fuck time
FF([M]): Requiem for a Daydream
(Source: brianbees, via noldarling)
Maurice Sendak, widely considered the most important children’s book artist of the 20th century, author of Splendid Nightmares, Where the Wild Things Are, In the Night Kitchen died at 83. RIP Maurice.
This crotchety old man was amazing.
Publishers are whores.
(via yes-i-fly)
Cuz I ain’t shit.
as the myths would have it, you were firstborn
to the earth god and the goddess of the sky. it is
worth noting that even at this dawntime of
history, your father floated off, as sleekly as is
possible for the solar system’s fifth-largest planet,
went off to play some easier role like
city…
The body is blue jay
with Phoenix heart/
The body has lit into itself
with big, arching flame/
The body branches forward
to suspend itself/
The body is in constant/ conversation
with gravity/
If it were not an
instrument of/ shadow,
if it did not spell
under the/ bulb,
if it did not burn
so…
what a birth…
Poor quality.
Visually at least.
But Jive wanted the lights low.“Day 7; Take 2 - Letter to an Ex-girlfriend”
PostScript - Uploading videos to tumblr sucks! After numerous error messages, I had to eventually succumb to YouTube…
This the type of shit you leave home for just to turn around on tumblr and be tight. GOOD shit CJ.
Whoever is reading this should just stop
and watch it.
Freewrite: 3/19/2012
My greatest vice is my voice; a natural failure to
Completion. I forgot what it meant to close
And speak concisely, with
a purpose. I don’t end yet I always fear the feel
of a vice grip by the guillotine for it to chop the way it needs to.
I’m a jail bird that tweets rather than sings; fleetingly
Dancing in a seduction of itself to a song that never ends.
I need to end it.
In prison, I can choose to retaliate, cooperate, or commit
Suicide. Power is in the decision to end
Your situation. Succinctness expresses its way in success and its
Succession in the dust of what was
Even in skin. Maybe it doesn’t need to end
Immediately with the barrel of all hollow-tip
Promises playing in the exploding concert of skull. A commitment
To the art and blood and
Overflowing and
Truths and in and an and end. Bleed out the poison
Of my custom-made punishment of mine in mind
And my accustoms. But as truth knows-
And flows-
The custom goes blood goes
Off course: it keeps going. I need this to end, so I’ve been
Cutting.
And still, the cold sinks in. I am still under arrest
Charged with a never ending
Sentence
In place of a wrist that needs to bleed out
And finish. Attached to the risks.
The cold digs in and I see Siamese in the pool of me
Where fear and all of my reflection are well
Acquainted. The appeal process takes years and
I’m not sure if there is
a conviction
anymore because
I haven’t seen the judge nor the priest in weeks. Yet, I’ve been
Cuffing.
This is a break up. I don’t know how to
But I must end this.
