Films Are Sexy

Remember gel pens? I miss them.

— 1 day ago

Fuck tumblr.

— 3 days ago
me for the past [insert arbitrary number here] days

me for the past [insert arbitrary number here] days

— 3 days ago with 2 notes
paintdeath:

Holographic Light Sculptures by Roseline de Thélin

paintdeath:

Holographic Light Sculptures by Roseline de Thélin

(via paintdeath)

— 3 days ago with 1819 notes
Blue Period

Schools, movie theaters, Santa Monica Boulevard
shootings; the youth have lost their paintbrushes, snapping
like lockpicks in the doors of the unconscious; bred
to kill but not taking the endless pocketwatch from God’s
open palm to relish in the exquisite, to roll around in red and purple
possibilities — the natural sculptures of flesh and bone and ivory
teeth; void of feeling the snapped tendons like crab legs
beneath one’s fingertips, between one’s jaws; bruised sunsets
on the boulevard’s horizon; and with a sunless sky, there can be no
shadows, only fog and immediate suicide lacking logic;
beauty is dulled like the invisible knives of our ancestors
and their eternal cravings for human meat; no bliss to the wolves
who hunt other wolves, no jigsaw puzzles where all the pieces
are different shades of black; no hide-n-seek with the LAPD; no. Gone

is the overwhelming passion of the moon’s inspiration
swallowed by the pupils of boys and girls at midnight, above
and beyond this earth’s swine; IQs have dropped, love
has dissipated in the fear and selfishness of self-loathing terrorism
and fame; artists have become extinct; smut novels
turned best sellers; the earth sipped too hot coffee
this morning and has burnt off its tastebuds – it sued;
a Big Mac stabs a filet mignon in its sleep after sex
and proceeds to ask the corpse Where is Freud?;
the killer clowns quit the circus, the living zombies
and men with masks have all been decapitated;
death has been boiled down along with the hen’s eggs
to mere tragedy and abortion. I weep as I imagine

the countless bodies wasted in the last decade, blank
canvases lying in streets and theater seats with bullet holes
defiling their cream-colored skulls which could have
been put to such better use, like wasted gallons of blood —
that nectar of God which is washed down the drain
back into the sea from which we rose fleshy and pale —
it is perverse and dirty like mud, lost its purity; ladies
no longer bathe in it with sunlight streaming through
open windows illuminating rouge running down
their milky breasts. I don’t know what to do

with myself. I don’t know how to kill
anymore. If my life work goes unappreciated
and ceases to inspire, then what’s the point? Some
say I’m colorblind but they’re wrong — the world
has lost its color. I’m trying desperately to find it
in the hearts and wombs and roots of trees. But
all that I ever find is dirt trapped
beneath my fingernails.

— 3 days ago
#poem 
My room looks a lot cleaner today

My room looks a lot cleaner today

— 1 week ago
"I hope you fall in love and I hope it kicks your ass, the first time. I hope you fall in love again and I hope it feels like swimming in molasses. I hope you never get the sweet out from underneath your fingernails. I hope you open up like a sky."
Caitlyn Siehl, excerpt from “So You’re All Alone”  (via thatkindofwoman)

(Source: myusedtobeonly, via sadslutt)

— 1 week ago with 5104 notes
marcolinguardo:

Georges de Feure, La Source du Mal, 1894

marcolinguardo:

Georges de Feure, La Source du Mal, 1894

(via sadslutt)

— 1 week ago with 923 notes
"Why didn’t I learn to treat everything like it was the last time. My greatest regret was how much I believed in the future."
Jonathan Safran FoerExtremely Loud and Incredibly Close (via feellng)

(via sadslutt)

— 1 week ago with 1743 notes