In heels,
Spirit,
Pills,
Booze."
(Source: summerfoxx, via ttibokatt)
On the Irish coast, a rutted road
traced a winding track along the wind-
scored face of a limestone bluff.
Rock flowers cascaded to the surf.
Where the road began its long descent
a ruined church sheltered only wind,
and a great tree drained what light was left.
When we were younger, I would have brooded,
even in this ancestral place, on my fate
and Cú Chuláinn’s battle with the sea.
You would have talked of Aphrodite.
Now after we’ve drunk our pint of bitter,
I limp, like that crippled smith, in your wake
back to our turf fire lifting its small wings.
—Tom Sexton, “Homecoming”
Art Credit Michael Schnabel
(via grimmshawed)
Fitting poem for Ben
jar of octopus, cuckoo’s cry, 5-7-5,
but now I want a Russian novel,
a 50-page description of you sleeping,
another 75 of what you think staring out
a window.”
(via benwhishaw-net)
Even
After
All this time
The Sun never says to the Earth,
“You owe me.”
Look
What happens
With a love like that,
It lights the whole sky.
(Source: larmoyante)
jar of octopus, cuckoo’s cry, 5-7-5,
but now I want a Russian novel,
a 50-page description of you sleeping,
another 75 of what you think staring out
a window."
(Source: seabois, via coldmountainway)
georgetakei: How I felt this morning after that late night blogging last night. Is there such thing as a blog hangover? If so, I may be experiencing it. Ugh myyy…
