Small Grey Outline Pointer Untitled

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sterility:

be my little bug2014
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gay8:

Brendon BurtonVHS, 2014
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likeafieldmouse:

Katharina Fritsch - The Dinner Party (1988)
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thierry-martin:

Le major Fatal.
Moebius

It happened slowly,
but we finally
decided that happiness
is the part of the
movie where everything tragic happens
but everyone moves on anyway.
So meet me underneath the same sky
that bled with your heart
once you realized no one was coming
back for you after all,
and let’s look for the stars that stayed.
I’ll name them after the moment
I found you.

My robin song,
my springtime siren.

I’ll love you until I forget how to.
And then I’ll fall like my knees aren’t already bruised
from doing it,
and I’ll remember why you’re
worth the ache.

Y.Z, the honey hums to me (via rustyvoices)

My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think

praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what’s happening,

it’s what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of “Old Battersea Bridge.”
I like the idea of different

theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook

of a cousin universe I’ve never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,

your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb

but couldn’t hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother’s belly
she had to scream out.

Here when I say “I never want to be without you,”
somewhere else I am saying
“I never want to be without you again.” And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet

in all of the lives we are, it’s with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don’t touch you it’s a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.

"Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally, a Love Poem," Bob Hicok (via commovente)
34863 notes + 29/09/2014 - 9:42pm + reblog