Street Art by Levalet Demineur 



The reason I have a feather tattooed on my wrist

is because my right arm

thinks it can fly.

My left foot has to talk it back down

every evening.

These hours are the ones spent waiting for darkness

to steal us from the day, as though

we’re waiting for anything more

than another chance to wake up again,

to fix what was done wrong, repeat

what was done right.

When I think of you, it is of the way your hand

feels clenched around my throat,

how your lips purse and separate

when you sigh. It is not the awkward

silence as we dress; there is nothing left to say

that hasn’t already been asked for and given.

If I wanted to wake in your arms, it would only be

to do this dance again come morning.

Scars do not need to be explained

when we undress, wandering eyes

will migrate down to them eventually.

You say I can have whatever I want, but what I want

is for you to not see my two children flash

before your eyes the second I put this shirt back on.

I want you to see me still,

the milk of my skin waiting for your open mouth to swallow it,

the hollow of my hips

longing to be pulled in.

- A. Mathews

Tags: poetry poem

You and I have two arms each or maybe you do not. I don’t know, but if you only had one or none and replaced them with usb hubs, I wouldn’t fault you in any way. As long as you still long to hold someone sometimes, then you are human. This is the window I look out at night, into a city that whispers quiet on Tuesdays and shouts impossibly loud on Friday and Saturday nights. You can see a few stars, just enough to remind you that all this movement and busy is insignificant really. These are the sidewalks I run on, pitted and spotted black with somebody else’s gum, someone’s I don’t want to eat that or say I love you anymore,  so I’ll shove this in my mouth instead to smell minty, clean, honest. This is the sound my feet make when they smack the pavement back. Count 1-1 thousand, 2-1 thousand, left, 1-1 thousand, 2-1thousand, right down to the shore where the bridge and all its quilted iron and buttoned rivets remind me of my spine built piece-by-chance-taking-piece, stronger than you’d think, a little warped from the rain. They say flowers and mud are the same birth of beautiful, the same way you and I are joy and pain from the same dumb seed planted firmly by a storm or a bird or a breeze you could have never planned for. In the same way this is a trip you could have never planned for and I am a lover you could have never planned for, but get off at that stop anyway to reach for me.  These are the ways I define love and other words that have both thorns and that rose petal smell because they hurt me yet still make me long for all your silvered scars and earth colored sunspots like this garden of sunrises I’ve lived through imprinted right here, on my left thigh.

"Fuck anyone that makes you feel like less of an artist for making the art you want to make."

— Matt Fraction (via wilwheaton)

(via growingback)


Marek Cecula


Street artist Seth Globepainter gets around. 

(Source: )


I buy coffee from a man I slept with anonymously once.

Neither of us says anything, but I remember his suspenders,

the crisp button down shirt. So dressed

for an evening I was so undressed for.

I read Ruefle and run by the river. Sometimes,

I find a gray hair amidst the red and spend

hours coming up with reasons for its arrival

other than age.

I own two pairs of glasses for different reasons,

ache to hear my name spoken

over the phone quietly,  ask to repeat it until he is tired

and says goodnight. I believe all lips are worth kissing once.

I believe you can love someone you’ve never met

yet feel lonely in a crowd. As a child I hated our chickens

chased them from the yard,

all these broken birds who couldn’t fly.

I still blame them for never growing

true wings.

When asked why I disappear so often, I explain that distance

is a worthwhile investment.

When loneliness nests,

I sweep the corners clean of pleading

and stitch more feathers to my useless




Feather, a sculpture by Joel Dugan. The 7.5” x 11” x 7”  piece was made using vellum, gesso, and watercolors.

(via grandeodalisque-deactivated2014)

"That time you confused a lesson for a soulmate"

— Dream Hampton (via ingayswetrust)

(Source: tirhase, via humblyinspired-deactivated20140)



Life sized sculptures by Kathy Venter

Kathy Venter builds her life size ceramic sculptures by hand using the extended pinch method - similar to large vessel building.
No molds are used as the hollow, completed wet clay sculptures are 13% larger than life size to shrink to the desired scale after firing.
An exhibition of 36 of her sculptures will be shown at the Gardiner Museum, Toronto from 30th May 2013 to 15th September 2013.

I like the sculptures. I also really like that the women in the last picture are all different from one another. Hallelujah!

(via thehappiestyeti)

"Sometimes the people who most need to reach out are the people least capable of it.” ― Jane Espenson Quote illustrated by A. Mathews Pencil, watercolor and thread on paper 9” x 12”
Another finished piece coming soon. Need to make more room on my digital camera….

"Sometimes the people who most need to reach out are the people least capable of it.” ― Jane Espenson

Quote illustrated by A. Mathews
Pencil, watercolor and thread on paper
9” x 12”


Another finished piece coming soon. Need to make more room on my digital camera….



What I wore to Cocktails with Claire D.C. @MichaelVanDerHam @Marni & @JimmyChooLTD . More details here!

She is just stunning. Wow.

(via curvy-women)


Hiroshi Sugimoto and Yohji YamamotoStylized Sculpture 067, 2007
via Gagosian Gallery


Hiroshi Sugimoto and Yohji Yamamoto
Stylized Sculpture 067, 2007

via Gagosian Gallery

"Some languages are so constructed-English among them-that we each only really speak one sentence in our lifetime. That sentence begins with your first words, toddling around the kitchen, and ends with your last words right before you step into the limousine, or in the nursing home, the night-duty attendant vaguely on hand. Or, if you are blessed, they are heard by someone who knows you and loves you and will be sorry to hear the sentence end."

— from Mary Ruefle’s Madness, Rack, and Honey

Tags: poetry

learning to think, anthony gormley, 1991

learning to think, anthony gormley, 1991

(Source: hellaween, via growingback)