searching for honeyland

[wordsnquotes]

And I knew it. That’s the worst part: I knew it.

Marguerite Duras, The North China Lover (via seulray)

[letheane-deactivated20200121]

Karl Bryullov, ‘Last Day of Pompeii’, (Details)

[suonko]

Natale Schiavoni - Portrait of a Lady [detail]

Natale Schiavoni - Penitent Mary Magdalene [detail]

Carlo Dolci - Mary Magdalene [detail]

Paulus Moreelse - Penitent Mary Magdalene [detail]

Natale Schiavon - Jeune femme pensive [detail]

Natale Schiavoni - Penitent Mary Magdalene [detail]

[spi-ltmilk]

https://instagram.com/p/BbhXVvMg8-P/

[yesterdaysprint]

Life Magazine, April 1910

[brittlebodies]

Saint John the Baptist (detail), 1602-1603, Caravaggio.

[adrasteiax]

I move through the afternoon, autumnal in pre-spring, October-headed, hoarfrost-fingered.

Charles Wright, from Body Language in “Appalachia”

[trulyvincent]

Carl Vilhelm Holsøe (1863-1935) Danish artist

[fortuneaday]

[A white fortune cookie paper with red text on the front reading: An unusual dream will come true]

[bronzyglow]

fate is real and everything will fall into place

[lettersfromadreamgirl]

I am deeply saddened by the fact that I was not born into the era of love letters

[freckledflowery-blog]

tell me how it feels to be the tallest man in the room. tell me how it feels to lay out a pretty pair of pale eggshells for each foot, for every step i take. to think you know so much. tell me how it feels to be the most interesting man you've met, tell me how to seep, slimy through the cracks, and i'll tell you how to stare down the barrel of a gun. i'll tell you how to watch your step. i'll tell you how to keep all at arm's length, how to flinch at innocent footfall. how to balance on the arches of my feet and how to contort myself so that i will fit so perfectly into your shadow. i'll tell you how to be a yellowed diamond, how to be an angry wind, tangled pines. how to soak in the scent of someone else's soul. i'll tell you how to punch the walls. how not to breathe in too deep, how to feel that, that dark chest-ache, heart-ache, stop yourself from smelling the roses, winter is on its way. stop yourself from enjoying the view, another's on its way. i'll tell you how to pop your broken bone back into place, how grin and bear it, how to bite your tongue, how to make a flower out of a snake. how to see the wilting petals, pay no mind to the serpent lying under it. but first, please, enlighten me.

i. @daymisery

[adrasteiax]

I wanted the hills to be the same, And the rivers too, (…) And me beside them, under the stopped clouds and the stopped stars. I wanted to walk in that metaphor, untouched by time’s corruption.

Charles Wright, from Transparencies in “Scar Tissue” (via adrasteiax)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

A Touch of Spice (2003) dir. by Tassos Boulmetis

[venuscomb]

Warming Her Pearls

by Carol Ann Duffy

For Judith Radstone

Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress bids me wear them, warm them, until evening when I’ll brush her hair. At six, I place them round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,

resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silk or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.

She’s beautiful. I dream about her in my attic bed; picture her dancing with tall men, puzzled by my faint, persistent scent beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.

I dust her shoulders with a rabbit’s foot, watch the soft blush seep through her skin like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass my red lips part as though I want to speak.

Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see her every movement in my head… Undressing, taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way

she always does… And I lie here awake, knowing the pearls are cooling even now in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night I feel their absence and I burn.

[freckledflowery-blog]

saturn's rings squeeze me, tight on my skin. jupiter & june shock me back to life. mossy, green, fertile flats for my future. nine straight swords, my most lucky unlucky number. strike a match on my bones, sweat-soaked bondage, straps and skin and sin.

i. @daymisery

[freckledflowery-blog]

i’m tired of hearing the sound of my own gun, reloading each time i awake, every new dawn