thunderstruck9:
“Jack Butler Yeats (Irish, 1871-1957), Single File, 1949. Oil on board, 22.9 x 35.6 cm.
”

thunderstruck9:

Jack Butler Yeats (Irish, 1871-1957), Single File, 1949. Oil on board, 22.9 x 35.6 cm.

Their imaginations were flywheels on the ramshackle machinery of the awful truth.

Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut

kerfluffle:
“It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. —James Joyce
”

kerfluffle:

It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling.  —James Joyce

vintagesalt:
“ Back to the Future (dir. Robert Zemeckis, 1985)
”

vintagesalt:

Back to the Future (dir. Robert Zemeckis, 1985)

marvel-dc-art:
“ Gambit v5 #9 - "A Man Walks Into a Bar..." (2013) pencil by Clay Mann ink by Seth Mann, Clay Mann, & Allan Martinez color by Rachelle Rosenberg ”

marvel-dc-art:

Gambit v5 #9 - "A Man Walks Into a Bar..." (2013)
pencil by Clay Mann
ink by Seth Mann, Clay Mann, & Allan Martinez
color by Rachelle Rosenberg

Drab creatures I sometimes desert for handsome dancers and hoodlums;

Our Lady of the Flowers by Jene Genet

His eyes grew softer and softer, until there was no gaze left, until they were merely two holes through which the sky passed.

Our Lady of the Flowers by Jene Genet

The livest of worlds, human being with the tenderest flesh, are made of marble.

Our Lady of the Flowers by Jene Genet

As cemetery flowers sprout from corpses. He emerges from you through your eyes, your ears, your mouth.

Our Lady of the Flowers by Jene Genet

His head is a singing copse

Our Lady of the Flowers Jene Genet

Then, it is another sob’s turn to be born, then another’s. I swallow them all and spit them out in wisecracks.

Our Lady of the Flowers by Jene Genet

it Must be awfully nice having the dead for neighbors!

Our lady of the flowers by Jene Genet

But all I have ever found has been an occasional phrase scratched on the plaster with a pin, formulas of love or revolt, more often of resignation: “Jojo of the Bastille loves his girl for life.”

Our Lady of the Flowers by Jene Genet

I’m writing this on my parents’ couch because broke,
because bills need to get paid, because my friends
are taking vacations at other people’s houses.
The first time I walked home I couldn’t find my street.
I swear my heart’s so heavy it would dent plaster
if you threw it. I’m a thick cloud of desperate running
and where did I leave my other self? Feed the starving girl
but don’t let her become greedy. Don’t let her out of the house. 
I’m telling you man, scent memories are a scary thing
when you’re shopping for candles with your best friends
and suddenly you’re back in that house on that street
in that basement where he said it wouldn’t hurt
and it did and worse, you came back for more.
Feed the starving girl but don’t let her become greedy. 
She will get used to the salt, will part herself for it. 
Voice like sweet, voice like syrup, voice like how you say
“I met a boy!” When Alisha’s not around I try to read
my own palms. I open my mouth to sing and everyone says,
“Girl, shit, you got a voice for the radio.“ A sad boy
is not your fault, not my fault, not anyone’s. But I’ll sing 
to him. You kiss him or you don’t, mouth open,
mouth hungry. Feed the starving girl but don’t forget
about the boy on top of her, even hungrier, eyes big as fists.
She’s only a window until he turns her into a door.

Kristina Haynes, “Feed the Starving Girl” (via fleurishes)