Swans

Caught in betwen both dimensions, like a meteor fruit caught grinding between two gears in a grandfather clock wounded by starlight

Peeling flesh down to it’s deathless seed

The gears stop

Nothing more can be done at this point

My best poem.

we sit on our knees on my bedroom floor (or maybe it was in a fallow. i just remember how all of the clovers were uprooted. or was it the seafoam bathroom? because i still feel my skin sliding across cold ceramic tiles fallen drywall and moldy rags soaked up the sweat) each of your fingertips are snared in veins in my neck and wrist. and if we move at all, our flesh will tear. i wish you would. but you sit me still through the agony each sensation at a time because that’s the only way i’ll earn passage in this rite. you spit sap and lake water into my dry mouth. mercury curls down your knuckles. what do i want anymore? you tell me you’ll drain me. you are my flowermouthed leech, the urushiol and corrosion the clouds at bottom of the lake the seeds thrown at the dark matter the messenger of the lullers.

in the corner of my eye, i read a mirror on the ground but the words it opens to are fleeting. what do i know anymore? i can’t discern light from shade. your edges fade. the corners of my eyes are always raw. just as your nature and the bones you promise me.

faith is just a means of justifying the irrational so you tell me not speak of this aloud, else our conscience will hear it and the reasoning and the guilt will derail it all and kill us.

Your best poem

@folk-myth ♡ my artist was soooooo sweet

I bit the fruit and it is rotten, the snake bit me and it is venomous.

I can't feel my fingertips

Toshio Saeki.

Seth

I need to just get away from you. My heart aches when I’m around you. On your phone. Just fine. Laying next to me but nowhere near me. I’m crazy. I’m sorry. My mind is racing. My son needs me. I’m trying to convince myself that I don’t need you. But looking at you. On your phone. Just fine. Unbothored. Is why I need to drink to sleep. This is a painful transition. I need to be strong. Self reliant. I’m purging my thoughts. Please don’t get angry. If this irritates you I won’t do it anymore.

I wanted to cry in your bosom and feel the loss of circulation in my neck from being held too tightly. Too tightly isn’t tight enough. To leave my tears in your shirt isn’t enough. I don’t know if the good times were real. I’m imagining me as a better person in a better relationship with more sunlight and gentle breezes. I’m trying to emulate this fulfilment and force it into 5 weeks from now when I move out. And can’t wake up to my son. I won’t wake up to my son. I won’t wake up to my son. I won’t wa-

Winter Light (Ingmar Bergman, 1963

The only question.

we sit on our knees on my bedroom floor (or maybe it was in a fallow. i just remember how all of the clovers were uprooted. or was it the seafoam bathroom? because i still feel my skin sliding across cold ceramic tiles fallen drywall and moldy rags soaked up the sweat) each of your fingertips are snared in veins in my neck and wrist. and if we move at all, our flesh will tear. i wish you would. but you sit me still through the agony each sensation at a time because that’s the only way i’ll earn passage in this rite. you spit sap and lake water into my dry mouth. mercury curls down your knuckles. what do i want anymore? you tell me you’ll drain me. you are my flowermouthed leech, the urushiol and corrosion the clouds at bottom of the lake the seeds thrown at the dark matter the messenger of the lullers.

in the corner of my eye, i read a mirror on the ground but the words it opens to are fleeting. what do i know anymore? i can’t discern light from shade. your edges fade. the corners of my eyes are always raw. just as your nature and the bones you promise me.

faith is just a means of justifying the irrational so you tell me not speak of this aloud, else our conscience will hear it and the reasoning and the guilt will derail it all and kill us.

Swans

Caught in betwen both dimensions, like a meteor fruit caught grinding between two gears in a grandfather clock wounded by starlight

Peeling flesh down to it’s deathless seed

The gears stop

Nothing more can be done at this point

Miyu Kojima Creates Miniature Replicas of Lonely Deaths

Twenty six-year old Miyu Kojima works for a company that cleans up after kodokushi (孤独死) or lonely deaths: a Japanese phenomenon of people dying alone and remaining undiscovered for a long period of time. The instances first began to be reported around 2000, and are thought to be a product of increased social isolation coupled with a greying population.

Part art therapy and part public service campaign, Kojima spends a large portion of her free time recreating detailed miniature replicas of the rooms she has cleaned. A word of caution: although recreated without the corpses, some of the replicas can be quite disturbing. [x]

Know Your Worth

Thats not a mood, that’s a mentality!

@folk-myth ♡ my artist was soooooo sweet

I bit into the fruit and it is rotten, the snake bit into me and it is venomous.

Gustav Klimt. Grand staircase of Vienna Kunsthistorisches Museum. 1890-1891.

votre règle est la plus dure, et votre peuple est malheureux

“For I am Okiku, and I am dead” -Okiku the dream thief