that poor lady turned to stone


Boston. i appreciate the sassy people in life.

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people suck.

especially people who do not communicate clearly.


create what you desire.

(via howitzerliterarysociety)

mi bombero


man of clementine musk
man of salt-pickled sakura

spherules of nectar
a vertiginous rose
in the pekoe bloom

man of Himalayan oracles
man of narcissus coda

peacock quills
floating at peripheries
of Palestinian blackouts like kite-strings

man of poison ivy labyrinths
man of cobweb coil
man of tapestries
netted into trespasses

prelude to the peripheries
that swallow the pivot

man of intoxicated nightfall
man of lantern irises

a church of fireflies
a nocturne sleeping
between the bluebells
& the nettles

man of elegies & exiles
man of naplam quicksand

deer-eyed ruminations
scribbled into the redwood’s torso

man of conch-song
man of blue lily eyelash

each blink’s whip
an ornament
lent to worship

oh! my man
of solemn, sea-grain braille
& i, seiche, jonah’s grail
white horses writhing
in the blindness of a tidal wave

Scherezade Siobhan©

(via viperslang)


of spicy 
sweet amber 

asphalt cannabis.
mango breath.
feathers loved
into widespread coos

and neon laughter. 
babies in green and red.
round-bellied greetings. 

meters vacationing.
yet, here, I feel
a home blossom.
I feel a road, like smoke, unfurl.


I’ve bit everything
except my own
tongue & like
a song, words
spilled across—
lines like trembling
to soothe & dislocate,
adding melody
to each day
turned night
turned day.



We live not only in a world of thoughts, but also in a world of things. Words without experience are meaningless.

                                                                 -Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov

fearing the loss of meaning,
I sheltered my words
beneath my tongue,
relied on movement:
a nod, a blink,
a curl of the lips,
an extended palm.  

"I proclaim there is more truth in the
Night than in the day.
It is the pure hour when God sets the life before memory
germinating in the streets
All the amphibious elements shining like suns."

Léopold Sédar Senghor (via thewriterscaravan)

(Source: whoeverswinning, via thewriterscaravan)

cassava men

on gold sailed in,
cast ashore in iron beasts,
honeycombs on their chins,
eyes deceptive as the sea
in midnight quarrel,
as the tawny sunset 
over Cholula’s square,
on gold prepared,
saccharine wrung
under the webbing sun,
on gold dismantled,
on gold undone.