Fuck.
(Source: infinitenap, via wewereemergencies)
"It’s a terrible thing, I think, in life to wait until you’re ready. I have this feeling now that actually no one is ever ready to do anything. There is almost no such thing as ready. There is only now. And you may as well do it now. Generally speaking, now is as good a time as any."
— Hugh Laurie (via gospelaccordingtogarland)
Because there is someone I wish I could kiss this into.
(Source: silkandmarble, via flaneur-)
On Saturday I had the honor of delivering a presentation on being a DIY artist at the Brecht Forum. I prepared a talk accompanied by PowerPoint of the ten most important lessons I’ve learned as a grassroots artist. Among many tips was the harsh phrasing of number seven: “get a job or stop…
Soooooo many people need to hear this.
"Both heterosexuals and homosexuals view bisexuality with misunderstanding, mistrust, hostility, and alienation. These scenarios do not leave bisexuals in the situation often referred to as ‘‘having the best of both worlds,’’ because ‘both worlds are closets’."
—
from Attitudes and Self-Images of Male and Female Bisexuals by Carol D. Bronn
(via unicornsapplesglitterpuke)
UM YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!
(Source: loveintheshadowsistheonlykind, via pooniverse)
Looks like my home.
(Source: apsithurism, via humblyinspired)
"
This is not morning. There is a nastiness
slowing your shoes, something you shouldn’t step in.
It’s shattered beads, stomped flowers, vomit-
such stupid beauty,
beauty you can stick a manicured finger
into and through, beauty that doesn’t rely
on any sentence the sun chants, it’s whiskey
swelter blown scarlet.
Call this something else. Last night it had a name,
a name wedged between an organ’s teeth, a name
pumping a virgin unawares, a curse word.
Wail it, regardless.
Weak light, bleakly triumphant, will unveil scabs,
snippets of filth music, cars on collapsed veins.
The whole of gray doubt slithers on solemn skin.
Call her New Orleans.
Each day she wavers, not knowing how long she
can stomach the introduction of needles,
the brash, boozed warbling of bums with neon crowns,
necklaces raining.
She tries on her voice, which sounds like cigarettes,
pubic sweat, brown spittle lining a sax bell
the broken heel on a drag queen’s scarlet slings.
Your kind of singing.
Weirdly in love, you rhumba her edges, drink
fuming concoctions, lick your lukewarm breakfast
directly from her crust. Go on, admit it.
You are addicted
to her brick hips, the thick swerve she elicits,
the way she kisses you, her lies wide open.
She prefers alleys, crevices, basement floors.
Hell, let her woo you.
This kind of romance dims the worth of soldiers,
bends and breaks the back, sips manna from muscle,
tells you Leave your life. Pack your little suitcase,
flee what is rigid
and duly prescribed. Let her touch that raw space
between cock and calm, the place that scripts such jazz.
Let her pen letters addressed to your asking.
You s-s-stutter.
New Orleans, p-please. Don’t. Blue is the color
stunning your tongue. At least the city pretends
to remember to be listening.
She grins with glint tooth,
wiping your mind blind of the wife, the children.
the numb ritual of job and garden plot.
Gently, she leads you out into the darkness
and makes you drink rain.
—
Patricia Smith, And Then She Owns You (via grammatolatry)
We approve this message.
(via unionstationmag)
(via unionstationmag)
Because somedays you just gotta channel your inner Hey Girl Ryan Gosling.
Because everyday Rob Sturma is better than Ryan Gosling.
Select artworks from Nigerian artist Njideka Akunyili
I really love these.
(Source: dynamicafrica, via blackcontemporaryart)
Beard and arms grown of dark forest, I am sure of this
each time I get lost in them. The hands
of a small town. Sure your palms act up,
but never in public places.
I make note of your loose belt
each time I see you, of how long
your body swallows mine
before hello bubbles up from sigh. We are a tight-knit
community of limbs between bar stools
and bed sheets. Each donating 6 acres of unplatted skin
for a church we can both worship at night
and abandon
come morning.
Black Simon & Garfunkel sing Macklemore and Ryan Lewis’ Thrift Shop
This is freakin awesome.
If I love Questlove anymore than I already do, he’s going to magically become impregnated with my baby.
"It has been a beautiful fight. Still is."
— Charles Bukowski (via likeafieldmouse)
Nadav Kander, Bodies (2006)
Men are built like architecture and bridges. So beautiful.
(Source: likeafieldmouse, via flaneur-)
"It’s okay to lock yourself in the medicine cabinet, to drink all the wine, to do what it takes to stay, without staying. It’s okay to hate God today, to change his name to yours, to want to ruin all that ruined you. It’s okay to feel like only a photograph of yourself, to need a stranger to pull your hair and pin you down. It’s okay to want your mother as you lie alone in bed. It’s okay to break, to fuck, to flame, to church, to crush, to knife, to rock, and rock, and rock, and rock, and rock, and rock. It’s okay to wave goodbye to yourself in the mirror. To write, ‘I don’t want anything.’ It’s okay to despise what you have inherited, to feel dead in a city of pulses."
— Rachel McKibbens, Letter From My Heart to My Brain (via fantasyparade)
(Source: pigmenting, via casandrafaithlikesthings)
