Skinny Autumn

apoetreflects: Painting: Nikolai Nikanorovich Dubovskoy,...

Wed, 19 Jun 2013 22:30:55 -0600

apoetreflects:

Painting: Nikolai Nikanorovich Dubovskoy, Silence, 1890

chasingtailfeathers: Karin Daymond Elise’s Garden

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 22:30:56 -0600

chasingtailfeathers:

Karin Daymond

Elise’s Garden

theincompletenesstheorem: Andrew WyethDodge Ridge, 1947

Mon, 17 Jun 2013 22:30:55 -0600

theincompletenesstheorem:

Andrew Wyeth
Dodge Ridge, 1947

ponderful: Illustration by Harry Rountree

Sun, 16 Jun 2013 22:30:52 -0600

ponderful:

Illustration by Harry Rountree

ponderful: Sleeping beauty illustration by Ruth Sanderson

Sat, 15 Jun 2013 22:31:17 -0600

ponderful:

Sleeping beauty illustration by Ruth Sanderson

Photo

Fri, 14 Jun 2013 22:30:53 -0600

likeafieldmouse: John Singer Sargent - Seascape (1875) - Oil on...

Thu, 13 Jun 2013 22:30:50 -0600

likeafieldmouse:

John Singer Sargent - Seascape (1875) - Oil on canvas

nefariouss: From the cover of Breakfast in Ruins by Michael...

Wed, 12 Jun 2013 22:30:50 -0600

nefariouss:

From the cover of Breakfast in Ruins by Michael Moorcock

Photo

Tue, 11 Jun 2013 22:31:01 -0600

greengerg: imprecise: “I Had First to Slay a Ferocious...

Mon, 10 Jun 2013 22:30:49 -0600

greengerg:

imprecise:

“I Had First to Slay a Ferocious Zanswith” by Edwin M. Love

saveflowers1: Art by Johnny Gruelle (1916), “Moon Wishes” from...

Sun, 09 Jun 2013 22:31:02 -0600

saveflowers1:

Art by Johnny Gruelle (1916), “Moon Wishes” from the book RHYMES FOR KINDLY CHILDREN.

suicideblonde: Joshua Middleton

Sat, 08 Jun 2013 22:30:57 -0600

suicideblonde:

Joshua Middleton

"We emptied the car of its innards: slashed seats and peeled leather paneling, gutted the radio and..."

Sat, 08 Jun 2013 10:24:49 -0600

“

We emptied the car of its innards:
slashed seats and peeled leather paneling,
gutted the radio and twisted off the steering wheel.
We pulled the film from Dad’s tapes out of the sun roof
like they were intestines.

Our feet, slick with dew, crunched
on the backs of crickets; the cicadas grit
and grind- and spring arrived like disease,
too quickly, overwhelming.

But we are small people
and like a hand around our throats,
we remember winter long after she has gone.

We left the skeleton on the front yard,
let it rust on sporadic, balding grass
with melted gravel clinging to the husks of its tires.
It was a shell, hollow: trunk wide open
like a gaping mouth. This was the month

we molted.The month we shed.
We carved animals into our teeth,
our eyes bruised like peaches,
knees and knuckles the color of ripe plums.

We stole two bikes from the park,
cutting wire like hair, riding them with the seats torn
off, standing the whole time. One night,

we threw mangoes off the bridge,
watching them explode between passing cars
into shredded orange collages.

We ate a few, the juices dripping
down our faces, dry and sticky onto our cheeks,
the hollowed pits rotting below.

”

- “Thumbelina, Yasmin Belkhyr” (via wintertangerine)

Thumbelina

Sat, 08 Jun 2013 10:15:00 -0600

wintertangerine:

We emptied the car of its innards:

slashed seats and peeled leather paneling,

gutted the radio and twisted off the steering wheel.

We pulled the film from Dad’s tapes out of the sun roof

like they were intestines.

Our feet, slick with dew, crunched

on the backs of crickets; the cicadas grit

and grind- and spring arrived like disease,

too quickly, overwhelming.

But we are small people

and like a hand around our throats,

we remember winter long after she has gone.

