(Source: pottaplanta)
dusk, queens, 2012
WHY ARE PORN BLOGS FINDING MY STUFF/FOLLOWING ME RIGHT NOW PLEASE STOP
these blathering, loud, drunk, high voices
out on a balcony a couple stories down
fuck they’re so beautiful
i want to lie down in their garishness
flood my ever dying soul with their gargantuan laughter
kiss every one of their parched putrid bukowski lips
what’s less romantic than that?
they are the epitome of life, of no artistic movement,
they mimic no architecture or brushstroke or meter or subject,
they originate screaming and bloody from various wombs
and they keep at it,
constantly out, and out, and out
into more worlds marked by sliding screen doors
and fashionable elixers,
shit! mmmmm shit! they croon, like beetles,
like mini velvet roaches,
the only survivors, really, just watch
they’re the ones okay with it all
ending.
The Shining cuckoo clock by artist Chris Dimino. At the top of every hour, Jack Torrance breaks through the door and says “Here’s Johnny!”, followed by the piercing scream of his wife Wendy!
(Source: horroroftruant)
(Source: raveneuse)
whenever im watching something scary,
it used to be that my stomach fell through my butt and my eyes were glued closed right from when the music started, when the van is seen driving down the rural road, or something
and even if the next shot was of the couple laughing and the initial soundtrack faded into some classic rock ballad,
if I didn’t turn the movie off immedietely i wouldn’t sleep with the lights off for the next two weeks,
but now, watching american horror story, for example,
I don’t have any of that general dread, no overwhelming nauseating horror,
rather i clench onto the acute awareness of the vulnerability of two areas of my body:
the back of my head- dead center- like someone’s finger is already driving in but I am under 3 layers of localized anesthetic that still has hours to wear off,
and the amazing nakedness of the backs of my ankles- oh the achilles- like they’re just begging to be drained.
just two points, for a whole 45 or so minutes, of vulnerability, and they’re all I can focus on, those two very specific points of wariness that scary things make stainless steel operation tables of.
and that is utter freedom to me, which is why i don’t tuck my feet in or hide my head in the corner of the couch,
to experience that complete lack of total, yet abstract fear that I feel all other parts of the day, fleshy pulsating ungraspable dread, unbearable.
why can’t I just always bathe in this clean hard fiction-fear?
René Magritte - La Reproduction Interdite (1937)
The Double (2013) (director: Richard Ayoade)
writing at a stoplight
abandoning all ambition
to 32 flavors and then some,
a new stoplight now
and yet another.
all the congo drums have passed onto grey
like prior engagements
hypnotized now
poets lend poetry as much as they eat it
just like the rain-pontilized windshield
and buying flowers for your girlfriend from the grocery store (the grocery store…..)
wear the wrong shoes and you’ll tap all along the tile floor
or i guess they could be the right shoes,
it’s perspective we’re eating, really
id show you my receipt from the grocery store just now
but there were at least five more interesting
less embarassing
things to look at, walking back to the car just now
i think you’d much rather see
it’s “sweetests day” apparently
but today is sweet only according to ani difranco
but the quality of the flowers, the cakes,
suggested only according to men,
so I don’t think I have to tell you to suspend your belief for a moment
harmonize with me, now,
this is me just trying to turn my baseball cap backwards,
and figure out what a parking spot is in a lot layered with leaves