7,151 plays

youmeandtheviolence:

I will keep you company until you go to sleep, because you’ve been everything good to me.

sullenmoons:

Vidya Gastaldon - Demon brother (advaita). Acrylic and oil painting on canvas, 210 x 210 cm (2011)

sullenmoons:

Vidya Gastaldon - Demon brother (advaita). Acrylic and oil painting on canvas, 210 x 210 cm (2011)

23silence:

Albert Aublet French (1851 - 1938) Selene

23silence:

Albert Aublet French (1851 - 1938) Selene

This is the kind of love poem that gets dirty —
I want to say I’d take you out to dinner, runs my toes over your ankle under the five-star tablecloth, but I’d actually just drive you to the highest cliff I could and shove my fingers in your mouth. I’d love you so hard you bruised from it, moaned into me that you wanted more. We’d find the kind of motel that people don’t use for anything else, fuck five times on a mattress that has seen thousands of lovers like us, bleeding over its sheets. You’d pretend not to know my name and, God, look at this — I am volatile for you, all fingernails and bent knees. Nothing about it would be tender, I’d be a gut wound and you wouldn’t even mind.
This isn’t the kind of love poem that promises anything permanent, this is the kind of love poem that says that I want to tear you apart just for the hell of it, want you naked, want you trembling. This is the kind of poem you don’t tell your parents about, go home the next morning with my name bruised onto your thigh, don’t speak of how we set the world on fire and clung together as it burned.
This is a dirty poem about the ways I would love you deep, like a disease. This is a dirty poem about how we leave ourselves in ruins. This is a dirty poem about the ashes of the war.

— This is a Dirty Poem | d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)

hauntedx:

sleeping beauty (2011)

I put some teal in my hair

I started liking the boy I was sleeping with but we don’t see each other any more

I’m leaving in 11 days

I thought leaving you would be easy,
just walking out the door
but I keep getting pinned against it
with my legs around your waist and it’s like
my lips want you like my lungs want air,
it’s just what they where born to do so
I am sitting at work thinking of you
cutting vegetables in my kitchen
your hair in my shower drain
your fingers on my spine in the morning
while we listen to Muddy Waters, I know
you will never be the one I call home
but the way you talk about poems
like marxists talk of revolution
it makes me want to keep trying.
I’m still looking for reasons to love you.
I’m still looking for proof you love me.

— Clementine von Radics (via 47giraffes)

nevver:

Your moment of Zen, Jaka Bulc

iheartmyart:

Moon (darksideof), 30 x 30 cm - graphite on paper, 2014
A tribute to one of my favorite painting “fumée d’ambre gris” by J.S. Sargent and the “Sécession viennoise”. Hope you like it was à real pleasure to do that! Have a nice sunny day everyone!http://ift.tt/1xla5Hp

iheartmyart:

Moon (darksideof), 30 x 30 cm - graphite on paper, 2014

A tribute to one of my favorite painting “fumée d’ambre gris” by J.S. Sargent and the “Sécession viennoise”. Hope you like it was à real pleasure to do that!

Have a nice sunny day everyone!
http://ift.tt/1xla5Hp

Nobody wanted your dance,
Nobody wanted your strange glitter, your floundering
drowning life and your effort to save yourself,
treading water, dancing the dark turmoil,
looking for something to give.

Ted Hughes, Birthday Letters (via splitterherzen)

And I, infinitesima­l being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

— Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets (via imperativesentience)