We left the skeleton on the front yard,

let it rust on sporadic, balding grass

with melted gravel clinging to the husks of its tires.

It was a shell, hollow: trunk wide open

like a gaping mouth. This was the month

we molted. The month we shed.

We carved animals into our teeth,

our eyes bruised like peaches,

knees and knuckles the color of ripe plums.

We stole two bikes from the park,

cutting wire like hair, riding them with the seats torn

off, standing the whole time. One night,

we threw mangoes off the bridge,

watching them explode between passing cars

into shredded orange collages.

We ate a few, the juices dripping

down our faces, dry and sticky onto our cheeks,

the hollowed pits rotting below.

— Thumbelina, Yasmin Belkhyr

An Ode to the Ice Cube You Slipped Into My Mouth

Sat, 08 Jun 2013 10:11:00 -0600

commovente:

An Ode to the Ice Cube You Slipped Into My Mouth
by Shinji Moon

The fireflies are hiding bombs beneath their wings
and everything we touch is breaking a sweat. Yes,
this May. Yes, to these Junes. The margarine spread thin
on your bagel. The way my fingertips always smell like
watermelon and limes, cigarettes and sex. Yes, to the
weeping glass cold against our foreheads. To these months
that pool wet against each other. The hot tongues of asphalt.
The curtains of rain you pull me through to kiss me square
on the lips. Yes. To the way we peel the blue husk of dusk
until our mouths are full of light. Full of star kernels. How we
believe, for this while, that we can wipe constellations
on the front of our pant legs without consequences,
drive through windy roads with a cold beer in our hands,
believing that nothing could kill us.   Not even death.

So yes.   To how our bodies are
bloated with water. How our laughter carries itself in the head of a
mosquito. To the way we make love with the windows open while the
lawnmowers crackle and shave the earth barbershop clean. Yes
yes. To how we scrape moonlight off the sidewalk with our shoes,
skip stones into one another’s mouths and imagine that this what
it must’ve been like to do so as a child. To the excuses we make
to shed our clothes and laugh, our dresses flung over backs of patio
furniture, diving into water with the lingerie we stole in Paris. How we let the
boys look. How we never let them touch. Yes, this rain. Your golden arms.

Yes, the way our stories can’t hurt us here. Not in this heat.
Not with all this slow. This after. This unfinished.
Not with the elephant in the room having been killed for its tusks.
No, for we can no longer look in the mirror without seeing another living thing
inside of us, eyes burning. An acid tongue. How it has whittled
our bones into flutes. How we can no longer sleep without hearing the slow
song of the dead trying to reclaim their stories. Using our bodies for
kindling. For killing.   To test out what the children now call love.

23silence: Austin Edwin Abbey - The Queen in Hamlet, 1895

Fri, 07 Jun 2013 22:30:47 -0600

23silence:

Austin Edwin Abbey - The Queen in Hamlet, 1895

septagonstudios: MATT WARING

Thu, 06 Jun 2013 22:30:46 -0600

septagonstudios:

MATT WARING

apropos-not: Pierre-Auguste Renoir - Jeanne Samary in a low...

Wed, 05 Jun 2013 22:30:53 -0600

apropos-not:

Pierre-Auguste Renoir - Jeanne Samary in a low necked dress (1877)

Photo

Tue, 04 Jun 2013 22:30:49 -0600

apropos-not: Vincent van Gogh - Self-portrait with bandaged ear...

Mon, 03 Jun 2013 22:30:55 -0600

apropos-not:

Vincent van Gogh - Self-portrait with bandaged ear (1889)

From the Guardian:

It is hard not to feel Van Gogh’s eyes pierce you when you look at this painting. His agonised, pitiful presence is almost unbearable. Every brushstroke registers physically. You can see every mark he made on the canvas and feel the weight of each dollop of blue or yellow pigment. This gives the portrait a shocking immediacy. And then there’s the thin face, like Christ in a late medieval painting, with the red beard brutally shaved off. He seems to shiver inside his heavy coat and hat, with its strange fur like a black cloud emanating from his brain. In this painting, the warmth of Provence that van Gogh painted in his Sunflowers has given way to winter. [Read more]