The English Literature Course
but we joke and laugh
otherwise we would start
screaming.
Charles Bukowski, the shit shits (via bipolaropposites-attract)
(Source: 359-pine, via bipolaropposites-attract)
14624I 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
plates,
as if my life were a photograph, a
film still,
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
an echo
leftover, a dial tone silence, a
front-door-slamming-shut-everyone
-looking-at-each-other-for-reassurance-
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 — for a white plate
a sound,as it breaks itself into
hundreds of smaller
plates,
film still,
sound tuned down so low that not even
the dogs can pick up its frequencies.
the storm, after cities have been
wiped out and there is only
an echo
leftover, a dial tone silence, a
front-door-slamming-shut-everyone
-looking-at-each-other-for-reassurance-
kind of silence.
logs over each other so high that
the entire chimney is in flames,
over the phone, so quiet that you would never have
heard me say I love you
“Silence,” Shinji Moon
(Source: commovente, via thomporke)
You are flowers in my stomach. Cutting me open nightly, blooming through the cracks of the ribs. I only want to be the sun for you.
Elke River (via weepingnude)
(Source: larmoyante, via fawkes-)
You say I resemble a flower; I partly agree; My brain is governed by black petals of burnt daisies.
Anne Sexton, A Self-Portrait In Letters (via liquidlightandrunningtrees)
(via fake-snails)
I have sea foam in my veins,
I understand the language of waves.
Le Testament d’Orphée (via thomporke)
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.
Pablo Neruda, from “Poetry” (translated by Alastair Reid)
(Source: awritersruminations, via fake-snails)
Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.
Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell (via ceedling)
(via thomporke)
When I am lonely for boys it’s their bodies I miss. I study their hands lifting the cigarettes in the darkness of the movie theaters, the slope of a shoulder, the angle of a hip. Looking at them sideways, I examine them in different lights. My love for them is visual: that is the part of them I would like to possess. Don’t move, I think. Stay like that, let me have that.
Margaret Atwood (via skeletales)
(Source: vvolare, via skeletales)
I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.
Anaïs Nin, Fire (via godspeedtoyou)
(Source: larmoyante, via feministradical)
Love isn’t always magic, sometimes it’s just melting, or it’s black and blue and it hurts the most.
Andrea Gibson (via or-do-thorns-have-roses)
(via olympiaslover)
In my mind I am eloquent; I can climb intricate scaffolds of words to reach the highest cathedral ceilings and paint my thoughts. But when I open my mouth, everything collapses.
Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion (via loveyourchaos)
(Source: uponswallows, via closercomestheknife)
I crush her against me. I want to be part of her. Not just inside her but all around her. I want our rib cages to crack open and our hearts to migrate and merge. I want our cells to braid together like living thread.
Isaac Marion (via avdunstar)
(Source: serialstranger, via bipolaropposites-attract)
I like it when it rains hard. It sounds like white noise everywhere, which is like silence but not empty.
Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (via loveyourchaos)
(via fawkes-)
There is no god, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream - a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought - a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities.
The Mysterious Stranger, Mark Twain (via yoruni)
(Source: drunkonliterature, via bipolaropposites-attract)
There is always a sheet of paper. There is always a pen. There is always a way out.
H. L. Mencken (via holdoncallfailed)
(Source: ryandonato, via fawkes-)
