(Source: beyoncevoters, via becauseiamawoman)

(Source: tastefullyoffensive, via vanityinthethorns)

(Source: clitzy, via carlsbhadcalifornia)

Oscar The Grouch singing how he loves trash. This song is basically my manifesto.



Thundercats just bein’ cats.

Tim Parker Illustration

(via misandristpunk)


I don’t think most of us would really/ choose the elusive green,

The machineless rhythm/ what we don’t talk about is the sacrifice

Mechanism is what we understand/ blind iron mechanism

If given the chance/ to regurgitate the miracle and all its associated bureaucratic caveats

To go back/ tie your shoes, hike up your skirt and start a fire

To return/ to the place where we are not nor have been: a circle of willows

If we could/ transfer the germ, in the end we wouldn’t

Shut blue eyes against the summer and go

Out into the forests

Where the martyrs play cards in their treehouses when nobody’s looking

Before slipping the ropes around their necks and getting back to work

There’s a tendency, a need to view them as necessary/ swinging from the branches

In the house of horrors, hall of mirrors: none of it’s real/ a cheap scare

But out in the forest

Or what’s left of them there’s something more/ unspoken

And I mean something more

Than simple death, the obvious/ Pocahontas died in England of some unknown disease

But we know/ what’s out there is what we deserve/ what it was

Oh we love to talk about it/ without naming it

A gaping hole in the basement to dance around

Call it a well so hauling buckets up from it will seem less strange

We hold conferences in universities and discuss in measured tones: jumping


Well, it’s hard to describe

But there’s something out there

Not a darkness

But rather a lack of light

Out in the places that we instinctually




Instinctually, in the gut

We want them but we can’t bring ourselves to leap

I should stop saying “we” though, honestly

It’s an easy way to defer the blame

I know whose fault the dead trees are

I daydream the soft sound of a flute playing from the leaves

As stupidly as anyone

Like dew on an axe

As easily as anyone

We have this notion of sacrifice/ it would serve me right

Like a fairy tale we tell ourselves while flossing at night in the bathroom mirror

 Pocahontas would probably slit my throat as soon as I closed my eyes

(Source: burntlikethesun, via maratini)


He’s just mad because he can’t acquire all the apple juice that I’m acquiring. (x)

(via stay-outta-hells-kitchen)

(Source: theyuniversity, via iran-ed)

Delta Blues Dreamscape

The delta: where river meets ocean/mind over dark/matter/ over easy/ finally gives in/ thigh-deep towards the descent with shadows as reptiles, ideally sea-turtles (little things) moving beneath/ catalytic brown tea spooned from the hardpan, swimming in it: we, the improbable mosquitoes

When I go there, following downstream from Iron Mountain/ ground zero (more than one place with that name) the litany of it in a cut of wine across grassless suburban moons

Separated from blood or dream, bare and possible to conjure not the ocean but what comes before/ the mouth as it cleanses outwards slowing to blue

When I go from this battery acid drizzle (the expected side effect, obvious and unspoken) when I go/ stride into the future similarly poisoned hand in hand, but it’s the way there: the river floating down till the very end like Huck Finn fleeing Thracians past painted soundstages till the cheap lumber finally gives way

We go under (get lost) in a dust devil kiss, dowsing wands that found it, spinning like compasses in the north/ spin and swim and go into the aquifer under The Sonora with me while we hold our breath we can scratch our names on its walls before coming up for solar power

Either one, silt or salt: a mirage/ when I am in the desert, hallucinating thirst because I’m quite adapted to it/ no lack of comfort but in sand-blindness, dark glasses streaked in the same substance

One hand holding a picture of a silent film actress/ wallet-sized origami of Maria/ above the current like a rifle/ the other, gripping your living ghost not afraid of drowning/ electric in the breeze: a struggling wing free from its former animal, if I had thirst, if I had gills/ same difference from in here, from here/ we’re all inside

The mechanism that allows machines and me/ to come in for a landing when neither of us can swim, or yell for help/ going under/ the voiceless era isn’t over yet not really, all that honky-tonk music patches over deafness like a hole in the boat with chewing gum

Preparations unknown at their initiation: walking barefoot in a dim bathhouse (no one else here but us) across cool tile quietly but I don’t remember/ transition point/ down/ the drain/ I don’t/ remember/ drink/ the desert and dream/ the water