Why am I reminded of Linan…

(Source: iamliketinkerbell, via 999papercranes)

ninbra:

The NaCl House.

aldasproject:

February 23, 2012 (Weightless 2)
15”x11”
ink and watercolor on paper

Buy Weightless 2 on Etsy

desert-dreamer:

Arthur William Edgar O’Shaughnessy (14 March 1844 – 30 January 1881) 

(via fuckyeahpoetry)

universalhumansituation:

New York New York

A second New York is being built
a little west of the old one.
Why another, no one asks,
just build it, and they do.

The city is still closed off
to all but the work crews
who claim it’s a perfect mirror image.

Truthfully, each man works on the replica
of the apartment building he lives in,
adding new touches,
like cologne dispensers, rock gardens,
and doorknobs marked for the grand hotels.

Improvements here and there, done secretly
and off the books. None of the supervisors
notice or mind. Everyone’s in a wonderful mood,
joking, taking walks through the still streets
that the single reporter allowed inside has described as

“unleavened with reminders of the old city’s complicated past,
but giving off some blue perfume from the early years on earth.”

The men grow to love the peaceful town.
It becomes more difficult to return home at night,
which sets the wives to worrying.

The yellow soups are cold,
the sunsets quick.
The men take long breaks on the fire escapes,
waving across the quiet spaces to other workers
meditating on their perches.

Until one day…

The sky fills with charred clouds.
Toolbelts rattle in the rising wind.

Something is wrong.

A foreman stands in the avenue
pointing binoculars at a massive gray mark
moving towards us in the eastern sky.

Several voices, What, What is it?

Pigeons, he yells through the wind.

(via fuckyeahpoetry)

fuckyeahpoetry:

There is enough treachery, hatred,
                               violence,
Absurdity in the average human
                              being
To supply any given army on any given
  day.
AND The Best At Murder Are Those
   Who Preach Against It.
AND The Best At Hate Are Those
   Who preach LOVE
AND THE BEST AT WAR 
—FINALLY—ARE THOSE WHO
PREACH
                                 PEACE 

Those Who Preach GOD,
   NEED god
Those Who Preach PEACE
   Do Not Have Peace.
THOSE WHO PREACH LOVE
   DO NOT HAVE LOVE
BEWARE THE PREACHERS
Beware The Knowers.

             Beware
             Those Who
             Are ALWAYS
             READING
             BOOKS

Beware Those Who Either Detest
   Poverty Or Are Proud Of It

BEWARE Those Quick To Praise
For They Need PRAISE In Return

 
 

BEWARE Those Quick To Censor
They Are Afraid Of What They Do
Not Know

Beware Those Who Seek Constant
Crowds; They Are Nothing
Alone

            Beware
            The Average Man
            The Average Woman
            BEWARE Their Love

 
 

Their Love Is Average, Seeks
Average
But There Is Genius In Their Hatred
There Is Enough Genius In Their
Hatred To Kill You, To Kill,
Anybody.

 

Not Wanting Solitude
Not Understanding Solitude
They Will Attempt To Destroy
Anything
That Differs
From Their Own

             Not Being Able
             To Create Art
             They Will Not
             Understand Art

They Will Consider Their Failure
As Creators
Only As A Failure
Of The World

Not Being Able To Love Fully
They Will BELIEVE Your Love
Incomplete
AND THEN THEY WILL HATE
YOU 

And Their Hatred Will Be Perfect
Like A Shining Diamond
Like A Knife
Like A Mountain
Like A TIGER
Like Hemlock

           Their finest
           ART

-Charles Bukowski

(Source: cocophony)

aprettywar:

Traveler

Your first time out of the country
of your own skin, I didn’t bring a map.

You always hated that I’d been lucky
enough to pick my way through streets

I couldn’t pronounce to find cathedrals,
graveyards. If you were a city, you said,

I’d only like to know your suburbs.

If you were a city, I said, I’d like to know
your poor neighborhoods, your inner parts.

Read your graffiti. Drink your tap water.
Feel your smog and dirt stick to my sweat.

Hear your orchestra of sirens and gunshots.
I’d know which of your streets to walk.

If you were a city, I’d expect to be robbed.

— Heather Sommer

(via fuckyeahpoetry)

pls-revert:

by Mary-Jane Leo
(*edit: published in Ceriph 4, available at BooksActually, Kinokuniya, and GRAPHEME zine lab. Thanks good people who reblogged with this info!)

Mary was lonely and needed 

a Partner with the same 

	>!> Strategic Thrusts <!<

in life- that is, she wanted a love

who liked rainy days and cloudwatching
adventures in spain tumbling
		tumbling
		     tumbling
away 
 	d
	  o
	   	 w
		 	n

				rabbit holes.

This aim had not been in her purrrrview.
			
Living in an enclosed bubble as a minion (Class 3.14)
of a Class 10 Senior MGR, she was often using
Microsoft Outlook and Lotus Notes efficiently.

She arrived at the office reception at 8.47am
so that she could reach her table at 8.48am
so that she could pee by 8.52am
so that she could go to the pantry and
queue behind other minions
to fill her glass jug by 8.58am
so that she could go back to her cubicle
turn on the laptop, wait for the light to
glow blue, and sit down, ready, by 9am.

Read More

I HATE THIS FARKING PLACE.