"The world is a wonderfully weird place, consensual reality is significantly flawed, no institution can be trusted, certainty is a mirage, security a delusion, and the tyranny of the dull mind forever threatens — but our lives are not as limited as we think they are, all things are possible, laughter is holier than piety, freedom is sweeter than fame, and in the end it’s love and love alone that really matters."
Tom Robbins
(Source: paase)
(Source: todf)
(Source: gunpowder--gelatine, via witchofthesea)
Bangs & Bud
There’s something to say for the wide eyed, wet eyed girl with a bong and stickered laptop on her knees as she stares at Tumblr cyberjunk.
Finding amused allegiance with the 16 year old Barbie cunt from Australia with body issues and post-feminist idols, Genevieve maintains herself.
She takes the fifth hit, the sixth? And leaves a Hilton gif as backdrop. Coos and sad girl giggles at the state of things. At the prospect of tangling legs of acidholes down gutterlanes. At the future of a lovely face, guts and brains, of which are caught between dreams and the satisfaction of interesting things.
O, interesting things.
When asked her culminating word…experiences.
Same as www pages, sections of life, the days in sheetless beds and bottomless glasses and all the hanging mess of youth youth youth.
Little flickering gifs. Our little flickering life.
Goddamn’ Europeans!
Take me back to beautiful England
& the grey, damp filthiness of ages,
fog rolling down behind the mountains,
& on the graveyards, and dead sea-captains.
Let me walk through the stinking alleys
to the music of drunken beatings,
past the Thames River, glistening like gold
hastily sold for nothing.
Let me watch night fall on the river,
the moon rise up and turn to silver,
the sky move,
the ocean shimmer,
the hedge shake,
the last living rose quiver.
(Source: garagedump)
The Song In a Never Place
“I am settled here. Managing somehow to unlace shoes and pack away bags. Dusting from my head the heavy tinge of grey. Whistling, whistling.
Motor bellows, cackles when bus slows, moans from the weight over road. Whistling, whistling all these sounds away.
And with them, the soured breath of my day.
I am something I suppose.
At least papers and contracts assure. The ticket proves.
The reflection in cathedrals’ glass portrays.
Legs amongst stilt legs shows this for I move just as they move.
So then I am something,
I suppose.
But when I am relieved of being a something. When I am able to remove the clock hung above my crown. This is when for you and I we have neither answers nor any questions. Only the never place that I keep burrowed for our evenings…
It is of that lady redwood, the drunken sea spells,
the sibling mountains named brash and wide,
the green men in amorous rest with leaf boys,
and towers that are translucent—for they are just pollen wind in haste for spring.
There, see there. The slumped log, his grin. There!
A shade of blue-green, somehow described only by the curious thought of our souls. And this?
I bring my palm to your pink fox nose.
Smell that?
That is birth: an opening lupine bud held.
The ground is almost heaving now. Upward, moss yawning. The roots flirting for a place to coil. The creatures that watch us and know us better than an anatomists’ text. That, and that blackbird, well, he might just be a god.
The bulb burns low soon enough. Sun passing with shrug, for him the world turning upside down happens each day. And then?
Birch bark in the humming dark. Ferns tease there way up our legs in the dusk, reaping pleasure when our toes curl.
And noticing how our companions are looking up,
we oblige.
Here comes the deepest sigh.
The true expulsion of eternity manifested in shuddering stars.
We can’t help but think of the ways people have mastered how to defeat night.
Realizing now it was nothing to battle against.
You speaking to me of how it is simply our own fear of mortality that causes us to live in capsules of forged light. And nodding, I look to the supposed villain moon.
But the face of the moon is far from malevolent. Even far from romantic.
There is nothing. Appearing with eyelids closed, it just is.
Neither love nor sorrow, no tone of anything but the simplest evermore-cold glow. Not a stitch of chaos, does it even know the word? An ouroboros of reverie: promising always to us.
The moon, the moon and I share thoughts of nothing.
Dreams of still.
Belief that a woman could sit up there too.
Whistling, whistling.
Whistling, whistling.
Whistling, whistling
that I am something, I suppose.”
(Source: toothandnail, via mondohamburgers)
I don’t mind failing in this world,
I don’t mind failing in this world,
Don’t mind wearing the ragged britches
‘Cause those who succeed are the sons of bitches,
I don’t mind failing in this world.
planetarium
"I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman."
Anaïs Nin (via lucifelle)
(Source: terramantra, via seabluescylla)
