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i’m here in my new dorm and i don’t really know what to think about it-

i don’t feel like this is real life yet and i don’t know why i decided to give myself such a luxurious lifestyle when i hate materialism like i do-

why am i here when i could be in montreal.

why am i here when a million dollars could have been spent on something else.

i’m greedy and i’d rather have my time worth nothing because then i feel like it would be able to be worth something.

when i am treated as a child who needs to be taught i abandon your bullshit and i encompass my soul just to remind myself of who is correct

if ur not impressed with the people around you invest more of yourself in being a better person so youll fit in with the people you wanna see more of

How to

You will be out with friends
when the news of her existence
will be accidentally spilled all over
your bar stool. Respond calmly
as if it was only a change in weather,
a punch line you saw coming.
After your fourth shot of cheap liquor,
leave the image of him kissing another woman
in the toilet.

In the morning, her name will be
in every headline: car crash, robbery, flood.
When he calls you, ignore the hundreds of ropes
untangling themselves in your stomach.
You are the best friend again. He invites
you over for dinner and you say yes
too easily. Remind yourself this isn’t special,
it’s only dinner, everyone has to eat.
When he greets you at the door, do not think
for one second you are the reason
he wore cologne tonight.

In his kitchen, he will hand-feed you
a piece of red pepper. His laugh
will be low and warm and it will make you
feel like candlelight. Do not think this is special.
Do not count on your fingers the number
of freckles you could kiss too easily.
Try to think of pilot lights and olive oil,
not everything you have every loved about him,
or it will suddenly feel boiling and possible
and so close. You will find her bobby pins
laying innocently on his bathroom sink.
Her bobby pins. They look like the wiry legs
of spiders, splinters of her undressing
in his bed. Do not say anything.
Think of stealing them, wearing them
home in your hair. When he hugs you goodbye,
let him kiss you on the forehead.
Settle for target practice.

At home, you will picture her across town
pressing her fingers into his back
like wet cement. You will wonder
if she looks like you, if you are two bedrooms
in the same house. Did he fall for her features
like rearranged furniture? When he kisses her,
does she taste like wet paint?

You will want to call him.
You will go as far as holding the phone
in your hand, imagine telling him
unimaginable things like you are always
ticking inside of me
and I dream of you
more often than I don’t.
My body is a dead language
and you pronounce
each word perfectly.

Do not call him.
Fall asleep to the hum of the VCR.
She must make him happy.
She must be
She must be his favorite place in Minneapolis.
You are a souvenir shop, where he goes
to remember how much people miss him
when he is gone.

Sierra DeMulder, Unrequited Love Poem (via sierrademulder)

(Source: theoryoflostthings)

your nails are running

like soup down hot backs and rug-burn knees,

your belt buckle is 

bone and heat of your moment

is woven into basement carpet animal adventure.


your jaw is thirst and sweat

and your tracing breath graces face and hair in mouth and

bites and hair pulls rip nerves in neck and spine.


can you remember (pre-

motionless grasp at summers past)

some scared confused


running from cars and social

nice kind


arizona-homeless-culture sayer who biked through rain and back-


you flowed like helium wafting through in between

where one ought to be and where one is,

before autumn left

and winter trees cracked through your fragile soil


miscellaneous hues of sky and your


somehow could rip, erase, remove

rope and chalk which guides you to


(where am i?)


can you remember when past nothingness

came nothingness

came you-


stripping wholeness from my naked shell of do-be-feel and respirate

your painted nails fingering my angel hair and crystal pupil

and touching random feet along this nighttime basement couch-

before your lifelong not-just-winter depression state

with headaches and less writing on your windowsill and margin,

inhaling burns only every evening day-


there was some glimpse and shadow,

shadow to dream,

dimension to scream at,


(in silence you can hear the earth breathe)


you were elm and moss and happy elemental apathy of

world and/or (who is it knocking your temple’s doors?)


moon and fearless

star of something

snow-death suffocation breath

and suicide beautiful in place of year-long warmth which now you cannot

even feel

this is my friend’s track

(9 plays)

Richard Mosse


Richard Mosse

(Source: droidcat)

"Something that isn’t winter"

like the sun’s out, my god,
and the droplet leaves
surface out of sun-wet
ocean ripple sky and
building line of shadow curse

cold pavement hitting rubber wheel
and slap of grass and dirt on sidewalk
chases dogs from underfoot

your saxophone screeches from window, open
warm light through countless orifice of city
neighbourhood and porch seat
reflective panes and angel child statue
by my feet

and i can’t reach into
brain-like substance
or tell if i can feel hot light on bike sweat arms
pulverized endorphin oil

and see, I need to touch your soil and run it through my bleaching hair
scrape shivers down the roots of earth and scrub hot nails and skin
cruel distance of finger blood pulsation,
pull me deeper through cracks in doors
through warm tones and calamity of bird sounds
or wind-chime metal breaks, charging
empty air, hot from blush and
streaked with renaissance tree shadowplay

grass, now are you blooming or
are my senses signed to your nostalgia

May, do you feel me or do i only
radiate and squirm when indoors
looking out at you

sickening pauses between derailed conversations

you shift and move in my periphery

ride the waves of isolation and detachment

it’s the school of thought of thinking of me

basement mornings

Alvvays - Adult Diversion

some song playin on indie 88 at hollywood gelato all fuckin day

Death Is Not A Parallel Move - Of Montreal

psych pop shiz