(Source: nakedmangos, via r4tatoskr)

dignitea:

if you’re feeling small

dignitea:

if you’re feeling small

(via sad-sap)

(Source: numbless, via queerfucker)

A cigarette lighter, a cough drop, a postage stamp, a slightly bent cigarette, a toothpick, a handkerchief, a pen, two five-shekel coins. That’s only a fraction of what I have in my pockets. So is it any wonder they bulge? Lots of people mention it. They say, “What the fuck do you have in your pockets?” Most of the time I don’t answer, I just smile, sometimes I even give a short, polite laugh. As if someone told me a joke. If they were to persist and ask me again, I’d probably show them everything I have, I might even explain why I need all that stuff on me, always. But they don’t. What the fuck, a smile/a short laugh, an awkward silence, and we’re on to the next subject.

The fact is that everything I have in my pockets is carefully chosen so I’ll always be prepared. Everything is there so I can be at an advantage at the moment of truth. Actually, that’s not accurate. Everything’s there so I won’t be at a disadvantage at the moment of truth. Because what kind of advantage can a wooden toothpick or a postage stamp really give you? But if, for example, a beautiful girl—you know what, not even beautiful, just charming, an ordinary looking girl with an entrancing smile that takes your breath away—asks you for a stamp, or doesn’t even ask, just stands there on the street next to a red mailbox on a rainy night with a stampless envelope in her hand and wonders if you happen to know where there’s an open post office at that hour, and then gives a little cough because she’s cold, but also desperate, since deep in her heart, she knows that there’s no open post office in the area, definitely not at that hour, and at that moment, that moment of truth, she won’t say “What the fuck do you have in your pockets,” but she’ll be so grateful for the stamp, maybe not even grateful, she’ll just smile that entrancing smile of hers, an entrancing smile for a postage stamp—I’d go for a deal like that anytime, even if the price of stamps soars and the price of smiles plummets.

After the smile, she’ll say thank you and cough again, because of the cold, but also because she’s a little embarrassed. And I’ll offer her a cough drop. “What else do you have in your pockets?” she’ll ask, but gently, without the “fuck” and without the negativity, and I’ll answer without hesitation: everything you’ll ever need, my love. Everything you’ll ever need.

So now you know. That’s what I have in my pockets. A chance not to screw up. A slight chance. Not big, not even probable. I know that, I’m not stupid. A tiny chance, let’s say, that when happiness comes along, I can say “yes” to it, and not “Sorry, I don’t have a cigarette/toothpick/coin for the soda machine.” That’s what I have there, full and bulging, a tiny chance of saying yes and not being sorry

"What Do We Have In Our Pockets," Etgar Keret (via lipfused)

(Source: commovente, via lipfused)

how the wet gets in

here is how it goes:

two years spent running
rabbits down and sinking my teeth
     red raw and
     rumgry
feeling nothing heavy

    come to this  ;

i was not meant to be a hunter
    i never
           meant
       me            a single
       mean          thing
       meat

i couldn’t make the valleys&
   i couldn’t find your heelshills,
   i couldn’t make the sutures
i couldn’t set the bone
i couldn’t find a way
   to make the bleeding stop

(not trained in fixing as you are only   making broken things sound whole) 

      we watched
                  speechless
      as rabbits lay dying at our feet
        in stranger’s beds;
      falling awake at 4 in the arms
of someone they never really knew at all

how lucky i was
   to have you hold my hand
as we stood waist deep in
the bodies of the dead

    (the truest traegdy of our time)

i wanted you to know i tried
   my very very best
to find the river & the tree
   & the bridge where we kissed
when we were kids
   moving lyrical and songlike;
    i did my best to remember
  the things your body taught me.

you are june and i am august,
i can only write you endings,
 but the same wind
    blows through us
          both

                         sweetheart, i cried
                             in the shower while you slept

           so:

i have made of myself an operating table, i have opened my histories as a surgeon does their tools, i have picked apart the stitches and the linings and the smilescabs, i have laid bare my naked mapmarks, i have drawn the lines and arrows, i have annotated the margins, i have crossed the rivers and circled the tributaries, i have burned the fat away until i felt wholoe i have

  sent shivers in morse down the ridges of
    your spine into
      that place which only echoes

it is 2:15am and i am falling

it is 2:16am and i am falling

it is 2:17am and i am falling

clandestinecollective:

First Time’,  2014 // Robyn Nichol 

(via sad-sap)

communicants:

Computer Chess (Andrew Bujalski, 2013)

(via broratio)

euo:

(When Are You Going Back Home?)
Descent/ConsentClare Yow

euo:

(When Are You Going Back Home?)

Descent/Consent
Clare Yow

(via broratio)

taces:

My Mistakes Were Made For You (2008)
The Last Shadow Puppets

(via broratio)

(Source: lightbones, via patshit)