March 2012
sendingicebergs:
Go down to the drug store buy a tall can run into a high school face on the way out laugh because you two never talk have your first hug of the day at 6:16pm
Go home and drink alone.
February 2012
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Blame it on the vibes. Blame it on tectonic plates. Blame it on the streetlights that never flash on when you walk beneath them. Blame it on my legs and how they parted like the sea every time someone said he wanted to swim. Blame it on your busted raft. Blame it on the lying North Star. Blame it on my thirsty mouth and how I started to drink like I’d never tasted water until I thought I...
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Do you ever dream of shrapnel splitting your spine into shards of mirrors punched in a drunken rage as the soldiers leap from helicopters and pray they touch the ground? Because I do. I keep battlefields in mind, live mines under the dirt like graves. Dig a hole and bury me. These legs have never walked to Zion in the water, the holy land of legs parting, faces unshaven, memorizing someone...
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good to know i only matter when you don’t have somewhere to be
comakid:
i find cool things on the sidewalk and put them in the bags under my eyes.
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Has anyone considered that Tumblr is just an amalgamation of the zeitgeist?
The Electronical Rattle Bag: Superabundant Culture →
ekstasis:
“…‘Kenneth Goldsmith,’ writes Tuma, ‘says that what defines our moment is knowing that it has all been done in poetry, in writing, and art…’ I didn’t spend much time on thinking about the passage (I’d barely touched my coffee), except to note Goldsmith’s typical concern with…
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“People fall so in love with their pain, they can’t leave it behind. The same as...”
– Chuck Palahniuk, Haunted (via hideyourdisguise)
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I used to have nightmares about running through an abandoned mall from a man who picked off his white face each time he took a step. Everything was lit in red and blue, and the floors started to fill with dirty water. His masks dissolved when he set them down and bubbled as I ran for higher ground, but he always followed me. He always found me. And right before he reached to his chin with those...
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Anonymous asked: You're a ridiculously talented writer, Nick.
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Paint the mailbox to suit the message and raise a flag to let the postman know I’m available, I’m not going anywhere. Stamped like a letter to a lover tucked between last month’s bills from Sephora, the powder that will not fix my face, and a medical statement asking for blood, or bone or marrow, a kidney to make a pair. Addressed to no one, to the abandoned chateau with a...
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I shake it into my palm, swallow it with ease. I pour it in a glass, no ice, and sip until the waiter comes with a refill. I roll it up in a long, straight row and lick the edges, absorb it inside lungs. More than the nicotine, more than the drink, more than the pills, I’m addicted to sadness, and I don’t think I want to get clean.
Tennessee state Rep. Richard Floyd, "I Would Stomp... →
stfuhypocrisy:
reagan-was-a-horrible-president:
abaldwin360:
This is Richard Floyd, Tennessee State Representative and sponsor of the Bathroom Harassment Act, a bill that would fine transgender people $50 for using restrooms and dressing rooms.
True to his name, the man is a dick. Here’s a direct quote from this shining example of morality:
I believe if I was standing at a dressing room...
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For four years, I couldn’t waste a day without a mouthful of memories slipping down my neck, a hangman’s bow on my gifted throat. I wave like a white flag in the wind, like denial’s red fingernails on my dead, white skin. I shouldn’t have to look for you in the obituaries.
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I miss you the way the earth misses its orbit when everything ends. It begins again. It is never the same. I miss you the way children long for Chrtistmas. All the stockings are empty, and the roof is quiet as snow. The tracks are dusted over because they never were. I miss you the way a body misses a body when it is accustomed to warmth and awakes uncovered and alone. Or maybe that is the meaning...
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Just take the extra step to the left, into traffic. Pour the kitchen bleach in a decanter. Drink until you’re rich. Edge the radio into the bathtub during your favorite song. Hold your breath underwater just a little longer. Those pills work better if you finish the whole bottle. Trip during the lovely spring hike up the side of a steep mountain. The world hurts, and safety is so passe. ...
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“Raise Your Weapon” - Deadmau5 How...
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We’re all out of Diet Coke but the water tastes like rust. The couches are sinking in the middle. The coffee table is leaning on three legs and a few thick books sticking to the stained carpet. Sometimes the heat won’t start for days, and I burn the paintings I did in high school that I thought would mean something to me, someday. I’ve never been an artist, but this place...
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dreamnoises:
the weather man’s a liar & we’re standing outside shivering in tee shirts because our bodies won’t regulate & one of the wolves tripped the alarm. focus in on how your goose bumps turn your skin to braille & i wonder what it reads. imagine if right then, all your secrets appeared for everyone to see but no one dared to get close enough. touch. imagine right then you were...
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Walk in during the night, I am not sleeping— these eight hours, I wait, set the altar, sit very still, ignore the laundry and neglect the dusting. I wake up when the candlelight swells around you. I open my eyes to bruised lips, fingerprints on the smeared windows, grabbing the sheets, fucking the shadows.
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lindsay-blowhan:
the day i pull up to the plastic surgeons office in my escalade wearing a fur coat with my birkin bag full of cocaine is when my life will begin
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Meanwhile, they’re playing Fever Ray on Persons of Interest, so my pain is temporarily numbed.
All of my friends looking for relationships talk about needing someone who makes them laugh or who is kind. I just want a boy who smokes a lot of weed and has a similarly fucked up head. Why is this hard.
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“The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow’d.”
– “To a Skylark,” Percy Bysshe Shelley
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musical-swag:
Emilie Autumn | Shalott
now some...
Bacardi for Dinner: Hand Transplants →
bacardifordinner:
(TW: allusion to sexual violence)
There’s something about your eyes and the way they’re rolled back in your head, unseeing as if squeezed shut. My hands are gathering mud and my hands are getting dirty and I don’t want to touch you with these ten year old fingers, nails ragged. I am dangerous, a one-armed machine between your legs and I am afraid that I know my own...
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I’m filled to the brim with brilliance. Or maybe it’s just bullshit. It’s hard to tell in a smoke-filled bedroom. The dirty yellow lamps make you look younger, more vulnerable, a teenager in nineteen-seventy-four smoking joints and playing records we never liked until the companies stopped pressing them. Something about control compels me, whether in the soul or the saddle or...
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