sharp-exhale said: Script written in a past world's words circling your wrists and ankles, perhaps as your favorite poem?

words bound language, yes; and words tie ideas up in pretty, round packages to cup close and agonise over and share, for sure; and words bind us, i promise; and the idea of a whole new world of limits writ ‘round me, just under my skin and out of reach? delicious.

thatjessjohnson said: Would it be possible to tattoo you with strands of spider silk? Inlay the scales from a monarch's wing on the pads of your fingers? Suck the blood from the soil and grind it into an ink to writ words of daring on your side? Because, man, otherwise I'm not totally sure what would do you justice.

and anyone who dared pass me without caution would feel the wrath and work of me clinging to them, clouding their vision, crawling their skin—and every cheek i touched would echo, pollen blessed, with shades of umber and orange and nox—and i could pull strands of ichor from my sides and pass them on and feel the tug of every red thread through my loves’ dangers—and when i died, died, there would be nothing left but loam, and stories racing into the shoots of a hundred cypress knees.

yes.

thecalebfarley:

If you had to suggest a tattoo for me based on what you know of me from my blog, what would it be?
(Reblogged from marmotsomsierost)

At least I have the flowers of myself,
and my thoughts, no god
can take that;
I have the fervour of myself for a presence
and my own spirit for light;

and my spirit with its loss
knows this;
though small against the black,
small against the formless rocks,
hell must break before I am lost;

before I am lost,
hell must open like a red rose
for the dead to pass.

H.D., “Eurydice.”

(Source: literarymiscellany)

(Reblogged from eccecorinna)
(Reblogged from deromanus)
(Reblogged from axellae)
Played 410 times

professorfangirl:

When you ask to drink of me I think out on the case
Look down to my aloe cup and take myself a taste
Bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
If you must drink of me, take of me what you please
I am loathed to say it’s the devil’s taste
I’ve been with the devil in the devil’s resting place

(Reblogged from professorfangirl)

Variations on The Brown Girl

joannechocolat:

From the Child ballads. I love this one…

295A.1	 ‘I am as brown as brown can be,
	 My eyes as black as a sloe;
	 I am as brisk as a nightingale,
	 And as wilde as any doe.

295A.2 ‘My love has sent me a love-letter, Not far from yonder town, That he could not fancy me, Because I was so brown.
295A.3 ‘I sent him his letter back again, For his love I valu’d not, Whether that he could fancy me Or whether he could not.
295A.4 ‘He sent me his letter back again, That he lay dangerous sick, That I might then go speedily To give him up his faith.’
295A.5 Now you shall hear what love she had Then for this love-sick man; She was a whole long summer’s day In a mile a going on.
295A.6 When she came to her love’s bed-side, Where he lay dangerous sick, She could not for laughing stand Upright upon her feet.
295A.7 She had a white wand all in her hand, And smoothd it all on his breast; ‘In faith and troth come pardon me, I hope your soul’s at rest.
295A.8 ‘I’ll do as much for my true-love As other maidens may; I’ll dance and sing on my love’s grave A whole twelvemonth and a day.’

295B: The Brown Girl

295B.1	 ‘I am as brown as brown can be,
	 And my eyes as black as sloe;
	 I am as brisk as brisk can be,
	 And wild as forest doe.

