January 2012
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neuewelle:
Parting of the Sensory Modest Mouse -...
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Men never surprise me, but it’d be a really nice change if one would.
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mollypeck replied to your post: James Franco and I have the same major. We’re…
Let’s just spend the next week watching and re-watching that NY Times video of him kissing his reflection. Mmmmmmmmm!
You’ve got yourself a deal, my dear. I’ll be your mirror…
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James Franco and I have the same major. We’re obviously meant to fall in love.
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A year’s worth of black ice and its freezing snow cakes the hillsides. It drags down the eaves of roofs in thick bullets always considering their options or drops down the chimney to blacken the once-smoking hearth, inducing a tremble shaken all around. I have strapped on the last of my winter weight, and feel I could sink through the floor.
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There will be no way to hang the laundry by morning, and the children will look poor in their wrinkled pants and skirts, but I had to sleep the headache away.
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Oh my god, Bohemea liked my last poem. I’ve been taken over by fangirl vapors.
Anonymous asked: I never realized you made a post about us with that picture, until I looked up my username tag.
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pretty, bruised big mouth that opens on Sunday for line-cutting bastards, cracked bottles of Chardonnay. a dancer in dimestores, said ‘pay through your pocket,’ he calls himself shallow and you’re always soaking wet. dick drips cascade, cocksure prince play cut to red ribbons, unstitch your grin’s loopholes...
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The Eucharist smiled, chewing a store-brand cracker, stale, cheap wine from the bottom shelf. Check a smile between rot and revival, singing in a whiskey voice. Salvation holds a hand with absolution, four stations of the crooked cross. I drank the marsh, kept a fist where my hands should pray, cupping running angel feathers asleep in the back pew.
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wired heavy red roses through your jaw to strangle words like a witch on the ropes above water where sinking is salvation and swimming is a sin, like you never learned survival knee-deep in a mud-colored stream, or burned to death over ashes to blossom cardinal, and growing to the sun, all the thorns caught in your throat.
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Freshman year, he read The Golden Compass and popped bubblegum through just-so-crooked teeth, sitting in the autumn twilight of five o’clock and a hundred stretching shadows outside of the auditorium where I practiced scenes as someone else and never quite wanted to resume my born role, the shameless sinner, a junkie in training from stage left overdosing on the proscenium. He stopped me one...
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“We gather our arms full of guilt as though it were precious stuff. It must be...”
– John Steinbeck (via misswallflower)
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“I’m not sure what it is about her that we can’t trust. Maybe...”
– Kelsey, on our mistrust of the new consultant at work.
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hautelikecouture:
Evan Rachel Wood in Gucci Première // January 15
i have this weird self esteem problem where i hate myself yet i still think i’m better than everyone else
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People ask questions about the past, what I have done, what was done to me to sharpen such a tongue or harden a heart, who finally broke me, and in how many ways. They ask of my nightmares, about what I don’t write. They say, ”Tell me a secret.” Well, I don’t have any, and that is the bulk of the problem.
I need something more than this.
When your ex posts statuses about the value of education and you remember he dropped out of high school.
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They showed me gold teeth with fillings fashioned into jewelry and a box of shoes the dead left behind— the Jew-mothers running for their children, breaking mouths on concrete, tripped by men scowling something dark and perhaps unsure at the corners of their smiles. The brown hair, brown eyes, Jesus-colored skin rotten with opaque sin, the bruise of inferior blood. A tour guide pulled me...
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“Be careful with sadness. It is a vice.”
– Gustave Flaubert (via hideyourdisguise)
someone: I love you
me: why
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