ mate, ’ jack grabs at the doctor’s hands, ( the doctor? doctor who? — yes! yes, that’s me. ) pulling him into a sloppy, half-baked rendition of a waltz. it’s better described as circling with rhythm, as she’s a bit too pissed to concentrate on proper footwork tonight. she shakes her head, nose wrinkling like he’s suggested they invite the port’s guard for tea. 

          ‘ you can’t expect to rub elbows with us ‘n sit ‘round humming. ’ 

          the rest of the crew is singing heartily all across the bar, nearing the end of one shanty, blending into the next without pause. without waiting for him to agree, she squeezes both his hands and releases him, only to clamber atop a nearby table and regard him with two open palms. ‘ come on, then, doctor! ’ her voice rises to be heard over the din. ‘ come on, i’m a deep water sailor just come from hong kong — ’ 

          you give me some whiskey, i’ll sing you a song!

[capnsparrow]

"looking for trouble, and if i cannot find it, i will create it."

TROUBLED BIRDS. / accepting.

          ‘ a lovely mindset, that is. truly wonderful. ’ jack points a jeweled finger, rings catching the light and scattering tiny points of color across her cheek. ‘ … and so happens i know a place. ’ she can already hear gibbs at her back, bemoaning her for refusing to leave well enough alone, for deigning not to wait for the assistance of a proper crew. she grins, with teeth. a duo works just as well, and the loot is always worth the injuries accrued.

          ‘ if you shan’t invite me, then i shall be inviting you. ’

[warmst]

GUIDE TO TROUBLED BIRDS SENTENCE STARTERS

i’m a 100% organic gangster.

another drink wouldn’t hurt— i only live two years.

anxiety and caffeine are having a cockfight in my brain.

oh. you’re an artist.

as always, all i should have said was, ‘i love you.’

you’ve been through hell and come out singing.

i puke in my kids’ mouths.

birds are creepy.

oh, i’m sorry— did i just blow your mind?

i hope you’ll excuse my cheap wit, but the hour is late and it’s all i have left.

i’d sell you to satan for one corn chip.

my crazy runs wide and it runs deep.

da fuq?

dealing with you is like herding cats.

i work hard at my job, but i suspect i’m purely decorative.

i’m a dirty bird.

i disembowel. it’s what i do.

don’t judge— i clean up real nice.

my only crime was that i was down to clown.

drink. travel. books. i went broke. but i had a hell of a time.

they might have passed a very pleasant evening had shit not gotten real.

evolve.

he proclaimed his undying fidelity and asked me to do the same.

i had to overcome my desire to laugh.

finally he gathered himself together and spoke, ‘what the hell?’

i’m always exchanging frequent flyer miles for guilt trips.

god can’t help you now.

he gave them the heebie-jeebies. he had nothing else to give.

mind if i just hum?

i’m humanphobic.

i do not go to my happy place. i go to my high lonesome place.

i have a natural talent for being irrational.

a financially unstable mess— but at the liquor store they call me ma’am.

looking for trouble, and if i cannot find it, i will create it.

i meditate mostly for a 15 minute break from this ongoing shitshow.

my modus operandi is the dial up of the awesome and break the knob off.

my self care begins and ends with edibles.

oh jesus. oh my god.

i couldn’t afford a therapist, so i decided, ‘hey, why not start a podcast?’

i poop on fascists.

the risk i took was calculated but man, am i bad at math.

she was lovely and charming, almost a saint. she enjoyed laughter and dancing, opera, jazz, and getting very, very, very high.

my self care begins and ends with wine.

i’d sell you to satan for one corn chip.

i’ve never been one to half-ass shenanigans.

the ability to remain sober and gracious is, indeed, a form of mild insanity.

i would look into your soul, but i’ve already devoured it.

things just got super weird— it’s my time to shine.

you’re three ounces of whoop-ass.

i’m worth two in the bush.

i love you despite the warning signs.

whom.

i fancy myself a woke-ass citizen of the world.

[frekkenbok]

[lasshoe]

me after one glass of wine: everything i say and do is iconic

[patroklxs]

@whinedarksea

[capnsparrow]

herdsheep.

@capnsparrow

Pluto shrugs their rainbow striped santa coat on. It matches the rainbow striped pants they’ve already buckled.

          “I do this every year.”  Pluto explains. More deeply, they share.

They share this part of their life with Jack. Let her see them this way. After all, who–both young and old–does not wish to know who Santa is?

The elastic-band beard is strapped unnaturally below their jaw. Pluto snaps it over their mouth, and their nose crinkles from the small sting.

          “Merry Pride. How do I look, heh?”

Even with the santa-like outfit on, Pluto’s grin looks wicked.

          jack eyes the entire ensemble with a subdued mixture of intrigue and amusement. it is not, we should add, soured with mockery. still, in a statement of fact, it is all ridiculous. ridiculously bright, ridiculously loud, ridiculously bold. it is also something to admire. it is clearly something of importance to them. jack suspects it will soon be important to her, too.

          so jack smiles at them, a hint of teeth and bright, sparkling gold.

          if jack is the pot of gold, pluto is the rainbow shining down upon her. dismissing any pretense of polite distance now that they’re fully dressed, jack sways close and touches the beard, rubbing the fibers between two curious fingers. her eyebrows arch, and there’s a laugh to her words, and she only barely resists the urge to ask: does that make me the mrs. claus? 

