The first time I left home
my bed was so lonely I
tucked books under my sheets.
I slept beside Bukowski and Atwood,
John Steinbeck and his wrath.
I pulled the covers up to my neck
to the books’ binding
not too taut
I made sure they had leg room,
slipped off their jackets at the
footboard so they could breathe (though aren’t they made of
oxygen? they are bark. they
are branch and stump.
I breathe them in. My
If anyone was to suffocate
smitten shallow stricken down
against the mattress springs and a
better it be me
than the skillful-strung words
hampered up as
I grind down
I grasp and claw
kick and gnaw
some rest, respite,
some leg room for my amputated ends.
9:50 pm 1 note
— Friedrich Nietzsche
9:36 am 3 notes
If death is what you want, run from
If you want peace, run toward it. You think you’re
afraid of the dark, but every fear can be simplified by
a common denominator:
Put out a fire with water, not fire. Opposites
attract. And if you outrun
yourself, you’ll set a new PR while standing on a treadmill.
Like a hamster wheel.
Lose sight of what’s real.
You’ll have eyes in the back of your
head, none in the front.
But I’d rather light my bones up in flames than play hop-
scotch over burning embers.
3:32 pm 1 note
12:46 pm 3 notes
— Dorothea Grossman, “Untitled” (via larmoyante)
10:14 pm 1,029 notes
— Let’s Start With The Insult, Clementine von Radics (via clementinevonradics)
8:04 am 1,731 notes
Church bells ring on a college campus
and a high school is built across the street
from a graveyard.
On the television
a commericial for lawn mowers
interrupts a special
on intergalactic orbits.
The narrator calls our’s a
freak planet; the only planet without
a climate from hell.
— Charles Bukowski
10:51 am 24 notes
I have said all that I needed to say.
Now all I want is
silence — for a white plate
to fall on the linoleum without
a sound,as it breaks itself into
hundreds of smaller
as if my life were a photograph, a
a run-on sentence with the
sound tuned down so low that not even
the dogs can pick up its frequencies.
All I want is what comes after
the storm, after cities have been
wiped out and there is only
leftover, a dial tone silence, a
kind of silence.
The silence that comes
as my father sits by the fireplace, piling
logs over each other so high that
the entire chimney is in flames,
so quiet that you can’t hear my mother crying
over the phone, so quiet that you would never have
heard me say I love you
in the first place.”
— “Silence,” Shinji Moon (via commovente)
6:42 pm 345 notes