The Method in my Madness

I'd like to trade this picture for a thousand words.

It is so easy to make someone speak once they’re dead.

—Sam Cook - “God in Code”

Venus burns for her warrior daughters

You’re going to find yourself
As many gods as you can lay your hands on
And sell both sets of your granddaughters teeth
To priests with miracles under their fingernails
And even that will not be enough
to save you

from me.

He wanted all to lie in an ecstasy of peace; I wanted all to sparkle and dance in a glorious jubilee. I said his heaven would be only half alive; and he said mine would be drunk: I said I should fall asleep in his; and he said he could not breathe in mine.

Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

(via feellng)

(Source: feellng)

Cradling the bones of your chest
You ask
If I will love you.

And I, brittle, senesce.

Liver bloated on last night’s meal
I find sunlight a pick axe,
And the soft tissue behind my eyes
Traitorously veined with metallic blood.
I knock back pills
To cut a few cords
between brain and skull
And disconnect myself

Just a little

Too much.

To the demon in my dreams

There is no mortal that may dare
Carve you from the mountains
Or sky
There will never be enough hell on earth to build you
And trust me when I say

There’s an awful lot of hell down here.

Bloodless

There are parts of me
My blood struggles to reach
And I wonder
If I am merely
A hive of oxbow lakes
Möbius strip at elbow and palm,
Connect all my ends to my beginnings
And watch me get lost.

scorpiah:

Isnt it amazing how beautiful people are. Like just look at anyone and study them and their features and how their lips tort and eyes glisten and how their hair falls or sticks or lays. How their eyebrows flex and the way their arms fold, how expressive their hands are. The way their body moves and how their chest rises and falls so subtley with their pulse. People are beautiful even if we dont find them attractive. The fact that they’re a living being is unbelievably magnificent.

(Source: venuspalms, via wheresthegunemoji)

On Mayfly and Mortality

The mayfly whir
Born of silt and dark water.
A life in a day.
They have no mouths
I wonder
If they feel no hunger.
Does it hurt when they die?
Do they writhe in the dust
Clockwork agony
Or are they still?
Calm.
Because a day is enough time
To do a little living
And no one
Thought to tell them
About
Tomorrow.