Untitled
Untitled
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lockedin221b:

lovelynobody00:

I FOUND A HAND KNITTED WILLY WARMER
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uutpoetry:

Imagine You’re By Yourself Every Morning

It’s just you in the caffeteria and your pink eye.
And Labron James
on a flat-screen playing the tom-toms and
drawing comparisons to some really old myths.
There might be a scenario in which
what appears to be a midlife crisis
is really a pre-coffee hallucination phase of the morning,
because those guys in Schluttenbach
still have no idea how to fix it.

According to the contract I signed upon entering my life,
something strange happens that pushes the people I love
inside a hollowed-out mammoth tusk
where they discuss Robespierre like it’s
some kind of French salon.

And there are these two additional isolated events:
In the first, Wall St investment firms
have their bonds broken
by love’s monstrous twin sister. In the second,
your body is found ripped open by bleeding hearts.

Could love be something you do once per day
on a trampoline or in a shed?
I do not know the answer.
I close an unnecessary browser tab.
I quaff deeply of the santuary of the supreme marksmanship
of the nerd community. A kind of nuclear frontier
in me increasingly intervenes
until I am stuck in a legal paradox that
forces me to love everything uncontrollably
without any words.
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reserve:

R Kelly bunnies.
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uutpoetry:

You Are Emptying the World So We Can Be Alone

I created a blank slate.
The blank slate was white
and a gentle ocean breeze
blew over its face, and this gentleness
was the idea of escaping the world.

I feel like I have never truly seen
blankness in a landscape painting,
although once I saw a sharp horizon line
in Saddle Ridge. As I remember it,
a sea horse came over the ridge.

It is wearing a black shirt. You caress it
and ask it to take the train with you
to the ravioli factory.
The name of the factory is Brooks Lampe.
It manufactures ravioli called Bob Schofield.

We eat Bob Schofield together in a vague bed.
We look at each other, but just the surface.
A kind of anniversary in me honestly wounds,
like a long rope that has lost its meaning.
The rope that does not exist.

art by fugga 
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laughterkey:

always reblog
laughterkey:

always reblog
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uutpoetry:


Strangeness Crushes in the Only Possible Embrace
When I see her a rapid sort of air moves unknown troops out along the broad paved temple that will house her spirit after a kind of cold fear nibbles at the bell-shaped memories of her first kiss, weather beaten but not a lume. Stalled out during file transfer she nodded and on the glass, frescoes of an alphabet of echoes suspended historically, aching like five priests in white linen. Flung wrappers are also the mind’s tree. The sweet shock cast from her eyes tripled my celestial design. Severed underwear seeks to be implicated in the monad advaita of perseverance, and the instantaneous number of the wrung shirt is one. In the outer reaches of the Nous whalebones are known to precipitate like holes through all times, basic trust funds that lay along the shores of kinesis, the darkest gold talking the tale of fire.
seed text: Hapax Legomenon, by Ivan Arguellesart by Gustavo-Rocha
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behind-cold-eyes:

ME.
^ behind-cold-eyes is my personal. Follow if you wish. <3
behind-cold-eyes:

ME.
^ behind-cold-eyes is my personal. Follow if you wish. <3
behind-cold-eyes:

ME.
^ behind-cold-eyes is my personal. Follow if you wish. <3
behind-cold-eyes:

ME.
^ behind-cold-eyes is my personal. Follow if you wish. <3
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mildlyamused:


Fun fact: If you are male and under the age of fifty and wearing one of these outfits, I will willingly have sex with you. Not even sure you need to be male.

One day I will burn every article of my husband’s clothing and replace it with this. And then he will die from being oversexed. The end.
mildlyamused:


Fun fact: If you are male and under the age of fifty and wearing one of these outfits, I will willingly have sex with you. Not even sure you need to be male.

One day I will burn every article of my husband’s clothing and replace it with this. And then he will die from being oversexed. The end.
mildlyamused:


Fun fact: If you are male and under the age of fifty and wearing one of these outfits, I will willingly have sex with you. Not even sure you need to be male.

One day I will burn every article of my husband’s clothing and replace it with this. And then he will die from being oversexed. The end.
mildlyamused:


Fun fact: If you are male and under the age of fifty and wearing one of these outfits, I will willingly have sex with you. Not even sure you need to be male.

One day I will burn every article of my husband’s clothing and replace it with this. And then he will die from being oversexed. The end.
mildlyamused:


Fun fact: If you are male and under the age of fifty and wearing one of these outfits, I will willingly have sex with you. Not even sure you need to be male.

One day I will burn every article of my husband’s clothing and replace it with this. And then he will die from being oversexed. The end.
mildlyamused:


Fun fact: If you are male and under the age of fifty and wearing one of these outfits, I will willingly have sex with you. Not even sure you need to be male.

One day I will burn every article of my husband’s clothing and replace it with this. And then he will die from being oversexed. The end.
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uutpoetry:

But One Who Loves Will Perhaps Not Even Be Conscious of All This

There’s no outline
no orange module of love,
one story only:

normal pleasures
piercing depths
the mansion the algum-trees the mountains
all undulating like
flint against a washbasin, 
poison in a heart
of my five-year-old.

Meanwhile the vulgar wear sweaters of hormones.
I can feel the cold facelift against my chest,
the creatures respirating.

Leaping forth nicely
I pump it out, heavy as lead
put in a glass case.

By this dismaying scene:
a mammoth anguished and dry,
raised on needles of fate
with certificates but no Barcelona gladness
or human imprecision.

Chilly weather…and he
each year stirs, hovers,
not crocked exactly
but electric and frozen and open-sourced
inheriting the last light
in the form of a burning fish.

seed text: Anthology of Twentieth-Century British & Irish Poetryart by Nam June Paik