295B.2 ‘My love he was so high and proud, His fortune too so high, He for another fair pretty maid Me left and passed me by.
295B.3 ‘Me did he send a love-letter, He sent it from the town, Saying no more he loved me, For that I was so brown.
295B.4 ‘I sent his letter back again, Saying his love I valued not, Whether that he would fancy me, Whether that he would not.
295B.5 ‘When that six months were overpassd, Were overpassd and gone, Then did my lover, once so bold, Lie on his bed and groan.
295B.6 ‘When that six months were overpassd, Were gone and overpassd, O then my lover, once so bold, With love was sick at last.
295B.7 ‘First sent he for the doctor-man: ‘You, doctor, me must cure; The pains that now do torture me I can not long endure.’
295B.8 ‘Next did he send from out the town, O next did send for me; He sent for me, the brown, brown girl Who once his wife should be.
295B.9 ‘O neer a bit the doctor-man His sufferings could relieve; O never an one but the brown, brown girl Who could his life reprieve.’
295B.10 Now you shall hear what love she had For this poor love-sick man, How all one day, a summer’s day, She walked and never ran.
295B.11 When that she came to his bedside, Where he lay sick and weak, O then for laughing she could not stand Upright upon her feet.
295B.12 ‘You flouted me, you scouted me, And many another one; Now the reward is come at last, For all that you have done.’
295B.13 The rings she took from off her hands, The rings by two and three: ‘O take, O take these golden rings, By them remember me.’
295B.14 She had a white wand in her hand, She strake him on the breast: ‘My faith and troth I give back to thee, So may thy soul have rest.’
295B.15 ‘Prithee,’ said he, ’Forget, forget, Prithee forget, forgive; O grant me yet a little space, That I may be well and live.’
295B.16 ‘O never will I forget, forgive, So long as I have breath; I’ll dance above your green, green grave Where you do lie beneath.’
(Reblogged from joannechocolat)

littleworries:

bird skull.

Keep seeing dead birds. I don’t know why they are dying or why they are dying where I can see them.  I wandered up to a twisty dead blackbird early this morning.  It can’t have been there for long because as I got close I could hear another blackbird making a frightful noise.  I can’t know if it was a lover or a rival, but it was enough to cause an important racket.  

I am confused by these birds, all wrong on the floor, and these butterflies that keep coming inside and bumping into things.

(Reblogged from littleworries)

thatjessjohnson:

Now that I’ve vented my spleen about treatment of mother figures, can I just be a huge dweeb about a hockey thing for a second and then I swear to god, I’ll shut up for a while?

Read More

(Reblogged from thatjessjohnson)

we music and meme

tagged by the ever-validating thatjessjohnson, i give you the first ten tracks to spin on my ipod, freshly shuffled:

  1. Franz and the Eagle,” by The Goat Rodeo Sessions
  2. Purple People,” by Tori Amos
  3. Rapsodia,” by Andrea Bocelli
  4. Sunburn,” by Muse
  5. Blue Mind,” by Alexi Murdoch
  6. Pale Flesh,” by Crystal Castles
  7. God Bless the Child,” by Billie Holiday
  8. Amnesia,” by Toad the Wet Sprocket
  9. Nausicaa (La Moldau),” by Luc Arbogast
  10. Mandolin Twist,” by Buzz Busby and the Bayou Boys

please consider yourself tagged! i’d love to know what rings in your ears.

khorazir:

Crossover between Patrick O’Brian’s brilliant Aubrey/Maturin series and Naomi Novik’s Temeraire series: “Sonata for violin, ‘cello, flute and dragonhorn”. I think I need to watch Master and Commander again …

(Reblogged from fuckyeahnaturalphilosophy)
diannesylvan:

Monkey’s all, “Hey Bood, how’s it hangin’?” and Bood is all “Look out, we got an enlightened badass over here!”

