doing lines at home and cleaning the kitchen and listening to fucking all these different albums start to finish with my housemate until the middle of the next day

How is it you can explain their living here with me, leaning

On their cellos, doleful and plenty.  In my single-person tax-bracket of one alive, there are more  Living here with me not alive Than are.   You are a good  Dog now. Rising, supposing, loom large for me. Turn down all the rows of white sheets in the rows Of white cots for your wounded To settle in. Look, the boy with a cane walks Three-legged down our Avenue, three-quarters Of a cur, but he’s as gifted limping as the elegy you wrote  For me and I am still alive! It was a poem clear, here  In hindsight, as flounder flesh unwrapped from  Its bed of newspaper, unspoiled. Would that you come home  Now, healed and appalled. It could have been reparable; we would have gathered  Like a din of two nurses at the metal rails of vigil At your impossible bed. Would that we, erstwhile, will.             Would that our Liam were living still.

— lucie brock-broido

Little Industry of Ghosts

Hey so I finally got together my writing blog

http://lovevsporn.com

so go check it out, have a read, have a follow.

I promise I'm not terrible.

Muchas gracias x

t'was the night before christmas when i realised i could smoke bongs in my old room at mum's without anybody noticing

thank god

but i think my family might all be idiots

uh merry christmas

"I hadn't thought about religion before; I haven't since; but just at that time, when I was waiting for the birth, I thought, 'That's one thing I can give her. It doesn't seem to have done me much good, but my child shall have it.' It was odd, wanting to give something one had lost oneself. Then, in the end, I couldn't even give that: I couldn't even give her life"

Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited

everything extraneous has burned away this is how burning feels in the fall of the final year not like leaves in a blue October but as if the skin were a paper lantern full of trapped moths beating their fired wings and yet I can lie on this hill just above you a foot beside where I will lie myself soon soon and for all the wrack and blubber feel still how we were warriors when the merest morning sun in the garden was a kingdom after Room 1010 war is not all death it turns out war is what little thing you hold on to refugeed and far from home oh sweetie will you please forgive me this that every time I opened a box of anything Glad Bags One-A-Days KINGSIZE was the worst I’d think will you still be here when the box is empty Rog Rog who will play boy with me now that I bucket with tears through it all when I’d cling beside you sobbing you’d shrug it off with the quietest I’m still here I have your watch in the top drawer which I don’t dare wear yet help me please the boxes grocery home day after day the junk that keeps men spotless but it doesn’t matter now how long they last or I the day has taken you with it and all there is now is burning dark the only green is up by the grave and this little thing of telling the hill I’m here oh I’m here

Paul Monette, “Here”  (via commovente)

just wow.

Little Qualicum Falls flickr | facebook | society6

Tell me the dream of burning buildings. Tell me how we were inside, and how we were afraid, the smoke clinging to our lungs like condensation and me clinging to you like condensation, and we ran until we forgot what we were running from. Tell me the part where the streets spun roads of broken glass and torn up plaster from underneath our feet, trucks roaring past us like a sigh to clear the wreckage. Tell me how we stood in the centre where the daylight splits in half, and on your half the likeness of my face carved into every surface where you had expected to see only yourself. On my side, only darkness. I’m sorry that you got to keep all the light, and I’m sorry that it doesn’t really amount to anything much. I’m sorry about the scene I made at the bottom of the burnt down stairwell, my words catching fire before you could perceive them as sound. I’m sorry about the part where everything we did was just another way of screaming, like the overflowing ashtrays and the scratches I carved into your back just to feel as though my hands were something more than an afterthought. In the dark I can almost feel your breath against my skin, but when I reach my hands out, only darkness. The radio grinds out love songs from broken wires, and tell me that that doesn’t sound like a scream. Tell me how we built new towers, but this time we would build them by the sea, so that maybe, when the ocean swallows us whole, we would not be surprised.

this is a kitchen selfie

Jason Hanasik

you know what it's like to miss someone like crazy when they're sitting right in front of you

that's my life

'You mustn't feel remorse,' he said, putting his arm around her waist and drawing her towards him; 'it was the will of Fate.'

Lightly stroking his head, she answered: 'I don't believe in Fate... The real reason was that I love you... If I didn't love you - who knows? - I might not have treated her so badly, and she wouldn't have gone away and she wouldn't be dead... What is there fatal about that?'

'When one says Fate it's exactly those things that one means, love and all the rest... You couldn't help acting as you did, nor could she, indeed, help going away with her husband.'

'So we're not really able to do anything?' asked Giulia.

Marcello hesitated, and then replied, with profound bitterness: 'Yes, we're able to know that we're not able to do anything.'

'And what's the use of that?'

'It's useful to ourselves, the next time... Or for others who come after us.'

- Alberto Moravia, The Conformist

"the whole of our life is on the instalment plan ... but the last ones are the biggest and we shall never manage to pay them"

Too Cool For School

Kirstin Kragh Liljegren by Oliver Stalmans For Elle Denmark August 2013