“Evergreen anodyne decompounding | everything eats and is eaten, time is fed.” 🎂

“Power requires neither permission nor forgiveness.” - A moment from within the anti-nudity tumblr purgatory, 2019 03 04.

Do you use your phone to take photos or a camera?

My tumblr has been resurrected and my inbox has things already waiting!

So, a few answers.

- Yes.

- In both instances those are cameras, yes.

- There have been cameras inside cellphones for 24 years and I am still regularly asked this question.

Once more, and innumerable times more. 🎂

Not only will my entire tumblr now basically be an archive available to only myself, but my number one source of masturbation material will disappear. 

SEX IS NOT BAD. NO ONE NEEDS TO BE PROTECTED FROM SEX. FUCK SHAME.

WHERE DO I POST MY NUDES??????????????????????????????????????

All my bones, they are gone, gone, gone! Take my bones, I don’t need none. Cold, cold cupboard, lord, nothin’ to chew on! Suck all day on a cherry stone. Dig a little hole not three inches round— Spit your pit in a hole in the ground. Weep upon the spot for the starvin’ of me! ‘Til up grow a fine young cherry tree. When the bough breaks, what will you make for me? A little willow cabin to rest on your knee. Well, what will I do with a trinket such as this? Think of your woman who’s gone to the west. But I’m starvin’ and freezin’ in my measly old bed! Then I’ll crawl across the salt flats, to stroke your sweet head. Come! Across the desert with no shoes on! I love you truly, or I love no one.

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“Through the trees she could see a canyon of light—the road, the battlefield.”

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“The forest filled it, wall to wall, and the shadows of the clouds shivered on the treetops as the wind moved through the boughs.”

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Caenogen.

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✌🏻🍑✨ | 👋🏻🌚💫

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LIGHT/SHADOW/COLOR is a 340 page hardcover fine art bondage coffee table book showcasing five years worth of rigging and photography from the artist known as The Dark Arts. And I’m in there!

Buy the book The Dark Arts on Instagram

Sunday in 16 : 9 “Light on the water like a drowned moon.”

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It’s like warm laundry that touched the sun for a moment, and the way a person smells like a person, always themselves, right at the crown of their head where the hair whorls. Right where the hairline fades to skin behind the ears. Soft and soft and soft.

It is only me in here. There is somehow comfort in that, remember that.

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When out of the massing that bodes and bides in the cold west flew a waxwing who froze and died against my breast.

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Un petit fantôme

8.27.16

Finch Linden

While, elsewhere, estuaries of wax-white wend endlessly toward seashores unmapped.

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You could have woken to daybreak. You could be waking up to see the sun.

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