[goreprofonde]

- Georges Bataille, The Collected Poems. trs Mark Spitzer.

[neizbezhnyy]

none of y’all are ready for lady viy.

[neizbezhnyy]

*velma from chicago voice* i love shitposting and accidentally creating lore with yen more than words can possibly say

[neizbezhnyy]

❝ My heart is in your hands. ❞

     Her alienation is tasted as keenly as her honesty, her voice cutting through the stagnant air with a wind - chime quality, serene & delicate though it registered to him as sharply as if it had been accompanied by the strike of her clawed hand, which glittered even now beneath the endless twilight of Belovodye as the two began to slow to a pause past a cluster of silver - leaved trees. Viy followed at a halting pace, a perfect match to their surroundings, both lifeless and not, like the creaking birches and looming conifers that stood alongside them and seemed to stretch out beyond them forever, the banded trunks and silvered needles uniform, identical -- as if more concept than reality, unable to grow beyond the sincerity of a mimic. Her back presses to the nearest trunk as she turns to face him, for the moment a striking likeness of the very first to have walked her groove, her features softened somehow as she gazed at him rather than scowled, a bit of her learned hardness salved away by the affectionate fingers of glistening moonlight. 

     Apart from the narrow clearing in which they stood --- a near - perfect circle almost carved into the stony flesh of the roiling, changing landscape at the edge of death’s country --- the forest  spiraled around them in what appeared to be infinite contortion, never seeming to thicken or thin even to Viy’s all seeing eye. They stood nearly at the heart of a crossroads, and she must know it, he thinks, as her hand raises to beckon him close, tempting Death toward the outer edge of his domain, daring him nearer to the epicenter which contains the false hope of every feverish traveller unfortunate enough to find himself in this, the perfect maze ; no beginning, no end, rather an infinite possibility of wrong turns and thinned planes, with which one misplaced step would deliver one to the ashen halls of Belovodye, and eternity. 

     The Tsaritsa’s soul would know it well, even if the sensation would not build beyond a shallow sense of having passed this way before --- not in this life, but in the many before it. A distant nightmare composed of the few agonizing moments she’d turned suspended in the fabric between life and death before Yaga’s curse would rewrite her once again, flay back the flesh & bone of one iteration in order to author the next. He obeyed her, once again devoted, the repeated image of Death bending to the will of the maiden, as if his lips still bore the red stain of the fruit that had shattered his prison, the first and last thing to ever grace the tongue of the Tsar and leave behind any trace of its flavor. Even the sight of her evokes the cherished memory, the phantom taste of soured sweetness bored into the junction of his jaw, a precious ache which only amplified as he finally stilled before her, filigreed fingertips raised to capture his face, commanding his gaze without words. She regarded him with malicious care, no doubt able to glimpse her own godlike presence reflected in the mirror of his eyes, though she offered no such indication. 

     With the distance between them now banished, so too did the memory of Athanasya slide effortlessly from her face, replaced now with recognition of her in her culmination, what he knew to be the last form that she would take. Yaga’s magic yielded to the breadth of her own, Natalya had become both witch and woman, wife and wolf  ;  her own in terms undefinable beyond her own comprehension, hidden even to his own understanding of her. The fine points of silver jewelry drew budding rivulets of blood from his jaw, the fact ignored by her even as they slid downward, over her knuckles to spill between the spaces of her fingers.  You are my curse. Her voice resounds in his head, an oppressive presence that he welcomes, his own fingers finding purchase in the thick hair at the nape of her neck. Lips press to his own, the truth a devouring acid between them as the accusation lingers, incontestable. 

     She parts from him at length, his hand having already raised to cup the high angle of her cheek in anticipation, thumb brushing the dampness from beneath her eye before her face buries into the crook of his neck.

