he holds me like a celestial spray,
like ancient dust and matter and creation;
one arm around my back, low on my hip,
a horizon-star twinkling lightly in the background
and one hand pressing on my neck,
my forehead in his chest and his face in my hair
and he stays there for eternities,
swimming in the scent of me,
I can feel the look on his face,
serious as the sky and heavy as the night;
my eyes are shut tightly,
eyebrows pointed together in the conjuring;
comets and pulsars and northern lights
flash beneath my lids, my eyelashes dance
like ballerinas soaring and spinning
on nylon strings, and my heart is there, too;
sputtering and glistening and glowing
in the aura of the moments he makes,
I forget his face sometimes, when life is living
and the world is so small and one-sided
and when I am about ten minutes away from him,
a fire bursts in my chest
and all the butterflies that died before
splatter back to life and float like haze
up into my throat, where words become foggy
and a smile is all I can muster
and then he takes me close,
and my bones begin to squeal in delight,
in remembrance of this, the last place I died;
there in his shadow, where he commits me to memory
and I think I’m in his blood now,
he’s alive when I’m near,
I know it because I have stopped decaying
and I am building into a great and secret show,
a sun-scatter to paint the galaxy,
to be a spot on the universe’s nose,
right beneath its sight, just where it cannot see me
one paper-thin-shelled cell at a time;
washing away a moment ago before you know why
and the life that was borne on the fraying edges of a gasp, die;
this will end the spinning universe inside you
and roll out the carpet for another,
lung-dependent, carbon-wasted oxygen-cutter;
a shiny, new rotting-anomaly Siamese brother,
a pixel-forced image of a constant stutter.
exhale, expel, repel; the death inside,
that millisecond died between tissue fission; split and married
and within that passing moment, miscarried;
a blink of a blink of what you think; not even missed,
there is a dimensional flow
and it moves with the natural order of things;
rushing to scatter this miniscule universal wisp of a sky
upon the sky that sets skies burning alive.
existence, raw and shining with cut-diamond brilliance,
a great and ravenous hunger for the infinite succession
and mundane chain of unconditional atomic bruising;
a bedsore-ridden, sand-grain-hidden revolution
of your witless choosing.
pain is God.
in every making and spooling cosmos that vibrates
and migrates between emotional savagery;
the nucleus of love is hate,
it drives chemical reactions to disarm and dissuade,
to temporarily strip away
that mitochondrial sovereign reign
and within that block is another space
a small, yearning organism without a face;
praying for bold measure and will to defy,
to kill the hub of completion
and as that makeshift mirror shatters,
it scars and batters,
for each shard is a tiny, vast replica;
lost in translation and lacking gravity and stamina,
a dented, scathing rerun of an old anima.
words are worlds hanging on those barren failures;
rotating weakly in a pre-configured rush,
revolving around a whipping hush;
a void devouring, a mutiny cowering.
of love and need, but take heed;
it’s all been done,
the cosmos is stale;
the veil is gracing your tongue,
a hazy, out-of-focus, apocalypse-locust, cold-bared snare
and poetry embeds in a multi-dimensional purr;
a gaping wormhole blur;
a diluted, deluded matter of profession
that excites the basest of creatures;
these single-celled protozoan eardrums,
slithering and slathering at the deadest of phrases.
I love you.
an automatic, catatonic, sub-atomic electrical-impulse whisper;
a placid, flaccid, non-aggressive-passive scream;
a deformed dna mess;
the sheer ferocity of the velocity
of the sound barrier doesn’t even flinch
at this constant uttering, stuttering, never-ending ever-descending
rise of insanity;
every word is recycled and dry;
a drowning echo of every cry
that every other being has thought to be original
and spontaneously spit into this roiling pit of evolution.
Shut the fuck up."
Summer, check out her work below <3
after a while i became convinced that the words were mocking me
I WAS PROMISED A BATTLE
*throws down gauntlet*
Edit: Went back. This is the best thing to happen to my dashboard ever.
Reblogging again because my followers need to see this. To be clear, rebog, go to your actual blog, then click the picture.
THIS IS AMAZING
This is how they should teach typing at school.
1. Stop faking your fucking orgasms. Society already tells young men that they run the fucking universe - if they can’t turn your cunt into a shooting star then for god’s sake, let them know about it.
2. Once you’ve stopped faking your fucking orgasms, use this newfound honesty throughout the rest of your life - stop ordering coffee you don’t actually like; stop sitting at a desk and allowing people to treat you like shit in the hopes that a meek attitude will earn you a promotion (it won’t); stop telling people they can finish your food when you’re not actually done yet. These may seem petty, but they add up, just like every orgasm you didn’t actually get to have.
3. If you wanna dance all night, dance all fucking night. Dance all night even if you have work in the morning. The worst that will happen is you’ll drink RedBull all day and look like a zombie - pass it off as a head cold to the real zombies you work with and flick through the embarrassing photos you’re being tagged in as you pretend to take a shit for some peace and quiet. I promise, you’ll remember dancing all night in ten years, not the suspicious way your boss looked at you that morning.
4. If your ass looks big in that, that’s a good thing.
5. You will never be as young as you are this second. Embrace it.
6. Embrace the fact that you’re going to get older. Ask your boyfriend if he will still love you when you’re seventy and your tits are down to your knees. Look forward to this time - seventy year old women are allowed to do pretty much whatever they want, and no-one can stop them. You can carry candy in your bag and not share it with a single soul. You can stay home all day and cross-stitch expletives onto handkerchiefs for your grandchildren and slip them under the table out of sight of the people you raised. You can drink whisky at 10am. Every phase of your life is going to be amazing for different reasons. Embrace that.
7. A lot of people will pretend to love Bukowski. Don’t pretend to love Bukowski if you don’t love Bukowski. It’s overplayed and no-one will mind if you actually like Virginia Andrews instead - the people who do mind are boring."
— Some more little life lessons, by Daisy Lola. (via spearmintblonde)
the pulsing magnetism that sparks
from his fingers to my fingers,
an electric blur, from tip to toe;
skin vibrating and humming, knees weak;
small sobs swimming in my throat,
my hands are bitten, clenching through the comets,
shooting across my horizon.eyes
and he just watches me, stoic and alert,
memorizing and learning, decoding my body’s mysteries;
I’m an alive-dead woman,
living like the stars and dust, like atoms burning bright,
dying in his arms, reborn in his mouth;
carried to the sea on a trigger tongue,
on engine hips and steam-sliding thrusts;
where his palms are branding my thighs
and he’s kissing me like the air in his lungs,
like he needs me to live,
and every part of his body is on fire with me,
we are marring and mottling the world with our heat,
scarring the sky, branding the moon,
a scorching midday tangle, dew-dripping;
and when the night comes,
we crawl into bed so weak and satisfied
and he fits me into his frame sweetly,
my face in his neck, his heartbeat on my lips;
bodies pressed together so tight,
and he’s always hard and ready
even when he’s asleep,
it’s like I’m like magic,
and he’s the spell,
all I have to do is say the words;
we laugh at our stomachs growling
because we always forget to eat food;
I tell him that I am forever hungry
and he says he can never eat enough,
then we sleep like daydream images
and fuck like midnight calling