©
teeething:

You may bury my bodydown by the highway sideSo my old evil spiritCan catch a Greyhound bus and ride- Robert Johnson, Me and the Devil Blues

teeething:

You may bury my body
down by the highway side
So my old evil spirit
Can catch a Greyhound bus and ride

- Robert Johnson, Me and the Devil Blues


difficulttoadmire:

sycorax blades herself to the light. she

makes herself a small target, looks edgewise

down her fingers and says bang. the mind reels.

she’s a monster in the way that a coral reef is a monster, herself a composite

of injury grownover and sharpened.

she pops open a beer with her perfect horn and tosses it down

and up the bar between her hands.

the bottle growls high across the grain. she

smiles damage all the way to the door and across the street. everyone

feels culpable in a way that upsets them.

when they approach her she puts her nail through their

bellies, hooks their innermost, strings it out along the bar

and,

amateur haruspex her,

tells their chickenshit fortune.


"

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

"

"Her Kind", Anne Sexton (via aranrhod)

fiore-rosso:

GEORGE CHAKHAVA.
MINISTRY OF TRANSPORTATION, TBILISI.
photography - simona rota.

fiore-rosso:

GEORGE CHAKHAVA.

MINISTRY OF TRANSPORTATION, TBILISI.

photography - simona rota.


afuchan:

Vincent. Another remake of an original character.


"

You would always whisper,
“God doesn’t need us,” but
your mouth tasted like
holy wine, skin like the
paper-thin wafers they
lay on your tongue at church.

You find divine revelation
at the bottom of whisky bottles,
carry your baby teeth in your pocket
like rosary beads.

Jeremiah told his people
to roll themselves in ashes and
mourn for Nineveh’s demise,
but you are steeped
in self-erosion,
covered in the soot of
your own decay.

A woman outside the grocery store
hands you a bible and tells you
that Jesus died for our sins;
you flick your cigarette onto
the concrete and say,
“I’m about to die
for my own.”

"

"In love with an atheist" - Kristina Kutateladze (via sylviviplath)