SleepwalkingSleepwalkingSleepwalking
Did you see the sailor set out to sea this morning? Passionate in his glorious voyage and afraid?
The fickle romance of thunder draws so many men to sea. In passing, he pressed his finger to the sculpture, whispered farewell, and stepped on board.
Feeling quite white today, I walk the streets with a guava in my hand. It smells terrible. The firefly flies in circles over my head. The streets are empty. Only the water from the morning rain is flowing into the sewage.
Listen to the dull fan’s hum. My father will marry me
to a man I do
The HighwayThe HighwayThe Highway
The highway comfortably splits the world in two. The sun hangs low in the sky. The grass on the hills blows slightly in the wind.
In relation to the positions of the passengers,
everything changes but the positions of the other passengers.
My father’s whistles carry the car forward.
Or maybe it is the clicking shutter of my mother’s camera, or my twin sister’s gum or my brother’s pencil.
During the train ride yesterday,
I did not look outside and when I arrived, the wind was blowing.
We were wearing p
FacesFacesFaces
When you sleep, you like knowing that your wife lies next to you. Once, she asked, “who am I, darling?” You said, “you are my wife, that’s all.”
At night the hand of your wife becomes the hand of your first lover,
who used to clutch your hand and whisper “I love you”, so hotly. When you were young, you whispered to your sister a burning secret— “I stole five dollars from mom.”
Dollars have the face of a dead president on them. Your lover’s love was stronger than her thoughts. Even the waves of the sea
Hunters in the SnowHunters in the snowHunters in the Snow
The snow in the painting is not snow— the day is bright and the clouds nowhere outside the museum window. The white walls hold the painting up for you to see the hunger in the painting is not hunger, and you realize you forgot again to pick up your son from kindergarten. The teachers will feed him cookies and tell him horrible things about his mother—that she prefers art to her son, has her mind in places where it should not be,
TrailblazingTrailblazingTrailblazing
His great black boots, paramedic issue,
San Francisco or Canmore, stomp the threadless
carpet of pine needles. Rain has left
perfume on the toupees of moss. The axe dangles, throttled by bear paws – soon
branches yelp in their schisms from the trees,
heave themselves into a dogpile in the truck’s rust-bucket.
He thumps the base of a cedar as if to say – this is my son’s forest! laughable rain sputters from its boughs
He smiles, slings his vivisected kill, exertion twists
his brow, the shape of stump ri
Snow IslandMarketEven the grounded dust reddens. The festival bleeds on the vacationersMarket
throbbing at the corner markets
Haggle Barter
Rajasthani puppet dolls
decked like the soon-to-be bride in Rani and Saffron prints. No more than a dime.
They greed the toxic,
pungent lifestyle, surviving the splendor, but only momentarily.
Alleys thrive with turmeric and curry leaves a cultural assimilation
Staining the corners of henna spotted brick walls
Mirchi powder diffuses through the air
and mingles with sweat
The Indian
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~ 98% of DeviantArt's anime fanbase are yaoi fans. If you are part of the 2% who aren't, copy this into your signature
Where did those statistics come from D: ?
love how those letters can be flipped around
XD
heyo
anyways
<3
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inside this box is magic,
wide spaces separating one being from another
he keeps writting his words on paper
where they turn into instruments of a surgeon
sewing away, mending away
.. . tissue by tissue
his heart
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Soyez réalistes, demandez l'impossible.
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"His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free. " Unknown
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"His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free. " Unknown
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