thelostkingofneverland:
Show me a fraction of your world and I will turn you to my universe. I will trace constellations on your back and will kiss the loneliest star on your nape. I will watch meteor shower on your chest at night and be absorbed by the black holes located on your irises. I will bear the thousand degree of heat just to hug you and I am willing to lose my gravitational pull just to drift with you on the eternity. There will be nuclear fusion of me and your body for the birth of other galaxies and I’ll be glad to watch them form their own planets and comets and nebula. I will love you until you become a supernova and will eventually explode and turn into remnants. And after your rebirth, I will love you for another 10 billion years to come.
14
ghostyouths:
Dalton
Today I downed some vodka after school. Otto was there but he didn’t drink anything. He brought along his typewriter and we sat in my bedroom and ordered a pizza. At three in the afternoon. You know, some days I wish Otto would just go crazy. He’s too nice. I want him to snap my rib cage open and bury his face in my cavernous chest and come out and kiss me with my blood on his teeth. I want him to really like me.
???
I am Ben Willoughby. A car struck me dead but I am alive. There are red streaks across the pavement where I once lay; they look like the stripes of our flag. I am Ben Willoughby, I come back swishing angels around in my mouth. I died red and he will die pale, watch as they hang him and burn flowers at his feet. What do you mean I am not Ben Willoughby?
Elsa
Some things are unforgivable. When he dug into me the thing between my legs became a mouth. It spewed curses and now he is buried where my mouth cannot bite him. Girls: you are more terrifying than you know. He will remember you and he will burn, he will die and he will burn, and when you piss on his grave at night he will taste you and call you Maria.
Andrew
(Evil evil evil oh shit here he comes. Malice—bladed edges—trees bleeding sap when he passes by; he sucks them dry. He sucks and sucks and sucks everything dead: flora and fauna and faunlets and saints. What do we pray to, where do we go? Andrew is Rome, Andrew is Avignon, Andrew is cathedrals with child-bone organs. Andrew is our holy land, Andrew is our mecca. Andrew is what happens when God is an infant.)
Janice’s Note: Holy. Shit.
39
1730…the year we fell. by austin kieler
takesomechillpills:
Russia was a pretty wonderful country.
Was…a long time ago.
thats where we met you and me.
it was your birthday remember?
in that big arctic tundra of the russian country
it was so cold i lost my pinky finger.
luckily though you found it and we were able to put it back on.
however both of us were quite intoxicated
….and we somehow put it on backwards.
now im that weird guy from russia with the backwards pinky.and even god above laughs at my level of awkwardness.\
his chuckle like the booming thunder of a tropical storm.
that was a terrible simile i know,
but i just miss you and the love we shared that arctic summer of ‘30.
i remember the cave by the frozen ocean shore.
we ate whale and went on fucked up trips from smoking whale blubber.
we fell into levels of consciousness that wont be explored again until the 60’s.
the 1960’s that is.
we were the very first hipsters.
we were the very first hippies.
we broke down the barriers of society.
we fell into each others oblivion.
i miss that.
i miss 1730.
the year we fell.
5
time travelling
straight-handed:
i like to create playlists
of songs that i used to love
in my past so that i am reminded
of who i once was, and revel in
myself now, some fucked up version
of self-love and worship,
a aural shrine to bad taste, to
secret longing, sounds that make tears
fall down my face my feet move my
head nodding my eyes closing my body
shaking synapses firing and my hands
clutching at that old discarded
shell of she, molted and lying
around the corner in the empty
lot of where my childhood home
used to belong.
5/14/13
9
I miss you
mickeymichal:
I just want one thing
I want to wake up with you
within an arms length— no
I want you right inside
of my heart
alongside my pulse.
25
borderline mockery
lunaquisbay:
We were borderline mockery
We watched the salty tears fall down the faces
leaving sticky slug trails, dragging along dirt or make up or sorrow
We blinked at our toes, sweating in even snow,
waiting for someone who could show us how
But we had never learned.
No one would teach us, would rather expand our knowledge
on biomes and fractions
But this biome is too cold to live,
these people are too cold to stand.
And we shift over our dirty sneakers,
wishing we could clean them
to block out the laughter and torment
of an unsuspecting victim
We were borderline mockery.
3
You are too old for this
barelyvisualarts:
Instead of growing up to become an adult,
I watched my arms go limp
And messily color in the spaces between the letters on my essays.
