(via tigerlilylily)
About
I go forth- to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.
-James Joyce
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"We waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love."
— Tom Robbins (via kari-shma)
Sienna Miller black and white for GQ UK
"
Dear Father,
When you said babysitting little Brother would be the purest form of birth control,
I wanted to tell you babysitting little Brother is childhood refraction on weathered iris.
I don’t remember what it was like the first time.
love,
son.
— (via treesfromwhichtohangfrom)
ZOMFG…New Nine trailer, featuring Kate Hudson singing “Cinema Italiano”!!!
kari-shma: vagabonds. by ~kittysyellowjacket
Times I should be doing homework.
I drew a picture of you last night.
I left a little spot of white paper in the center of your pupils
and made your cheeks a little rosier than they have been these days.
I am asking for you. Man.
Your ruddy jaw line and your hair
overgrown like a scarecrow’s.
Your favorite movie hasn’t been made yet.
You tell me you are going to make it yourself
and the soundstage will be our bed sheets.
You learned how to be a man from no one
but you still have to act like one sometimes
In secret, you and I know there is nothing different about us.
I wear dresses because I would rather not go crazy in this place
and you have learned to keep your tears internal
It’s easier that way for us.
"I hid under your porch because I love you."
— Dug, Up
"What if a demon were to creep after you one night, in your loneliest loneliness, and say, ‘This life which you live must be lived by you once again and innumerable times more; and every pain and joy and thought and sigh must come again to you, all in the same sequence. The eternal hourglass will again and again be turned and you with it, dust of the dust!’ Would you throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse that demon? Or would you answer, ‘Never have I heard anything more divine’?"
— Friedrich Nietzsche
The Moon Versus Us Ever Sleeping Together Again
I sit here, an arch-villain of romance,
thinking about you. Gee, I’m sorry
I made you unhappy, but there was nothing
I could do about it because I have to be free.
Perhaps everything would have been different
if you had stayed at the table or asked me
to go out with you to look at the moon,
instead of getting up and leaving me alone with
her.
Richard Brautigan
fruit.
Because she was deaf,
her eyes would be the only thing that ever knew how to say mother,
So I keep her stored with memories and dirty coins in a million
different places.
In the bottom of my bag when I find a stray dollar,
in the silverware drawer cradled by the spoons.
She was 11, dragged through autumn leaves by men who used her inability to speak
as fuel for their god complexes.
She didn’t know how to say no.
She says sometimes, that she can still taste them in her fingertips.
Months later, those fingers clutched their first cigarette,
At 14, she injected heroin
like speaking.
At 15, she became mother, but she still doesn’t know how to say it,
can’t wrap her mouth around its vowels,
her eyes can’t seem to get around the sounds.
Sometimes I don’t blame her,
for trading her daughter for needles.
It’s never easy to ask yourself how you can be a good mother,
when you can’t even hear your daughter cry.
When I was 14, I found photos in a shoebox,
her legs straddling men who held the keys to her speaking.
Mornings after, she would gather up her needles to thank them.
We always know when she’s using,
her jeans cling tight to no ass and glass hips,
at 26, she looks dead already.
27. She eclipses my car accident after two days
by taking a bottle of Tegretol and a knife to her wrists.
They found her littered on the side of the highway like rotting fruit.
My mother calls me, tells me that I don’t have to drive home,
I don’t know what to be more afraid of,
the road, or a funeral.
I saw her yesterday for the first time in five months,
newborn colt legs, dark circles under her eyes,
open arms that beg me to forget that kitchen knife scar
and the small tracks that rest on the inside of her elbows
like babies breath.
She signed to me, come closer, and I did
because I always feel guilty that I learned to speak her language,
and she will never learn to speak mine.
But I am not made of metal like her needles,
and my arms can’t help but get heavy sometimes.
After carrying your sister’s words in your hands
like limp tulips your whole life,
you forget they hardly weigh anything,
until you remember.
My sister is a ghost story we tell ourselves
in the middle of the night,
we don’t want to believe it,
but we still listen.
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