Will never get enough of this. Photograph: mine / @notjustcookies

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Stranger Things

Andulka
Peter Solarz
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Not today Justin
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Kaledo Art

JBB: An Artblog!
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trying on a metaphor
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Origami Around
Cosmic Funnies

pixel skylines

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

JVL

izzy's playlists!

Love Begins
Keni

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@notjustcookies
Will never get enough of this. Photograph: mine / @notjustcookies
“I think of rivers, of tides. Forests and water gushing out. Rain and lightning. Rocks and shadows. All of these are in me.”
— Haruki Murakami
Stay, kindly.
Evening by the sea - Marcel Schelekens, 2019.
Dutch b. 1954-
Oil on canvas, 200 x 130 cm.
Symphony
Solitary Japanese plum
scarlet plumage rustling softly
wore out her sleeves as a geisha
from April to Autumn
When the season takes its leaves
passion cooling
umeshu sours to vinegar
rumors ripen on
The grapevines, a chorus joins in,
no longer marooned, each soliloquy
burnishes its tenor, ruby throats of turncoats
crescendo in symphony.
©️Sophia Naz
This is not a great photograph, it’s not a recent one. I took this in October 2017 in southern Crete. It’s important to me :-)
(c) photo @notjustcookies Don’t remove this. It matters.
And I am about a lot of things besides cookies
@randomlyjay
Man Ray- Masques, 1946 negatif
AFTER WITNESSING THE DOWNFALL OF OUR GENEROUS MOVEMENTS
once-feral crawl hopeless deranged (again) the shock restrained
taking pride unbridled in our sex its unending fascination with itself
*
having had a life that shuttled by without at best a wink of pause, this
familiarity of skin is my ultimate luxury
*
of you I thought of little else
Dividend
(After Naomi Shihab Nye)
And here I was, so proud to be
the proverbial promethean
wordsmith so volatile as to fire
off lines like shooting stars
the light of lines captive as
fireflies in a summer’s night jar
Little did I know it was the dark
earth that was flammable beyond
wild imagination, that it would lay
my years of toil to waste
And so for the sins of humanity
or rather the oily oligarchs
I have paid richly in the coin of loss
The sole dividend of this pain
is poetry.
Naz
I was kind of sad-face but! that’s not me right now cuz that’s a novel I’m not in yet!
Jay
Picasso - Reclining Woman Reading
Change in a Coffee Cup
It’s 1998 and you’re in New York. You sit Buddha-style Like a beggar’s cup On a cold Brooklyn sidewalk. The passersby stuff coins in you Like a karma slot machine; They measure their generosity Against your God-bless-you’s.
Raised, reared, reviled in Texas — That’s where you’ll return to; Less welcome than a polished Thief dry-drifting through Oil-rich streets. You are a blood-warm stain on the sidewalk; Bitter as wormwood, pale as pigeon Shit, dirty like a soiled rubber, pleading Like an empty coffee cup For greenbacks and silver.
So, you’ve sown roots in a shelter Like a soup-bowl monk; Eating yesterday’s bagels, Sleeping on threadbare mats, And smelling the lozenges In a sick man’s cough,
Now cold night unpeels white Stripes from the sky, Glass giants electrified stab At the moon like spears, Brick-red daggers plunge Deep into the black, And twilight bleeds rain bright As falling stars.
It’s bleak October and the wind Rolls musty sewage down The gasoline avenues. The towers rise in the distance And rise like twin Babels. You walk among the gray Metroplex-catacombs, among The coffin-cars and the Multitudes, the split atomic Families, and through the Nuclear waste allies.
Solitude calls your name Like a number in a Food stamp line. The Hudson Washes with toxins and tears Your shattered eyes. Ocean ice-streams flow Between your bones. Brain electricity Ignites hot billboards, Subway lines, Buzzing bulbs — Soul thrilling and brilliant.
You know too much not to laugh At loneliness, Even communal solitude. You are a shadow Indistinguishable from night.
Soon — winter Streets too impoverished, Too feverish, too Congested with white For your vagabond boots. Your weak roots will be pulled out Like weeds between sidewalk slabs.
So, bundle-up your carriage in Glad bags. Return south, thin as a greyhound, Sick as a cigarette butt. 1998 falls fast behind your Footsteps … leave Nothing else … save an empty coffee cup.
(This poem is written about my own life As a homeless teen on the street of New York..)
mark horst “here in this place, we flesh no. 1” 24" x 24" oil on canvas.
here’s a beautiful passage from Toni Morrison's Beloved: “She told them that the only grace they could have was the grace they could imagine. That if they could not see it, they would not have it. “Here,” she said, “in this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don’t love your eyes; they’d just as soon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them. Raise them up and kiss them. Touch others with them, pat them together, stroke them on your face ‘cause they don’t love that either. You got to love it, you! And no, they ain’t in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there, they will see it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed. What you scream from it they do not hear. What you put into it to nourish your body they will snatch away and give you leavins instead. No, they don’t love your mouth. You got to love it. This is flesh I’m talking about here. Flesh that needs to be loved. Feet that need to rest and to dance; backs that need support; shoulders that need arms, strong arms I’m telling you. And O my people, out yonder, hear me, they do not love your neck unnoosed and straight. So love your neck; put a hand on it, grace it, stroke it and hold it up. And all your inside parts that they’d just as soon slop for hogs, you got to love them. The dark, dark liver–love it, love it, and the beat and beating heart, love that too. More than eyes or feet.More than lungs that have yet to draw free air. More than your life holding womb and your life-giving private parts, hear me now, love your heart. For this is the prize.” Saying no more, she stood up then and danced with her twisted hip the rest of what her heart had to say while the others opened heir mouths and gave her the music.” ― Toni Morrison, Beloved
101 Laments: 047
We find a home in silence Not knowing it is a prison
this poem
is nipples
when the moon takes the place
of conversation
when bodies heave
when music is night’s wind
when the eyes no longer have it
but answers are somewhere else
on the body
when the walk becomes a fall
when quiet is blue