i don’t want the sunspots anymore.
i want the vicious: the tongue
and its relentless prodding
the hands, the groping.
i have dreamt of the ripping,
of the smoke that stains my taste buds.
i watched the smile and the arch
of your spine. i have wanted
nothing more than to pull
that carnivorous animal
your clenched teeth exposed you as
into the light. let my fingertips
bring out the rising god
in your blood cells. let me smear
the scent of it on my body
and call myself clean.
(via withmaps)
"She wished she had a little yellow house of her own, with a flower box full of real flowers and herbs - pansies and rosemary - and a sweet lover who could swing dance with her in the evenings and cook pasta and read poetry aloud."
Francesca Lia Block (via homeward-thesewolves)
(via quiethandsquietkiss)
"I was the shyest human ever invented, but I had a lion inside me that wouldn’t shut up."
Ingrid Bergman (via feedforthefire, ladyslane, jadorelavie)
(via turningtomyverses)
"
Your first time out of the country
of your own skin, I didn’t bring a map.
You always hated that I’d been lucky
enough to pick my way through streets
I couldn’t pronounce to find cathedrals,
graveyards. If you were a city, you said,
I’d only like to know your suburbs.
If you were a city, I said, I’d like to know
your poor neighborhoods, your inner parts.
Read your graffiti. Drink your tap water.
Feel your smog and dirt stick to my sweat.
Hear your orchestra of sirens and gunshots.
I’d know which of your streets to walk.
If you were a city, I’d expect to be robbed.
"Heather Sommer, Traveler (via grammatolatry)
(via enjambing)
"The important things are learned in faces, in gestures, not in our locked tongues. The true things are too big or too small or in any case always the wrong size to fit the template called language."
Jeanette Winterson
(Source: diurnicity, via quiethandsquietkiss)
THIS SLOW RISE | Monica Berlin
What does any of this matter on nights so hot we can’t sleep, somewhere else the rivers spilling banks, pouring in, and somewhere else still, drought spreading out the once rich land into a layer of silt. What does it matter these nights, our backyards of trains, our turning to dust, even as we’re more saturated than we’ve ever been? We’re tracing routes of the maps hung above our beds, not sleeping. We’re creasing the atlases held in our laps, folding over the corners of another city gone, another place we’ll never see now tumble-weeding, now washed away. Because I’ve become too lazy to lip-read in noisy rooms, the other night I heard, He said he’s going to make a city for all of us when we visit. He said he’s going to make a city for us so we’ll never want to leave. Instead of asking for a translation, instead of trying to clarify, I said, I would live in any city that man made, and I meant it, and when everyone stared, when everyone tried to adjust their sense of what they’d heard, I said, Think of the light there, that pulse. Someone corrected me, annoyed: He said dinner, not city. And I said, Oh, though I wasn’t hearing the revision. I was thinking about where cities go when they’re gone. I was thinking about the roads out of here. About how no one seems to leave this place with any grace. I was thinking about the bowl of my body, dusting over. About predictability. About expecting something even as we can’t. About any city my friend would make, any city whole enough, where we could live. I was thinking about our poor, damp hearts, and the ground torn up by wind that might carry us all away.
(Source: thevulgar)
(Source: withdecorum, via likesbears)
(via withmaps)
(Source: m-orphine, via sugar-quill)
