(Source: salamualaykum)
Posted 1 week ago
Posted 1 week ago
“Audiobook” by Neil Hilborn
Create something. Paint your scars on the side of a building. Write a poem and shout it at strangers. The misery circus is parading into town, and you are holding the banner.
(Source: rachelrostad)
Posted 1 month ago
“Riches and Wonders” by The Mountain Goats
We live high. Our love gorges
on the alcohol we feed it,
and it grows all fat and friendly.
We have surplus if we need it.
We hold on as hard as we can.
Our knuckles are white.
We write letters to each other,
invent secrets to confess to.
I learn foreign and exotic
terms of endearment by which to address you.
We feed fresh fruit to one another.
We stay up all night.
I am healthy, I am whole,
I have poor impulse control,
and I want to go home,
but I am home.
We are strong, we are faithful.
We are guardians of a rare thing.
We pay close, careful attention
to the news the morning air brings.
We show great loyalty
to the hard times we’ve been through.
We are filled with riches and wonders.
Our love keeps the things it finds,
and we dance like drunken sailors,
lost at sea, out of our minds.
You find shelter somewhere in me.
I find great comfort in you.
I keep you safe from harm,
you hold me in your arms,
and I want to go home,
but I am home.
Posted 3 months ago
Posted 4 months ago
OUR CHAPBOOKS!!!!
The First Astronomers - by Dylan Garity
The Slumber Pity Party - by Hieu Minh Nguyen
High Lonesome - by Neil Hilborn
Posted 4 months ago
HAVE YOU GUYS EVER FELT THIS STUFF? IT’S LIKE … SOOOOOOOOOOO SOFT. A MILLION LITTLE TICKLES ALL OVER YOUR FACE PLACE AND BELLY BITS. IT’S LIKE THE GROUND HAS FUR. WE HAVE TO STOP WALKING ON THIS AND START RUBBING IT ALL THE TIME. START PETTING IT. MAKING IT HAPPY.
KATE, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?
I DON’T KNOW. I HAD THREE MARGARITAS AT LUNCH. I DON’T EVEN REALLY KNOW WHERE WE ARE RIGHT NOW. I LOVE YOU, THOUGH.
Posted 4 months ago
The Islands
It will be, impossibly enough, a museum
that makes you realize the exact circumstances
under which your family dissolved. You will
be telling her, she who has already heard
so much and impossibly enough continues
to hear more, about your childhood
summers on a sailboat in the Bahamas
and when she asks why you stopped
going it will all make a diseased kind
of sense: you stopped going when you were
eleven which was when your mother
first got sick which was when your father
first noticed and then went after the attentions
of another woman which was when
the affair the affair the affair
which was when began the Era
of Business Trips which was actually when
he moved in with his new family
which was when your family
was truly lying to you. You will realize
all this while staring at a coral reef
with all the fishes you have always
known, all of them
suspended in air.
Posted 5 months ago
![ladyocelot:
probably one of my favorite styles of art and wow
thedailywhat:
Street Art of the Day: It took 16 long days and over 500 cans of spray paint, but the Montreal-based artist-run collective A’Shop finally completed its massive Art Nouveau-inspired mural of “a modern-day Our Lady of Grace.”
“Our city has way too much gray,” said Fluke, one of the five artists who worked on this project. “So I hope this [mural] kickstarts a mural campaign.”
Watch the mural go from soup to nuts below:
[ashop / mefi.]](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lw9fpxJG5w1qzpwi0o1_1280.jpg)
probably one of my favorite styles of art and wow
Street Art of the Day: It took 16 long days and over 500 cans of spray paint, but the Montreal-based artist-run collective A’Shop finally completed its massive Art Nouveau-inspired mural of “a modern-day Our Lady of Grace.”
“Our city has way too much gray,” said Fluke, one of the five artists who worked on this project. “So I hope this [mural] kickstarts a mural campaign.”
Watch the mural go from soup to nuts below:
Posted 5 months ago
The Shout
We went out
into the school yard together, me and the boy
whose name and face
I don’t remember. We were testing the range
of the human voice:
he had to shout for all he was worth,
I had to raise an arm
from across the divide to signal back
that the sound had carried.
He called from over the park—I lifted an arm.
Out of bounds,
he yelled from the end of the road,
from the foot of the hill,
from beyond the look-out post of Fretwell’s farm—
I lifted an arm.
He left town, went on to be twenty years dead
with a gunshot hole
in the roof of his mouth, in Western Australia.
Boy with the name and face I don’t remember,
you can stop shouting now, I can still hear you.
Simon Armitage
