sometimes i flick through the rolodex of every single thing you’ve ever said to me, and i think, “i should tell you that i want to distill your voice and press my lips to the wet wax seal of your mouth and drink you down and feel you thread through my guts until you trickle into every crevasse of me and all the words i’ll utter from that day onward will be flavoured with the bitter-tongue rapture of you, you, you”—and then i hit BACKSPACE BACKSPACE BACKSPACE until there’s nothing left but words unsaid.

littleworries:

saltfish, saltwitch.

I told her that all dangerous women like salt.
Are salt.
Skin salt and spit salt.
red salt and wet salt.

(Reblogged from littleworries)
runwayzine:

From Chistian Bök’s Eunoia

runwayzine:

From Chistian Bök’s Eunoia

(Reblogged from n-j-kelley)

silentcheesecake:

A bit behind schedule but almost done!

(Reblogged from silentcheesecake)
(Reblogged from parliamentrook)

look to the east. look to the east RIGHT NOW.

dicktouching:

artjonak:

The great-great-great grandchildren of Dickens take a selfie with him on his 202nd birthday.

this is a very important thing that everyone needs to see.

(Reblogged from parliamentrook)

why did veils ever go out of style? a strip of lace, a smattering of pearls, and i’d have sworn the world was mine.

toddjdreyer:

A friend mailed me some Actias luna / Luna Moth (7758) eggs. Top photographed at 3X bottom photographed at 2X.

(Reblogged from toddjdreyer)

littleworries:

this is your bloodbeak bird

it checks your blood
for lies
for love

(Reblogged from littleworries)

Gillian Anderson, photographed by Denis Rouvre for Fishlove.

*****

No self-respecting sea witch would be caught dead without her familiar. 

(In truth, no self-respecting sea witch would be caught, period, let alone dead;

—but that comes later.)

(Source: dailyactress)

(Reblogged from poppypunch)

nympheline said: what to cover the artist woman in? ye gods, i can't even begin. could i shave your head down to the shifting skin, sketch there a monster (half-hideous, half-formed--and a sly old charmer) where, after your wild hair grew back in, you could never, ever see it? and ever-so-craftily, down your neck, where you *could* see, have its reaching tendrils end in briars and feathered antennae and various other beauties? symbols in spades for justin. watercolour daubs on your soles. crow bruises. blooms.

thatjessjohnson:

Sweet Jesus.

My favorite thing about this—besides all of the other things about this that are my favorite—is the “you could never, ever see it.” My very own high concept monster. Would, in time, I begin to remember it wrong? My monster, what were its eyes again? Have I misplaced its teeth the way I’ve misplaced my long gone Grandfather’s laugh? I could check, it’s right under my fingertips as I work a balm through my hair, but then… I mustn’t disturb my monster. There, existing, mainly in memory. Tickling at my scalp with beads of sweat in the summer.

(Reblogged from thatjessjohnson)
(Reblogged from songstersmiscellany)

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.