just a bit shouty

this sure is some kind of dumping ground

[moonlight-dove]

David Benioff, Troy

// Adapted from Homer, The Iliad

[arylleth]

to love someone is firstly to confess: i'm prepared to be devastated by you. by A History of My Brief Body by Billy-Ray Belcourt

[mournfulroses]

Emily Dickinson, from her poem titled "1188," featured in The Emergency Poet

[poetryforall]

[mad-intersex-mermaid]

Literally me 😖

[dogrotpdf]

how’s that house that raised you?

[lora-mathis]

[hot-chocolatedrinker]

I’m so scared of being known and seen that I sometimes have an impulse to do exactly this.

[shouting-at-the-telly-though]

New College Students, UNSW Library Digital Collections, April 1976.

[shouting-at-the-telly-though]

consciousness is a collage of ancestors' dreams & descendants' nightmares—birth: the disorienting wonder of waking in an unfamiliar room; death: the frightening realization you've been asleep until now.

— David Joseph, an.attempt. (6 Sept 2022 via @olicketysplit)

[shouting-at-the-telly-though]

The bright side of the planet moves toward darkness And the cities are falling asleep, each in its hour, And for me now, as then, it is too much. There is too much world.

— Czeslaw Milosz, 'The Separate Notebooks'

[shouting-at-the-telly-though]

The Owl House is all the things I never got from the stories I shouted stuff at as a child — and a whole buncha other, wonderful things I didn't even know, then, that I could have been shouting for.

I love it so much, and it brings me so much joy.

...on the other hand, it fills me full of rage that it "somehow" got cancelled. We need more stories like this, not less. 😭

[shouting-at-the-telly-though]

It’s right before you drive away: our limbs still warm with sleep, coffee sputtering out, the north wind, your hips pressing me hard against the table. I like it hard because I need to remember this. I want to say harder. How we must look to the road that’s gone, to the splayed morning of cold butter and inveterate greed. Light comes and goes in the field. Oranges in a bowl, garlic, radio. In the story of us, no one wins. Isolation is a new theme someone says. By now I’ve invented you. Most people don’t like to touch dead things. That’s what my friend tells me when I find my fish on the floor. It must have wanted an out. Sometimes my desire scares me. Sometimes I watch football and think: four chances is enough to get there. But we don’t have helmets. I want to say harder, I can take it, but there’s no proof I can.

Stacie Cassarino, 'In the Kitchen'

[shouting-at-the-telly-though]

Someday I'll be dead, in no need of a smoke, cash, bread, completely indifferent to poetry. Why not nag now, push the little I around while I can, backed up by the whole language peeled in one strip, a dazzling case of deft motion? Because there are days the scent of white peaches reaches me in bursts, and I lie down, alive, completely different to poetry.

— Mary Ruefle, 'White Peaches'.

[shouting-at-the-telly-though]

I fucking depended on you and you left the fucking wheelbarrow out and it's fucking raining and now the white chickens are fucking filthy

— Mary Ruefle, 'Red'

[shouting-at-the-telly-though]

Every Wednesday I rewatch an episode of The Imperial Coroner. Every Wednesday I think about all the fic I still haven’t written for it, aaaah.

[shouting-at-the-telly-though]

[shouting-at-the-telly-though]

In Chinese fandom we have a phrase called 圈地自萌 which literally translates to 'draw a circle around yourself/your community and like what you like and not bother anyone else' That's always been an unspoken rule in almost every corner of the Chinese fandom I've been to

— 木止由 MuZhiYou (12 Aug 2022).

[shouting-at-the-telly-though]

I've pulled the last of the year's young onions. The garden is bare now. The ground is cold, brown and old. What is left of the day flames in the maples at the corner of my eye. I turn, a cardinal vanishes. By the cellar door, I wash the onions, then drink from the icy metal spigot. Once, years back, I walked beside my father among the windfall pears. I can't recall our words. We may have strolled in silence. But I still see him bend that way-left hand braced on knee, creaky-to lift and hold to my eye a rotten pear. In it, a hornet spun crazily, glazed in slow, glistening juice. It was my father I saw this morning waving to me from the trees. I almost called to him, until I came close enough to see the shovel, leaning where I had left it, in the flickering, deep green shade.White rice steaming, almost done. Sweet green peas fried in onions. Shrimp braised in sesame oil and garlic. And my own loneliness. What more could I, a young man, want.

— Li-Young Lee, 'Eating Alone'