[ozu-teapot]

Håltimme (Short) | Jan Halldoff | 1964

(Bo Halldoff), Karin Stenbäck

[strangememories]

Mystery Street (1950)

[strangememories]

Love Is the Devil: Study for a Portrait of Francis Bacon (1998)

[neizbezhnyy]

Stop making me so sad. @viduamor

   ❝   you do not understand what you ask.  ❞    he feels the warmth draw toward the center of the room ; all dissolved within the scope of his impossible gravity, just as sunlight is swallowed by shadow. evidence of her pain still remains drawn upon her face, soft trails of glimmering tears cutting along the slope of her cheeks, each line repeated upon the face of death, the shared wound immortalized in twin silver, a deeper cut than any blade could conceive to make  ---  her arms cage the swell of her belly, as if to protect it from the withering condemnation of the creature she now cannot bear to face, her own turned toward the flame flickering  in the hearth he had built for her.    ❝   morena .  .  .   ❞    she remained stiff and unresponsive, as if her ears were unpricked of the sound, ignorant to the depth of his pleading. his mercy made no appearance, and though he, too, felt the ache of her suffering as if it lived within him also, it could not thaw him, could not dissuade him of the larger truth. he crosses the narrow room to her, a hand extended to capture one lock of brilliant hair around his index finger, winding twice, silver gaze only afforded the small sliver of her face that remained available to him in the weakening firelight, where it lay suffocating under the weight of his severity. 

❝   anything else i would give you. this cannot be .  .  . should not be. and you must trust me, morena, it will not be. whether at the will of nature, or the strangling hands of your neighbors, you will not live to see it done. Night would have you broken in two before she allowed this to pass   ---   if you hear nothing else as long as you live, hear this, morena, even if it destroys the last thread of affection you hold for me.   ❞  

[neizbezhnyy]

Sometimes I think I resented you so much it felt like love. @viduamor

  ❝   the passion of hate is not so different from love.   ❞   the tsar of death speaks with a confidence born of centuries, yet that same surety smarts of ignorance beyond his comprehension : what else has he known, apart from the knife - sharp blade of brotherly hate and affection, sisterly devotion and disdain, and the blistering heat of natasha’s own condemning desire. another life would have shown her warmth, instead of burning ;  if he had but agreed to never touch her, her soul would know peace, she would have been free to die once, and once only. there has never been a question in Death’s calculation as to the worthiness of this failure, the interwoven burden of her hate and love was a price lower than nothing, less than split atoms upon a scale, a single breath upon the wind. but what of her price ? how would she have it, given every facet of the truth ?   ❝  could it not be that you have loved me so deeply that it sometimes feels like hate ?   ❞  he turns the words, his features not haggard today, the smile that taunts her drips with mimicked youth, and he thinks, in this moment, he must resemble his brother : when it is plain how wolfish he has been, will be, in pursuit of her.  

❝   what is there in this moment, then, tsaritsa ? what binds us this night .  .  . resentment, or love ?    ❞   there is no need for a reminder to be yielding, a breakable thing before her as he cuts away at the distance that separates them, his words an immaterial scythe, though it feels just as damning in his employ.   ❝   i fear our answers will be different .  .  . perhaps we should let fate decide this, too, as she is wont to do.   ❞   he raises a hand, and between middle and index finger, a silver coin appears. the cool, grooved edge drifts lightly along the plane of her cheek as he leans in close, breathing the perfume of her skin in distraction, glittering gaze mapping the many agitated lines of her face before it meets her own, unsure as to what he should expect : the sting of her hand, or the warmth of her lips.   ❝  do not be surprised, my love, if it merely spins until there is nothing but dust remaining of it. you are every bit my equal, my better .  .  . two sides cannot hope to contain you.   ❞ 

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“Here are eternal dreams, woods without pathways.”

— Marina Tsvetaeva, from Selected Poems; “The Rat Catcher,”

[neizbezhnyy]

viduamor‌.

