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I just think a horrible little man should be able to want to carve up his lover’s autonomy and play awful mind games until they are his obedient weapon whilst ignoring his own trauma in an attempt to conquer the very concept of death, that’s all

#nirai kujen as well

noknowshame

gonna start using this rothko card deck for divination

noknowshame

no hope for you whatsoever

#cartomancy

ltwilliammowett

Shipwreck in Ice, scenery, part of paper theatre set, paper, maker unknown, Germany, 19th century

#art history

handheldrope

men at some time are masters of their fates

#sic semper tyrannis

pavooko

Dad doesn’t hear — dad reigns

#I dreamt I was a butterfly

apoemaday

Two English Poems

by Jorge Luis Borges

To Beatriz Webster de Bullrich

I.

The useless dawn finds me in a deserted streetcorner; I have outlived the night. Nights are proud waves: darkblue topheavy waves laden with all hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable. Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals, of things half given away, half withheld, of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act that way, I tell you. The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd ends: some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams, and the smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart has no use for. The big wave brought you. Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily and incessantly beautiful. We talked and you have forgotten the words. The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city. Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to make your name, the lilt of your laughter: these are illustrious toys you have left me. I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and to the few stray stars of the dawn. Your dark rich life… I must get at you, somehow: I put away those illustrious toys you have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile —that lonely, mocking smile your cool mirror knows.

II.

What can I hold you with? I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the ragged suburbs. I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon. I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts that living men have honoured in marble: my father’s father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather—just twenty-four—heading a charge of three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on vanished horses. I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness or humour my life. I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal. I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow —the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities. I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself. I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.

#strange stories of the death of poets