A view from high above (Oh Canada)

“I’m not in search of sanctity, sacredness, purity; these things are found after this life, not in this life; but in this life I search to be completely human: to feel, to give, to take, to laugh, to get lost, to be found, to dance, to love and to lust, to be so human.”

—    C. JoyBell C. (via purplebuddhaproject)

(via sarahhavs)

“Now comes the night
with his dark hands, with his
kisses and his wine
and his long, lean cello voice
that brings me to my knees,
that presses me against him,

that tomorrow I know
I will remember physically,
that voice of his moving on me
like phantom cellphone vibrations,
like a thick wind, like bees
hidden in the walls of my hips.”

—   Peregrine (via youreyesblazeout)

(via so-realism)

I dare your lips
to exchange ideas
with mine
at a five foot distance,

and challenge your eyes
to survey
my clothed flesh
and not dilate
from arousal-

I dare you
to feign indifference
sixty inches away
from
my passion

“There isn’t a single part on a woman that is not worth kissing.”

—   Junsei/Synn  (via fatseux)

or on a man 💋.

(via so-realism)

(via so-realism)

theballoonofthemind:

“Is the scene always visual? It can be aural, the frame can be linguistic: I can fall in love with a sentence spoken to me: and not only because it says something which manages to touch my desire, but because of its syntactical turn (framing), which will inhabit me like a memory.”

—Roland Barthes, from A Lover’s Discourse (Hill and Wang, 1979) 

(Source: textture, via so-realism)

tomwaitsvisualdictionary:

"My theory is that songs have to be anatomically correct. They need to have weather in them and the name of a town and usually something to eat — in case you get hungry."  - Tom Waits

tomwaitsvisualdictionary:

"My theory is that songs have to be anatomically correct. They need to have weather in them and the name of a town and usually something to eat — in case you get hungry."
- Tom Waits

(via so-realism)

Lost

lovaboxa:

I could get lost forever
right there in your lap;
straddling you, trapping
words, bending your mind
coaxing the vine to wrap
its tendrils around me
I could drink your vintage;
my mouth open to receive
intoxicated by you coming
…of rage, a man determined
to grasp my wanton flesh

This face
Held tightly between your spread fingertips
Relaxes
Into the folds of your warm smile

alwaysthegriieve:

the things
we tell ourselves
when the heart
is not looking

when the lonely
of the skin starts
to scream the silence
into a tangible
moment of chaos.

Watching

Words tinged with acceptance/
venomous fangs spewing hurtful clichés/ bathed in angry denials/ one mouth sharing identical lips/

Demons claiming tenancy/ a head declaring love without the telltale shine from the eyes.

Is that the path to the light?

Even in final days/ watching the same worn ego attempt to claim the mountain top for their own/ to make small all who share the road/ righteousness held in a pamphlet printed at Kinkos.

You did this for who?

Bitterness towards any other residing as canker sores/ unable to fully taste the sweetness of love/ stone cold hearing has not lessened the brain pounding torment inside.

I too do not accept. You?