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The Izabella Dynamic

I bring you with reverent hands / The books of my numberless dreams / White woman that passion has worn / As the tide wears the dove-grey sands / And with heart more old than the horn / That is brimmed from the pale fire of time / White woman with numberless dreams / I bring you my passionate rhyme. - W. B. Yeats

"The sea is the cruelest lover."

(Source: knightlyqueen, via kisedbyfire)

April 20th

I’m fucking done I’m fucking done
I’m so fucking done

It’s now 4:01am
and I’m wasting my precious time
rotting away in the subway
waiting for a train
that will
(undoubtedly)
make me late
for a ferry
that will
(hopefully)
take me to a bus
that will
(eventually)
take me to a
(somewhat)
comfortable couch for the night
to sleep away all the toxins
and all the shots of poison
taken in pursuit of a night
of passion
of discovery
of release
of freedom

and yet
I wonder why this passion brews
so violently inside of us.
To discover once again
what it means
to plunge
to spread
to search inside of another human
laid just as bare and naked
as you are,
to feel the heart groan
as it quickens its march,
to feel the sweat
collapse down your temple,
to gasp out loud
at the same time
as her
as you learn what it truly means
to become weak in the knees,
to quiver with lust
yet burn with rage
and shake with rebirth.

But.
Every night has been the same.
The same drinks,
the same conversations,
the same pit
excavating itself through my sternum
down past my lungs
(still heaving and panicking)
into the recesses of my gut
and back into my throat
where it lays dormant,
sitting there,
like an anchor in the seabed
like a dislodged joint
like a fucking tumor
spreading its cancerous salve
over my words
and under my pulse.

It is now 4:51am
on a ferry boat that came 16 minutes late
and I can feel the tendons
and capillaries in my feet groan
from the wear and tear and abuse
of a long, long night.
Couples nearby mutter,
fragmented pieces of their talk
filling the cramped space around us
with a warmth and fullness
I have not heard in a while.
And it is about now
that I’ve realized
we are all seeking to be
wanted,
to be told that we actually do
matter,
that our presence on this Earth
really does mean something
and that we are not
just
another
person
wandering these streets fuck my eyes are heavy and tired and I’m broke in multiple currencies because I no longer have nothing to offer do I then I really must be just another face why do I keep doing this I’m fucking done I can’t keep sinking like this anymore I’ve been treading for too long and my arms are about to give way and there is too much saltwater in my lungs so every word that comes out is filled with brine and seaweed and sand everything I say has sat in my throat for too long I want to sleep for days I need rest I am done my shoulders are weak and thin now and I cannot carry this alone and I cannot do this alone and I can longer be alone like this but I cannot keep treading I’m too close to the ocean floor now fuck this the pit is growing it is deepening it is calcifying inside of my walls and hardening me fuck this fuck this fuck missing you fuck feeling so much fuck fuck fuck this

6:04am.
The streetlights outside
have all been extinguished
by the pink morning sky.
I can hear the surf
lapping against the shore
as the pit thickens into a veil
and spreads itself over my eyes.
I am sinking now.
Deeper.
Deeper.
Deeper.
Here on this seabed I will wait
for
you.

-A.G.

gasoline-station:

The End of the Pier

by Finn Hopson

"The slow demise of Brighton’s West Pier.

 The final section of the UK’s only grade II listed pier, photographed during some of the lowest tides of the year from 2012 until the present day. An ongoing project that will end once its finally disappeared into the sea. As seems appropriate for a project concerning the slow passing of time each image is shot as a very long exposure, varying from about 30 seconds to 4 minutes, isolating the details of this grand old structure in the water, and highlighting what’s no longer there. “

Prints available at finnhopson.com

Artist: Behance / Blog

(Source: ianbrooks)

myblankverse:

If you ever wonder
how much I want you
know, there is lost starlight
travelling through the universe
less desperate to touch something
than I am to feel you.

likeafieldmouse:

Hermann Nitsch - Oedipus (1990)

likeafieldmouse:

Hermann Nitsch - Oedipus (1990)

✌️👍✋👌👋 asked by flexiloquus

I hope you had a wonderful day today.

mfstrange:

I just want to give/receive oral sex right now.

Nº. 1 of  458