lordofhellfire

Solveig, 19.
Close your eyes, open your mind.

ashtoniws:

ottermatopoeia:

mattniskanenseyebrows:

OCTOBER IS NEXT WEEK

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OCTOBER IS THIS WEEK
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OCTOBER IS TOMORROW

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(via galacticmagpie)

(via fukozawa)

(via fukozawa)

uutpoetry:

Do you know Taylor Fayle, Todd Lidh and Ali Znaidi on Twitter?

We’ve all been there: 
chandelier hair crazy in the wind,
the disbursal of meerkats and acrostic crochets.

Tension is the lost face of happiness,
the furtherance weeping
of insemination and untruthfulness
in the archepiscopacy.
Cyberpunks on their violincellos 
bleeding us, who are alone 
in this perfect barometric night.

Do we have your correct mobile number? Yes—
and the gods have bioactive skyways
flaming out when your hands become part of my face
in Russian literature class.

art by brancusi7

uutpoetry:

Do you know Taylor Fayle, Todd Lidh and Ali Znaidi on Twitter?

We’ve all been there:
chandelier hair crazy in the wind,
the disbursal of meerkats and acrostic crochets.

Tension is the lost face of happiness,
the furtherance weeping
of insemination and untruthfulness
in the archepiscopacy.
Cyberpunks on their violincellos
bleeding us, who are alone
in this perfect barometric night.

Do we have your correct mobile number? Yes—
and the gods have bioactive skyways
flaming out when your hands become part of my face
in Russian literature class.

art by brancusi7

uutpoetry:

Not Just Any Old Poem

Not just any old poem can become an amazing walking stick.
You need to renounce your possessions, your wives,
and come to a place of inner silence. Listen to the breeze,
the whales far off under the earth, the helicopters.
It’s not about keeping your inbox empty: there is no inbox.
Or, everything is your inbox, and all the insects are singing
and you’re wearing a golden belt. The music begins.
You’re on a non-stop bus to New York city, and you’ve got 
a sandwich, apple and Snickers bar in your lunchbag.
You are seven hundred years old and so beautiful
as I look at you while you’re sleeping in my bed.

art by A.T. Velazco

uutpoetry:

Not Just Any Old Poem

Not just any old poem can become an amazing walking stick.
You need to renounce your possessions, your wives,
and come to a place of inner silence. Listen to the breeze,
the whales far off under the earth, the helicopters.
It’s not about keeping your inbox empty: there is no inbox.
Or, everything is your inbox, and all the insects are singing
and you’re wearing a golden belt. The music begins.
You’re on a non-stop bus to New York city, and you’ve got
a sandwich, apple and Snickers bar in your lunchbag.
You are seven hundred years old and so beautiful
as I look at you while you’re sleeping in my bed.

art by A.T. Velazco

uutpoetry:

What Is the One Thing Keeping You from Being a Poet?

The whole world is kept afloat 
by this year’s slightly stronger fibers. 
Civilization is a raised-bed of paranoia.

Tongs as long as your fingers intercept the skies—
visions of God and sailors on the Caspian Sea dissolve
in the blankness of commerce. 
We are startling free, shocked by time
while a hundred blacksmiths
recapitulate the 8 Ball
and become an origami club.

I’d like to become an archway.
I’d like to become a lady’s fan in Molière’s plays.

In the entire world there is only one defect: 
celebrations without kelp.
Inebriated, the child 
serves us poems cold. 

Facing the other side of the Infinity Wall,
you fly around the room every ninety seconds 
and fall down like stereo leaves.

art by Karen Constance paintings and collage

uutpoetry:

What Is the One Thing Keeping You from Being a Poet?

The whole world is kept afloat
by this year’s slightly stronger fibers.
Civilization is a raised-bed of paranoia.

Tongs as long as your fingers intercept the skies—
visions of God and sailors on the Caspian Sea dissolve
in the blankness of commerce.
We are startling free, shocked by time
while a hundred blacksmiths
recapitulate the 8 Ball
and become an origami club.

I’d like to become an archway.
I’d like to become a lady’s fan in Molière’s plays.

In the entire world there is only one defect:
celebrations without kelp.
Inebriated, the child
serves us poems cold.

Facing the other side of the Infinity Wall,
you fly around the room every ninety seconds
and fall down like stereo leaves.

art by Karen Constance paintings and collage

(via haectemporasunt)

karlnesser:

TRUST NO ONE
https://www.facebook.com/karlnesserarts

(via vergen)

I think about dying but I dont want to die. Not even close. In fact my problem is the complete opposite. I want to live, I want to escape. I feel trapped and bored and claustrophobic. There’s so much to see and so much to do but I somehow still find myself doing nothing at all. I’m still here in this metaphorical bubble of existence and I can’t quite figure out what the hell I’m doing or how to get out of it.

Matty Healy (via tapwaterfanclub)

I love him wow

(via punchdrunklove)

(via awkwardangie)