Last night, I took off Emily Dickinson's clothes.

"No soy marinero."

I woke up today
inside of an oyster shell

and unfortunately,
there was no Venus,

just an oyster
still alive and writing,

twisting first my hair
and then my bones

into one of those pearls
likely big enough for jewelry

but ejected and lost in vast water
by a spineless abomination

that if only primordial Earth had more oxygen
would likely be big enough to kill you.

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_Hazem Talaat, _Conceptual Parasitic structure.


_Hazem Talaat, _Conceptual Parasitic structure.

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hella hullabaloo and the big ol’ fuck you

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9/8/14: 40th Anniversary of the Nixon Pardon

(Source: fordlibrarymuseum, via todaysdocument)

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Effusive Poetry

The sensuality is the argument,

the stated thesis.

Why else would Byron have thought

to write lines in blue smoke

about how soft the skin is

on the inside of your being,

how sharp you inhaled

when he ran his hand

along the inside of your legs

and into the rawside nerve-endings of human flesh,

how warm the water,

how spotless the sky?

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¡Es pa’ la brujería!

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Grand Teton


Grand Teton

(via classicallytrainedtokickyourass)

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"there is nothing divine, only the chemistry of hemispheres."

“A man stuffed inside of a robot,

controlling the automaton’s arms

and nickel-plated legs;”


“two dissimilarly sized machines

will sit on the far side of the room

and perform a repetitive task;”


“the computational mechanism

is controlled by papers and sparks

that guide a normally mindless thing;”


“he was burned by the fire

that started in the wicker last night;”


“waking up as a clock,

that stupid grin plastered

from ear to plastic ear,

plastic face


hands set to move painfully

and against my infinite will,

because I am a clock after all,


wise enough to know better

confident in temporal stillness,

ready at a moment’s, century’s notice

to do it all again.”

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Mexico City, 2013

(Source:, via newyorker)

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Your brain fell out. You should pick it up.

It’s disintegrating into the new carpet and making the most awful stain.

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(Source: weissesrauschen, via peachling)

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Tungsten is a unique metal; German’s called it wolfram; the light bulbs call it incandescence; the Amish cry “A scam!”

Red with heat or grey with lack,

to intermediate shades;

the tungsten trees grow tall and thin,

(quicksilvery everglades)

in a dappled forest of blacks and whites,

God’s own petrified monochrome:

a thick-grown forest on yonder hill

that the filaments call home.

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Margaret Qualley in Glamour Magazine (source)

Margaret Qualley in Glamour Magazine (source)

(Source: theleftoversdaily, via mialunasol-deactivated20140905)

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