          ‘ mm, do you intend to wrangle all thirty-three sheep into antlers as well? ’

          then, purposely and teasingly belated: ‘ you make a dashing elf, luv. ’ 

[lifeinpoetry]

My body is a ghost ship. Mutiny. Mutiny. Mutiny.

Danelle Lejeune, from “(Mary) Celeste,” published in Drunk Monkeys (via lifeinpoetry)

[lifeinpoetry]

i am incomplete & proud to be greedy.

Lahraeb Munir, from “sometimes,” concave in a convex heart (via lifeinpoetry)

[capnsparrow]

herdsheep.

Inside Pluto something hatches–a landslide smile. A slip of a smile. A cautionary smile. Jack’s pride, her arrogance, may be the thing that gets them through this. Or it may be the thing that kills them.

          “Good.”

The grip of Pluto’s left hand at Jack’s jaw melts away and their middle and index fingers drip down her neck like warm candle wax until the pump of her heart clangs into the tips of Pluto’s fingers like a dull brass bell. Her heart rate is slower. Slowing. It is slow enough. To be safe, it must not rise a single beat.

          “You are ready, I think.”

Pluto’s hands drop from Jack. They keep them chest-high, letting Jack’s clasp around their wrists stay.

          “You have my heart. How am I?”

     even as her heart grows slow, slower, slowest --- she misses the ship. she misses ground that isn’t above ground. she misses grass waving in winds at sea’s level.

     she breathes in heavy through her mouth, gentle through her nose. her thumbs brush over the pulse point on pluto’s wrists before slipping away. but they are still close. her head dips forward into the inch between them, forehead pressing against theirs. 

          ( you have my heart. they know exactly what they’ve said. )

     ‘ i suppose it will do. ’ she counters, carefully teasing, lips stretching in a close-mouthed smile. she is not fully relaxed, but she is, so it seems, no longer in danger of being consumed. they are a comfort she is wholly unused to.

     her hands do not release pluto’s quite as it had been alluded. instead, she weaves her fingers through one set of theirs, turning so they stand side-by-side in front of the bridge. she eyes the leech-vines warily, smile fading, but her heart beat keeps its pace. 

          buh-bump. buh-bump. buh-bump.

            they have waited too long as it is. ‘ --- shall we? ’ 

[soundofbloom]

Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)

[capnsparrow]

@herdsheep.

everything is in threes.

every drum of their fingers is done in triplet. like music. jack has heard it done in music halls, bows on strings, when she was not quite done sailing for his majesty. she prefers this version. their version. it's purer. ( even though she does sometimes want to snatch their hands away from the wood when she's neck deep in sailing charts. )

the kisses pressed to her forehead before bed. before jack speaks, they speak: you are not special. jacks wraps her arms around them like a loop of rope, snug around their waist. it is a warm embrace for all of its three seconds. it feels a week. her heart flutters, she smiles a rogue’s smile. i know.

jack has learned to navigate the thirty-three sheep scattered about her ship. the crew have, too. the sheep, however, have not quite mastered the art of scattering gracefully upon a ground that near-constantly heaves. the dog has. the shepherd has. the waves chop and sway the boat with the roiling of a great beast’s belly, creaking like the bones of an old crone.

pluto counts their sheep. thirty-one, thirty-two. thirty-two. 

a biting inhalation of sea-salt air and a spark of dismay hidden in their eyes. 

jack climbs the ratline that hangs off of the crow’s nest, stopping just short of the barrel. she extends the spyglass tied to her waist, one, two, three clicks as it locks. behind the ship, not terribly far off, the sheep bobs calmly in the water. 

pluto, she calls. aye, down, past the starboard quarter.

jack starts climbing her way back down as pluto begins to peel off their coat, their boots --- jack steps down off of the rope and onto the thick, salt-sprayed railings, unbuckling a belt and tossing it onto the deck behind her. ( it carries the heavier items. her gun, her sword, her spyglass. ) she throws them a smile over her shoulder and drops off the edge.

the dizzying drop into her ocean has never frightened her. it is an easy thing to do.

this is no heart-beat bridge.

jack is salt-soaked and shivering in the caribbean sun when two members of the crew haul her aboard by a length of sturdy rope and their hands. the sheep slung around the back of her neck shivers too, sneezing and shaking off the sea water as jack sets it on the deck. it is no worse for wear. a bit wiser, too. another crew member approaches with a worn-thin, woolen blanket.

pluto counts their sheep of thirty-three for the third, final, and true time, bones finally relaxing. they take the blanket and bend at their waist, tucking it around jack’s shoulders firmly. when they straighten, she looks up at them, and the sun shines through their hair like a diluted sunset, bloody and beautiful.

there was no need. a beat. thank you.

the smile returns. you’re welcome.

[lifeinpoetry]

but there is a line where i both exist / & unexist

torrin a. greathouse, from “The Principle of Explosion,” Therǝ is a Case That I Ɐm (via lifeinpoetry)