All of My Prosaic Waiting

Person

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LUWTEN | Go Honey

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DISSIDENT FUTURES Kamau Patton Yerba Buena Center for the Arts Oct 18, 2013 – Feb 2, 2014

[fukkce]

I really hope y'all fall in love with yourselves like never before

[wolfstrail-deactivated20170601]

Wood-palabra

Make it holy

Make it holy

This is the silhouette

I’ve warned myself against

This whinger I’m impaling you on

- make it all holy

© Agnieszka Mauch

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Jagged Jaw | Tonight Is

[efedra-deactivated20160112]

Milk and Melancholy, 2008 by Kenneth Hayes

[faye-wong]

[kedidirokedi]

Visit Original Link

Perfume Genius - Dark Parts

[boumtheworld]

[eli-craven]

[mothwood]

Becoming is an antimemory.

Deleuze and Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia (via mothwood)

[mothwood]

To reach, not the point where one no longer says I, but the point where it is no longer of any importance whether one says I.

Deleuze and Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia (via mothwood)

[mothwood]

                     what were you looking for in front of ashes or in the rain in the fog in the wind even when the lights were growing dim and the city was sinking and on the stone pavement the Nazarene showed you his heart, what were you looking for? why don’t you come? what were you looking for?

— George Seferis, Mythistorema

[aftersalt]

wick

My sadness I wear like a scarf. It travels with me. I take it off and set it down, sometimes.

If there is enough light present in a room, the fabric will catch. It will glint.

Its weight doesn’t feel particularly heavy.

I have heard before of people regarding sadness as blue. Cold, even.

I am reminded of a candle.

The fire smacks its lips down that valley of hot wax.

The people who live there know songs a little less, they focus more on the primal punch of stars, surging through the rhythm of years.

Though they no longer remember dreams, they know what it was like to have held the sun as if it were a coin pressed hotly against their chests, a medallion missing its chain, the sort of aching that resents depth.

My sadness torches.

I have trouble determining its purpose. Whether it is to burn or to set alight direction, I wear it as a scarf.

The skin of my neck isn’t delicate.

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Cemetaries | Sodus

[bibliomancyoracle]

The crows have reached a decision.

They declare: leave any country that has a name.

*

from “Notes for the Interior” by Jane Wong

[bibliomancyoracle]

The plagiarist covers your tracks and then his own. 

*

from “Paradise” by ANDY STALLINGS