37,109 notes

You can’t say “I don’t do politics”, because silence is a political statement.

-Tariq Ramadan (via uniteforpalestine)

(via proletarianinstinct)

4,004 notes


Pablo Picasso: Portrait of Marie-Thérèse Walter with Garland, 1937.

[after a half-hearted suicide attempt at age 13]

When Daddy comes in, he carries you to bed. Is there anything you feel like you could eat, Pokey? Anything at all?

All you can imagine putting in your mouth is a cold plum, one with really tight skin on the outside but gum-shocking sweetness inside. And he and your mother discuss where he might find some this late in the season. Mother says hell I don’t know. Further north, I’d guess.

The next morning, you wake up in your bed and sit up. Mother says, Pete, I think she’s up. He hollers in, You ready for breakfast, Pokey. Then he comes in grinning, still in his work clothes from the night before. He’s holding a farm bushel. The plums he empties onto the bed river toward you through folds in the quilt. If you stacked them up, they’d fill the deepest bin at the Piggly Wiggly.

Damned if I didn’t get the urge to drive to Arkansas last night, he says.

Your mother stands behind him saying he’s pure USDA crazy.

Fort Smith, Arkansas. Found a roadside stand out there with a feller selling plums. And I says, Buddy, I got a little girl sick back in Texas. She’s got a hanker for plums and ain’t nothing else gonna do.

It’s when you sink your teeth into the plum that you make a promise. The skin is still warm from riding in the sun in Daddy’s truck, and the nectar runs down your chin.

And you snap out of it. Or are snapped out of it. Never again will you lay a hand against yourself, not so long as there are plums to eat and somebody-anybody-who gives enough of a damn to haul them to you. So long as you bear the least nibblet of love for any other creature in this dark world, though in love portions are never stingy. There are no smidgens or pinches, only rolling abundance. That’s how you acquire the resolution for survival that the coming years are about to demand. You don’t earn it. It’s given.

-Mary Karr, “Cherry” (via lifeinpoetry)

(via cascadingletters)

9,292 notes

Written in Pencil in the Sealed Railway Car

here in this carload,

i, eve

with my son abel. 

if you see my older boy,

cain, the son of man

tell him that i

-Dan Pagis, Holocaust survivor

1 note


Philippe Caza
Les Monstres du Placard, 1970


every boy I meet thinks he’s Charles Bukowski

every boy I meet thinks he’s Charles Bukowski
sauntering with a finely tuned drunken shuffle (though it may be a gait)
meeting my eyes through a fog
            of nicotine and dimly lit streets
            full of stories about hookers they knew in 1965

you were born in 92
and your false nostalgia is nauseating
the booze stains on your off-white button down aren’t random
they’re self-induced and purposeful
which defeats the purpose of booze stains
booze stains (red wine or dark beer) don’t have a purpose
they’re more like birthmarks
your mouth is perverted and lazy in the dark
licking me while mumbling “your cunt is amazing”

                        “humanity, you never had it to begin with”
you’re no great American antihero
and negative musings of the human condition
            won’t make me cum
you’ve grown swollen with borrowed wisdom and fake nihilism
if you really thought that life had no meaning
            you wouldn’t have let me see you cry
            when I took your virginity on the third floor
that night you screamed out for the son of god (twice)
            but all you got was me

if you had it your way
you’d ask me to call you “Charlie” or “Hank” when we fucked
but your confidence is buried deep in your skinny gut
            or probably in that dumb ponytail
let your hair down
your bangs aren’t that weird
you’ve left me alone before
with your lingering cigarette slut smell

            and you didn’t come back
I watched you walking from a window        
            Smoke stack and wine rack are words
            you’d like me to use to describe you

but generic fits you just fine
if you read this I know you’ll object
in your world you’re the center object of individualism
            so stark and rigid in your uniqueness 
            Ayn Rand would quiver with ecstasy
but you boy of nihilism and booze stains on your button down
            lazy tongued and perversely mouthed  
            you self-appointed antihero of empty bottles and dead eyed hookers

don’t you know that every boy I meet thinks he’s Charles Bukowski?

- ottalaus-og-hrein

100 notes


Martina Nehrling

Apollonia Saintclair

Vincent Van Gogh, detail of View of Paris