#instaroulette

[nikki-the-disney-queen]

🚨Character Alert🚨 I don’t always get to meet the characters. Sometimes it’s a walk by shot I get of them - like this one. I still love watching the interaction between the character and the person. It can be so much fun. • • • So walking over to Dinosaur I was able to grab this shot of Launchpad McQuack. • • • Who’s some of your favorite characters to see and meet?!? • • • #instaroulette #disneylife #disneycharacters #nikkithedisneyqueen #disneyparks #disneyfan #disney #disneystyle #igdisney #disneygrammer #disnerd #disneyside #instadisney #disneygram #wdw #disneyfan #disneyparks #disneyaddict #annualpassholder #dvc #disneyinsta #disneypics #disneyphotos #disneylife #disneyphotography #disneymagic #disneyaddicts #disneyfun #disneyobsessed #animalkingdom #disneyinstaroulette (at Disney's Animal Kingdom) https://www.instagram.com/p/By3sZAfAdEZ/?igshid=1vcdhs03t63bc

[uutpoetry]

kdecember:

Even if there are no gypsies tonight I want something ancient; papaya to darken my shot glass. I know some of the oldest and rarest dance moves. I'd like to show you. You don't have to love me to play Sweet Jane. Legend says she killed her children on your birthday. It doesn't scare me. I don't know where to put my hands when you tell me. He put something in my drink and the police came.  Birds fly hard against the window. A stone breaks and unravels infrared into a slow dance across a wireless gym. I lied, everything scares me and you've never had a birthday.

[uutpoetry]

Guacamole and Grandmas and Vacation and Avocado and Baby Formula and Relational Aesthetics

goodbyewhorses:

I wonder how many cats there are in Texas at this very moment. I want to include all the dead ones in this figure and I want it to be updated hourly. I want everything to be updated hourly. I want my face to update hourly. At least hourly. I want everyone to forget what I look like. I heard once that the number of people alive at this moment is larger than the number of people who have lived on this planet and died on it starting at the beginning of history but I would like to know when history started. Apparently history starts when we start counting how many people die and for what reasons. My sheets are the color of avocados and I have deep thoughts about death to share with you. Just not right now. I work in a department store selling blankets and frying pans and multipacks of children's socks. I have been thinking about how cute you would look with glasses and I think you should make your eyesight worse so you could wear glasses.

[uutpoetry]

Hypnogogic visions after blurred encounter with Super PlayCast 512

unknownmeridian

Headspeakers with matching blue neonlights projected forthcoming towards the periphery of my visual cortex next to ink tattooed kanji that dances solitary static. Yellowblackness around the spherical halfcone shapes envelopes much of the surroundings sucking in soundlight that's propelled out through the blue strip.

What sound? Any sound? Must be sound else worse images will creep in undenied. Even if sound is organs whirring round in bodies close not even your own. Maybe there is no sound not even heart thumping and the blue is the angel that’s come to fetch you for your meeting with old Pete up high.

Chinese kanji, must be, no Korean or Japanese symbol I know. Must be a warning for the blue light ‘Do not stare into this light else might lose sight and once more phantoms of mind will be let loose from unconscious to dance and sing in scent rather than visual perceptions.’ The Chinese are very good at concise imagery.

[uutpoetry]

zjoot

A BEGINNER'S GUIDE TO DYING FROM BAD SUSHI PART ONE

Whenever there is a place you are standing, there are cars driving in two directions past you, and there are flags waving, attached to nothing but spiders. These spiders are what firemen mean when they say "stay out of the way there is a house burning down don't touch the firehouse stupid." The house is not a metaphor. There is a lady in there. She is wearing a skirt and a blouse that has flowers on it. They are various types of flowers, not just roses like some shirts have. They do not really look like flowers when you are dying. One of them even looks like your uncle. I also have a shirt with all of these faces on them. The shirts are limited edition.  "Watch out there is a truck behind you and I am that truck." says a famous actor, looking at a particular cloud.

[uutpoetry]

Pharma-

shazia-r

Holy! Vagaries and warmth supposing what’s needed, or fraught. Asleep in the same bed with many on top of me, they make me feel princess and the pill. All pops and blunt edges cannot scream to say serotonin forever, but I can say hi. When we do, I see your shiny teeth and my spit struggling to stay arrigato, wrapped and tied to politeness, Canadiana.

[uutpoetry]

shrugging off the order of suspicion and easing wide-eyed into an exit lane

dialoghost:

Wherever the wheel, perched like a giggling hangnail, interrupts the glide of my sleep, my sleep grunting in unison and slugging the back of my throat in the shoulder. My sleep crawls out of an open bag of cheetos half-eaten and crammed between the seats and yet its the sun who crinkles against the windshield, or else these curves upholstering what should be a second sky but never seems to.

All the while my foot propped up like a thumbscrew, whether or not those are eyes looking back or just the savage gusting of all these tires in my stomach. The pitch and hollow grind I can feel in my molars reinvents the sound of a hollowed out log sent off down what looked like a hill but felt more like something I heard on the radio. The night's cold slapping echoed off at the interchange the way a typewriter hurls itself into the ocean without thinking to use a turn signal. In any case, we're making time (whatever that means).

[uutpoetry]

Andre Masson

The Instaroulette project was inspired by this prose poem by Paul Eluard:

CRUELTY BECOMES TIED UP and agile softness is loosened. The lover of wings assumes very tight faces, the flames of the earth escape through its bowels and the jasmin of hands opens up on a star.

The quite sluggish sky, the sky which is unloosened, is no longer over us. Oblivion, rather than evening, eftaces it. Deprived of blood and reflexes, the cadence of temples and columns continues.

Lines of the hand, so many branches in the swirling wind. Stairs of the winter months, pale daylight of insomnia, but also, in the most secret chambers oi darkness, the garland of a body around its splendour.