❝  if we have already  given up so many,    why should we worry ourselves with just one,    moy korol’ ?   ❞    & of course,    natalia has no intention of heeding his suggestion,    her words serving enough of a rebuttal in her eyes that would allow her her continued manners   —  IF THEY CAN BE CALLED SUCH.   she shifts her position further,    allowing  –  with utmost haphazardness  –  the dip of her neckline to be further exposed,    & her head tilted in such a way to reveal the gentle curve of her neck    ❝    but you know,    i could be persuaded to …  this thing you call  ‘PATIENCE’  if you gave me reason.    ❞

              ❝   we worry ourselves, i imagine, for the pleasure of stripping one another of those supposed virtues.   if for no other reason.   ❞    brushstrokes continue as his attention returns to his charge, casting deepened shadows upon her likeness.    ❝   perhaps the anticipation of a thing can heighten the joy of its indulgence   .  .  .  have you considered this, natalya ?  ❞    

[lizzyisameme]

trista mateer poetry sentences (i)

Trista Mateer is an American writer and poet. She won the Goodreads Choice Award in 2015 for poetry with The Dogs I Have Kissed. I have seen a lot of quotes of her writing on tumblr and I think her writing is absolutely phenomenal. If you want to support her writing—much of which is free online—check out her online store which features physical chapbooks and other items, or her patreon/ko-fi. The Dogs I Have Kissed and Honeybee can also be found as ebooks on Amazon.

This sentence meme uses quotes that I’ve sourced online. Adjust sentences as needed, but remember where it comes from! And if you can, please support!   

For more poetry sentence memes. For more Trista Mateer poetry sentences.

   —LIZZY  

My hands are still shaking from nights spent not knowing how to want you.

I’m sorry that I am back and forth, push and pull instead of effortless simplicity.

I hope one day somebody loves you so much that they do not waste their time trying to fix you.

Sometimes I think I resented you so much it felt like love.

I will greet you with a mouth full of barbed wire until you learn to stop coming after me with your hands.


Don’t you ever let another human being tear you apart.

I still remember you as a little girl who overwaters plants because she doesn’t know when to stop giving.

I do not tell her that sometimes it feels like compromising yourself is part of growing up. 

I loved her more than I loved you and I’m sorry that you knew it. 

You are still the first person I want to share new things with.

Hurt me once: shame on me. Hurt me twice: shame on me. Hurt me three times: shame on me but fuck you. 

Hurt me four times and we’ll get severed-head biblical.

Can we say goodbye again? I miss the way you rip me open.

I still have a lot of growing to do and I know there is more room for it in your absence.

Some people are born flight risks. It is not your fault that they cannot seem to stand in place. They are not leaving you; they are just leaving.

And now that I am older, I don’t give a damn about sin. I will be the first to cast one.

I’d suck salt off your fingers
 like a fucking animal.


I spend too much time thinking about fucking you.

In a parallel universe or another world or a different life, we sit across from each other at the kitchen table and go over the grocery list. 

I know that I am lucky to be alive at the same time as you, but I also know that you are more afraid of opening up than losing me.

I know that it’s reaching but I just want to leave your name on a page somewhere and never need to come back to it. 

I have grown into this cruel thing with running shoes, comfortable only when I lock myself away.

I don’t know what it is in me that yearns to be the lifeboat that people throw themselves at when they are drowning.

I want you to know that it is okay not to love me.

You are not the first person who found it a little too tough, who took two steps back when my jaws started snapping. 

I swear that you’re not missing anything if you run the wrong way when I hold out my hands. 

[gentlemanlythreads]

Jean Baptiste Mondino - Photographer 

Patrick Petitjean - Model

[neizbezhnyy]

my favorite headcanon of viy is that he takes the form of a white lion and just ... lounges around. what an asshole.

[petales]

“SEDIMENTARY: he moves with such stagnation. his bones are so still. he appears like death, he paints himself a corpse.”

— peaceful death: the collage of thanatos, i.g.

[classyladiesarealwaysnear]

“He began to dance and his laughter became a bloodthirsty snarling”

— William Golding, Lord of the Flies

[sebastianrex101]

Patrick Petitjean

Follow the scent..