jukebox head


“Bitchcraft” - Drake Bell

Hope sleeps through the sunrise,
then right on through her alarm,
head buzzing with
half-formed plans.
She has the words and rhythms
of men who think they know her heart
playing over the jukebox
in her head and hips.
She doesn’t need to be extraordinary,
doesn’t need to be on the radio,
just to touch a shoulder
as she offers a refill
with the sun filtering in
through smudged glass.

jukebox-head asked: 9!! (jawline kiss)

Castiel has never known comfort like this.

There’s a special kind of magic in lying next to another warm, beloved body at night. There’s a joy in being wrapped up in them, arms and legs tangled together until one forgets where their body ends and the other’s begins.

That he gets to share this intimacy with Dean is wonderful indeed.

Cas tilts his head just a little, enough to press a soft kiss to the line of Dean’s jaw. Dean had been drifting off to sleep, but slides back into wakefulness enough to make a questioning ‘hmm?’

Cas just kisses him again, softer this time, and curls tighter around Dean. Dean’s arm squeezes around his shoulders and then relaxes. Dean shifts a little, settles, and makes a sleepy noise of contentment.

The Magpie and the Squirrel.

A/N This is inspired by this picture uploaded by E4.Just a fic on why Finn may have gotten his backpack. I have set this fic around the Easter break in Rae’s first year of college so around 5 months after s2 ended.

Rae was a magpie, a hoarder by nature. Since memory served Rae had stashes of knick knacks, trinkets, memorabilia and just plain rubbish. As a child, she lined her pockets  with oddly shaped stones, ribbed leaves and bottle caps.  Any curiosity that caught her eye was kept. When trailing after her Mum in supermarkets or at boring Aunty Sandra’s, Rae would slip her hand into her pocket feel about for one of her little treasures. Gently she would rub her thumb along it,imagining the wild adventures it had  before it landed in her path.  As Rae grew, her for love for trifles never faltered, now, they were kept in the bottom of her denim rug sack, in shoe boxes or pressed between the pages of journal. But the oddest of her gathered oddities? Well that was her devastatingly attractive boyfriend.


It was the Easter break and the gang had two weeks to desperately try to recreate their carefree summer. With Chop and Finn working split shifts in the garage and Archie’s stressing over A levels, it was hard to find the time. Wednesday afternoon found the gang with Barney and co back down in Rutland Waters, tinnies and mixtapes scattered about. Despite the piercing blue cloudless sky, it was mid April, the sun was low and the shaded tarmac beneath them was bitter.

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It’s over, but you don’t have to stop seeing cool art by these cool people! Here’s the official list of all the artists who worked on the BROOKLYN Zine– go check them out!!

Lindsay (chaoslindsay)
Clare (jukebox-head)
Tea-Binge Studio / Marcelle (scribbleymark) & Anika (peacocksdance)
Sam (superhumandisasters)
Jess (stonelions)
Kate (illustratedkate)
Nur (choowy)
Gene (noogenesis)
Mo (cuddlingthecthulhu)
Sushu (potofsoup)
Holli (nonasuch)
Wensleydale (wensleydale)
Isabel (ithusi)
Audrey (nordreys)
Betsy (ink-demon)
Amanda (humourlesspoppycock)
Leo (leoniebunchdesigns)
Kendra (kendrawcandraw)
Jeremia (jeremiagoeswoah)
Marcela (dueliste)
Carol (datura-riot)
Llewellyn (caffeinetooth)
B-Rex (theopteryx)
Jes (caffeinated-zombie)
Karaii (karaii)
Lacey (dial-p-for-placey)
Mikey (speedduck)
Cherri (fluffyduckgardens)
Quinn (quinndunham)
Katie (d-d-dean)
Beverly (trimcoast)
Christine (dionysusmonster)
Mica (micaceous-art)
Kat (ocicatsy)
Tam (mistersusans)
Aimee (brofisting)
Lindsay (ofdonut)
Sonia (sonialiao)
Sae (picapicae)

in the graveyard with the fiddle

i have plumbed the depths and extracted nothing
from the scattered fragments of my blighted soul

thoughts have limits
on these bleak pages … of
black and white signs … yet

i write
of Madness … oncoming with
the gravitas of unkempt demons
living in the bowels of the Vatican

i write
of dark things
filling pages with
salt and sulphuric acid

waiting for the wind to carry them off
to some unrevealed worn down cloud

and a jukebox
dances inside
with crazy hips
ticking like a clock …
when morning charges into me

and i brusquely walk out of my dream
changing my flesh for another day of

saturated anxiety
rambling beneath
the texture
on the surface of
daylight saving time

and everyday is a handshake
with some irascible demon and
everything i write is edited in the
underground of indigo botanicals …

but tomorrow the warlords
will come to claim my poetry
and i’ll be hiding on the moon
fighting ghosts with my illusions …

while my other body
will sit in a graveyard
learning to play the devil’s fiddle
where i’m at the mercy of no one …