Once upon a time there lived a monkey; and in all times, there lived—and died, and over and over again—the Buddha; and this is their story.
Monkey was the king of monkeys. This is true. He gave this truth to all he met, monkey and man and all those in between. Some followed him, for he was king.
Some did not—for he was monkey.
But one day he met a man (so he thought. He was a king, not a fucking genius) who listened to his King Monkey callings, and looked laughingly on his King Monkey stance, and said, when it was all done and postured, “You are king of the monkeys. This is true—”
"This is true," said King Monkey, and scratched at his kingly monkey balls.
"—but this universe," said the Buddha, for it was he, "it bears a centre. And that centre," and he stretched out one benevolent fingertip and touched, gently, the monkey’s old-drum chest, "does not live here."
"I am this universe," said King Monkey. "I am this land and the lands away; the planets and all their pockled moons, the suns of all those moons, the heavens alight within those suns, and the whispering nothingness beyond. I am all things, and all things are mine."
"You are a mewling mortal," said the Buddha. "And you will never see the end of this world."
"I see the end of time," said King Monkey. "I see the great dome of the Sky, with its bitter milk wash of dying stars, and I drink of it. I see man born from my brain, and more than man." He stretched out a paw and touched, gently, the Buddha’s earthen palm. "I see your fortune."
"I see your bluff," said the Buddha. "If you can leap to the end of time—"
"I can."
"—to the end of this world—"
"I can."
"—or simply out," said the Buddha, and held open—
"…of your arms?" said the King Monkey. "I will." And he leaped.
There are journeys, and then there is the one Journey. It was King Monkey’s, and a million men marching with the wind at their backs and magic in their heels could not match it, no, not if they walked for a thousand years with the eyes of all of history upon them. King Monkey’s journey, in this leap and stretch and last gasp, took him beyond his body—beyond his dreams—beyond the whispering darkness—and beyond, more importantly, the Buddha’s little, human hands.
And still he kept on, and on, until his lungs burned like hatred and his feet ached like age, and he saw, small on the horizon, the end of time.
It looked a bit like China, come to think of it.
So King Monkey stilled. He leaned against the pillars holding up the universe, scratched his back against their craggy planes. He had himself a nap.
And after a hundred hundred years had passed and he felt good and rested, he stood, and stretched, and wrote “King Monkey was here,” on the littlest of the pillars, and pissed against it for good measure.
And then he went back.
The Buddha held out his arms. King Monkey gave one last leap upward and settled in the crook of the Buddha’s elbow, and he was not so proud that he could not enjoy the Buddha’s fingers digging deep behind his ears.
"You have returned," said the Buddha.
"From the end of time," said King Monkey.
"From its beginning," said the Buddha.
King Monkey shook his head. “Beyond the end of the world.”
The Buddha smiled. “But not,” he said, “from beyond me.” And he wiggled the fingers of his right hand.
King Monkey craned his neck and squinted at the Buddha’s open hand, with its stubby, ugly fingers. And he saw the words written, spidery, tiny—“King Monkey was here”—on the Buddha’s pinky, and he saw the stinking puddle of monkey piss dribbling into the Buddha’s palm.
Now some say that King Monkey died of despair right there. Some say he shrugged and forgot all about it. Some say he gave up his hold over the monkeys and his ego’s hold over himself, that he renounced his kingship and became a sage.
But I like to think that he had himself a nap. A good meal. A good think. And that when it was done, he still called himself King Monkey; and that he walked alongside the Buddha ‘til the end of his mortal days, and again and again, for all the days beyond. Until the end of time.

diannesylvan:

Monkey’s all, “Hey Bood, how’s it hangin’?” and Bood is all “Look out, we got an enlightened badass over here!”

Once upon a time there lived a monkey; and in all times, there lived—and died, and over and over again—the Buddha; and this is their story.

Monkey was the king of monkeys. This is true. He gave this truth to all he met, monkey and man and all those in between. Some followed him, for he was king.

Some did not—for he was monkey.

But one day he met a man (so he thought. He was a king, not a fucking genius) who listened to his King Monkey callings, and looked laughingly on his King Monkey stance, and said, when it was all done and postured, “You are king of the monkeys. This is true—”

"This is true," said King Monkey, and scratched at his kingly monkey balls.

"—but this universe," said the Buddha, for it was he, "it bears a centre. And that centre," and he stretched out one benevolent fingertip and touched, gently, the monkey’s old-drum chest, "does not live here."

"I am this universe," said King Monkey. "I am this land and the lands away; the planets and all their pockled moons, the suns of all those moons, the heavens alight within those suns, and the whispering nothingness beyond. I am all things, and all things are mine."