It’s hard to watch yourself become a child
When you think you’ve made it so far.
Focus…
Focus—!
Fuck you.
When my boyfriend moved out
And asked me what to take,
I told him, “Everything but the dog,
God, just please don’t take him.”
And I sat on the floor playing with the terrier
As his feet left the carpet for the last time.
This is when I tried to recall all the things
That eased the sad:
A man in the street once came up to me
And we ended up listening to folk punk and polka
For three hours on the curb.
I met someone who finally understood that
Weird wasn’t really understood.
I ate cheese pizza on the parking garage roof
At four o’ clock in the morning,
Then cried in the shower,
Fully clothed.
Sometimes I like to paint pictures
That have ghosts in them.
(They are messy and do a bad job at haunting.)
I know I make people uncomfortable a lot but
It’s not my fault I can’t walk yet.
9
buttholeproblems:
We will be remembered
in photographs that will curl at the edges
or be hung above mantelpieces in living rooms.
I will be the girl
with the dark hair that hangs from her head
like it’s got somewhere else to be,
with eyes that are always looking
at the wrong things
and hands
that cannot seem to be still.
You will be the girl
with sunshine radiating through her pores,
with hope trembling
from her fingertips.
They will not know the bombs
exploding in our hearts.
They will not know the days I spent
between tear-stained pages
wishing you were here
holding me.
They will not see the scars we carry.
They will not know
us.
And I promise
to keep us a secret
until you’ve lost your wings
and can finally settle.
Those birds you want to be like -
they get lonely, you know,
always traveling,
never having a home.
And I want to turn this body into
home for you.
I want photographs we can look at
fifty years from now
with our great-grandchildren
and know exactly what we were thinking in that moment.
I want to share books
and music
and words in the dark
with you.
I want you more than I should,
and this scares the shit out of me.
(Source: buttholepoetry)
26
Mexico Rape
stefansir:
not even the compass knows
that I peel an Aztec boy,
his poinsettia humming
to the heartbeat of the plain.
6
maza-dohta:
A tree grows inside
of me; I can feel it,
the way it branches
in my veins;
words spill out
as autumn leaves,
in bits and pieces,
as if trampled under-foot;
they pile up like dying
foliage in the backyard of
an old widow’s home.
I try to clean them up,
arrange them into piles to
throw away later;
but the rustling of my tree’s
leaves distracts me
from my goal,
and the last sigh of spring
freezes the water in my veins.
28
Day 345
straylovers:
sky high
if i were to objectify you,
could i use balloons?
helium filled highs and
touching the sky, floating
out of the atmosphere
into the starlit centre and i
stand on the ground, swaying
with my feet walking in circles.
could i use bouquets of
red and blue, the way gravity
relentlessly pulled the
strings from my fingertips,
could i mention the ribbons
tied around slender wrists?
and up
up
up and
up
and you are gone.
9
Builder
a-case-for-wonder:
I am a builder.
I am renovated dollhouse.
I am jazz shoes and overalls.
I am five-layer pen gouge,
I am stumbling profound; orchestrated hot mess.
I am punk-folk-rock midnight sewing session.
I am high heels and homemade ravioli.
I am coffee shop dives and chop-saw poetry.
I built this.
I am wood pile love letters.
I am small hands and a big hammer,
I am home tailoring on thrift-shop bargain.
I am always searching for my secret garden.
I built this.
I am india vintage typeface barricade.
I am gaff tape and spray paint.
I am candle wax picture frame,
I built this.
I am hand-welded automaton.
I am scrubbed oyster shell and glass and bronze,
I am opal eyes and hinged blinking lids,
I am non-interchangeable parts.
I am real, working, gold-leaf mechanical heart.
I am birch bark joints and nightshade fasteners.
I am DeKooning Woman. I am runway fashion.
I am in every museum.
I am in nobody’s home.
I am priceless, useless artifact.
I am brontosaurus skeleton.
I am hand crafted chain mail wings.
I am not for sale.
I am please, somebody offer to buy me.
I am salvaged ballgown.
I am brick by brick brain-matter-pulp-paper house,
I am forest cottage bramble path.
I am I do not always know my own way back.
I built this.
Won’t you come in?
I am clay-filled teeth and dusty lips. Please.
I am charcoal promises.
I built this.
Please.
Won’t somebody come in?
44
