"Stop insisting on clearing your head — clear your fucking heart instead."
— Charles Bukowski, from Selected Letters Vol. 4 (via coldaslt)
(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via dazeeedandconfused)
(Source: fassyy, via tumblegags)
We can stick anything into the fog
and make it look like a ghost
but tonight
let us not become tragedies.
We are not funeral homes
with propane tanks in our windows,
lookin’ like cemeteries.
Cemeteries are just the Earth’s way of not letting go.
Let go.
Tonight
let’s turn our silly wrists so far…
YOU GUYS
It’s raining and a training is howling nearby. Seriously, perfect.
On the scales of desire, your absence weighs more
than someone else’s presence, so I say no thanks
to the woman who throws her girdle at my feet,
as I drop a postcard in the mailbox and watch it
throb like a blue heart in the dark. Your eyes
are so green – one of your parents must be
part…
western hunger
You woke up this morning to fog,
the city sky heavy with sleep in her eyes.
You must be floating somewhere above
the clock tower, your head cloudy from last night’s wine.
Look to your left, remember the pillow is untouched. Even
your bones feel more hollow today, echoing notions of
hunger back at you.
The whole apartment is stale.
You kept the windows shut for days after he left, breathing
what he left behind, hoping to taste the sweet
of morning over and over,
but it’s just stale air.
You woke up murmuring words
once tangible, hands that search
the sea of sheets for the safety of his chest.
When was the last time you slept?
You remember the last dream, holding
something that resembled an orange, sticky
and sweet. He says if you close your eyes, it’ll
taste like August, it’ll ease the hunger.
This morning it’s raining, and
he’s gone, you remember this.
Open all the windows, let the soft breath
of May clear your head. Hear the rumble
of thunder, let it vibrate your ribs,
ripple in your veins.
Somewhere to the west there is a window
open, waiting for your breath to float in,
waiting for the hunger to subside.
Darlings, sometimes love will come to you like a fire
to a forest. When it does, be braver than I was. Just leave.
Take only what you can carry. No tears, no second thoughts.
You have hands like tinder boxes, the smallest spark
will kill you.Get in the car. Take water to the maps. Avoid…
"I’ve started to notice the groove
my fingers wear in the things I
touch most; like the grip of my
favorite pen or the handles bars on my
bicycle. It strikes me now that there
must be a similar recession on the
spot above your right hip bone
where my left hand fit so well. I
wonder if sometimes you run your
fingers across it and miss me."
my fingers wear in the things I
touch most; like the grip of my
favorite pen or the handles bars on my
bicycle. It strikes me now that there
must be a similar recession on the
spot above your right hip bone
where my left hand fit so well. I
wonder if sometimes you run your
fingers across it and miss me."
— Erosion, Dan “Soupy” Campbell (via notazombie)
(Source: sellingoutfunerals, via elleklock)
I’m resolving
parts of my inherent character came from those summers,
green and seventeen.
I’m resolving
that the river that kissed our knees in still
kissing parts of my hips that you forgot,
leaving soot in the bottom of my lungs
to remember you by.
Remember me, the taste of earth in your mouth,
driftwood in your eyes. When you are washed up
on the bank
of a place you do not know at all,
and wonder how you got here.
I’m resolving
there will always be a few river pebbles
clanging around the soles of my shoes,
you are such a pain.
