two devils

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Is it unfortunate to obsess over beauty? To engulf yourself in dulcet lilts of harp strings and the nebulous edges of swan plumes? How else would you devote yourself to Aphrodite?

the plea of the aesthete, i.g. (via ilsirius)

Modern Mythology: Hades

He is the Greek god of the Underworld. He spends his days in solitude, captivated by the small beauties of the human world. His house is too dark and the fills the dark crevices in with artifacts and artworks. He wills flowers to grow through the cracks in the rough ground and allows himself a satisfied smile when he manages to grow daisies. He waits eagerly for Persephone’s return and when she does she keeps her promise to him, and bombards him with a handful of human things: novels, CDs, old films. Later that same night, Persephone finds him asleep on the couch, with the music blaring, with the TV turned on, or with the book open on his chest, and she can’t help but smile at him.

MYTHOLOGY MOODBOARDS: medusa.

destroy what destroys you carved in stone, your grotesque beauty becomes armor to those who seek blade betwixt throat. monsters weren’t born. monsters weren’t made. monsters were rumor. you were never a monster, men only fabricated one out of you.

#medusa.

MYTHOLOGY MOODBOARDS: hades.

on a ferrous throne of obsidian bone, he awaits the river of sanguine to flow in another dead soul. he dwells the underworld with apathy’s rust, feeds the mind pomegranate and pride.

#hades.

GREEK MYTHOLOGY. aphrodite.

Aphrodite can also be said to have caused the Trojan War. This came about in the following fashion. When the hero Peleus was married to the sea-nymph Thetis, all the gods were invited to the ceremony – all but one that is. The slighted goddess happened to a specialist in sowing discord, so she maliciously deposited a golden apple on the banquet table. The fruit was inscribed with the legend, “For the fairest”. Immediately all the goddesses began to argue about whose beauty entitled her to be the rightful possesor of this prize.

lostcap

But must it always be a tragedy? Maybe suns are meant to love boys who fall into seas.

Dear poets, it’s time to rewrite Icarus | p.d (via lostcap)

#este blog tiene cosas demasiado hermosas bye #inspo.

the old gods & the new; do they look so different? live wires & the scream of wave against rock, force pushing outwards, crawling skin too-tight but unbreakable. do they look so different? perhaps the old have a little more blood in their teeth, but copper & ambrosia are so indiscernible.

ageless, deathless. (x)

we stormed Olympus and flung our armour down on the craggy peak, huffed and collapsed down into the dirt, and someone asked where all the gods were. “we were stupid,” you shot back, “did you think they were here? they are everywhere, and within us. we are here – so are the gods.” “why did you come, then?” you shrugged, armour flashing. “the view.”

(x)

how did Achilles think this war would end? didn’t he know that boys with fig-sticky fingers and bloody knees grow up fast and die faster? didn’t he know that dying happy and old runs the risk of your song being forgotten? did he take the old lie so into his heart, that he believed the songs they sung would shake the earth and warm him where he drifts below? death is silent, boy, but they won’t tell you that part. remember that you were born to bleed.

“no winning words about death to me.” (x)

we don’t talk about it much, that summer you let your hair grow long and standing in the river at 9PM felt like being a god because the water and the air were as warm as one another, and it felt like the centuries washing past our knees, history pressing kisses to our thighs and holding fast to our ankles. we don’t talk about it much, about how we plugged our noses to the cloying odour of rotten fruit as it warmed against the tarmac, or about how the streetlight outside your door burnt out, which made you laugh as the bugs scattered that were drawn to the glow. we don’t talk about it much, the alleyway secrets or the scratches when we ran through the undergrowth, the week we didn’t talk, or when we pretended that we didn’t see the woman who stood on the bridge and made up her mind about something that scared us, pretended that we didn’t hear a splash.

call me, someday. (x)

I like to think that Icarus smiled as he fell, That the last sensation of Helios’ sweet fingers across his face lingered And left him warm as the wind rushed past him, And that he smiled at the last sight of his burning love As the ocean embraced him, Tender and eternal as a coffin.

καλός θάνατος (x)

eurydaaece

i am made of war and she is made of love she mends what i tear apart the holes in the bronze hammered into my soul bruises blossom on her neck evidence of my savagery and she strokes my bones and clutches close my skin stitched together the patchwork pieces i would fight for her die for her again and again and again tear myself to ashes if only to fall between her fingers my wounds are jagged like broken glass and she kisses them and only when she rises do i see that there is blood on my hands and blood in her mouth i am made of war and she is made of love but what makes war if not love?

if ares is the god of war, why do we shrink so from aphrodite? (l.d.)

#inspo.#omg

facinaoris

Waves crash in time with her heartbeat and her blood is stinging salt water and her tears rob men of their lives. [ x ]

perhaps apollo let him fall. perhaps he kissed icarus’ wings with sunsoaked lips and burnt him into legend so that he may hold him forever in a kinder world.

insp. (x)

lostcap

You carry the heavens in you eyes like one of those old Greek tragedies. And I’d call you Atlas, but he wasn’t given a choice to hold the stars. You were.

yet still you break your back by holding the sky in your palms (via p.d) (via lostcap)

(hera) she waits for her husband she loves him, probably more than anyone else ever did definitely more than the boy under his fingers or the girl in his sheets she waits because she has to a lonely soul will break alone a kaleidoscope of broken shards she paints her nails pink and pretends she doesn’t care

(aphrodite) she wears short dresses and shows dark skin, round cheeks, thick thighs people call her fat and unhealthy but she laughs at their ignorance and puts pearls in her ears the mirror calls her beautiful the magazine covers don’t

(artemis) she wears black combat boots bright red ilps over clenched teeth her mother always told her that real girls wear skirts and dresses instead of skinny jeans and military jackets real girls keep their heads bowed and their tongues locked real girls don’t bite and claw their way out real girls don’t need to

(athena) she’s no one’s first choice not in school, not at home her arms are heavy from the books she keeps neatly tugged under her arm eyes hidden behind thick reading glasses short skirts and long woollen jumpers they always take from her but never give

- modern myths | r.m