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.


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

(Reblogged from toddjdreyer)


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.


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.



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 439 times


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


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)