"You are a mewling mortal," said the Buddha. "And you will never see the end of this world."

"I see the end of time," said King Monkey. "I see the great dome of the Sky, with its bitter milk wash of dying stars, and I drink of it. I see man born from my brain, and more than man." He stretched out a paw and touched, gently, the Buddha’s earthen palm. "I see your fortune."

"I see your bluff," said the Buddha. "If you can leap to the end of time—"

"I can."

"—to the end of this world—"

"I can."

"—or simply out," said the Buddha, and held open—

"…of your arms?" said the King Monkey. "I will." And he leaped.

There are journeys, and then there is the one Journey. It was King Monkey’s, and a million men marching with the wind at their backs and magic in their heels could not match it, no, not if they walked for a thousand years with the eyes of all of history upon them. King Monkey’s journey, in this leap and stretch and last gasp, took him beyond his body—beyond his dreams—beyond the whispering darkness—and beyond, more importantly, the Buddha’s little, human hands.

And still he kept on, and on, until his lungs burned like hatred and his feet ached like age, and he saw, small on the horizon, the end of time.

It looked a bit like China, come to think of it.

So King Monkey stilled. He leaned against the pillars holding up the universe, scratched his back against their craggy planes. He had himself a nap.

And after a hundred hundred years had passed and he felt good and rested, he stood, and stretched, and wrote “King Monkey was here,” on the littlest of the pillars, and pissed against it for good measure.

And then he went back.

The Buddha held out his arms. King Monkey gave one last leap upward and settled in the crook of the Buddha’s elbow, and he was not so proud that he could not enjoy the Buddha’s fingers digging deep behind his ears.

"You have returned," said the Buddha.

"From the end of time," said King Monkey.

"From its beginning," said the Buddha.

King Monkey shook his head. “Beyond the end of the world.”

The Buddha smiled. “But not,” he said, “from beyond me.” And he wiggled the fingers of his right hand.

King Monkey craned his neck and squinted at the Buddha’s open hand, with its stubby, ugly fingers. And he saw the words written, spidery, tiny—“King Monkey was here”—on the Buddha’s pinky, and he saw the stinking puddle of monkey piss dribbling into the Buddha’s palm.

Now some say that King Monkey died of despair right there. Some say he shrugged and forgot all about it. Some say he gave up his hold over the monkeys and his ego’s hold over himself, that he renounced his kingship and became a sage.

But I like to think that he had himself a nap. A good meal. A good think. And that when it was done, he still called himself King Monkey; and that he walked alongside the Buddha ‘til the end of his mortal days, and again and again, for all the days beyond. Until the end of time.

(Source: veg-for-life)

(Reblogged from professorfangirl)
(Reblogged from 1000drawings)
etiquetteandethics:

Known Works by Stephen Maturin
Tar-Water Reconsidered
Suggestions for the Amelioration of Sick-Bays
Thoughts on the Prevention of the Diseases most usual among Seamen
New Operation for Suprapubic Cystotomy
Tractatus de Novae Febris Ingressu
an unnamed “paper on boobies”
Remarks on Pezophaps Solitarious
Modest Proposals for the Preservation of Health in the Navy
The Diseases of Seamen
Mariners: Consensus and cohesion in certain states of adversity
Some remarks on Peruvian cirripedes

etiquetteandethics:

Known Works by Stephen Maturin

Tar-Water Reconsidered

Suggestions for the Amelioration of Sick-Bays

Thoughts on the Prevention of the Diseases most usual among Seamen

New Operation for Suprapubic Cystotomy

Tractatus de Novae Febris Ingressu

an unnamed “paper on boobies”

Remarks on Pezophaps Solitarious

Modest Proposals for the Preservation of Health in the Navy

The Diseases of Seamen

Mariners: Consensus and cohesion in certain states of adversity

Some remarks on Peruvian cirripedes

(Reblogged from fuckyeahnaturalphilosophy)