1. (Source: ringswald, via interiorstorms)

     

  2. whoneedstransitions said: Your face is a watercolor.

    <bluuuuuuuuush>

     
  3. mushroomy.

     

  4. we have been inundated with some excellent prose/poetry/art submissions for cyberhex. 

    if any up and coming photographers want to submit their work for the first issue, please send us 1-5 prints : cyberhexjournals at gmail dot com.

    deadline : 30th April 2014.

    additionally, you will be informed about your submission status post 30th april once we have sorted through our selections.

     

  5. drape me in the valance of your hair

    viperslang:

    i think i have bartered the recherché symmetry of every rice grain that fills the coterie of my many mouths for the untranslated and dangerous to swallow diamonds studded in the word "cafune" - to run your hands through someone’s hair. there had to be a phrase, an archetype, an animal on the cusp of weakness and will that explained the unimpaired repetition of my hands in your hair. beyond this, i have many recitals of you: a bengal tiger in the verdigris reign, the threadwork of rock-keeled belladonna; the choker cut up from tobacco shish; the lustre of the vanishing point on a peregrine falcon’s trail. 

    you see, i am making you home in every swerve, every curve of my nerve, in my spells and smells; in my rapture and rupture. 

    look at us; making concessions to each’s handicap; we who have been blindsighted by conditioned routes we have been made to walk. we both have lettered the gravity of loss; we have scalded our soles on enough volcanic ash from the holocausts that voided our pasts. we were flawed into arranging and rearranging these gaps in memory like a tablecloth at a table that always goes unpeopled. the cull of these episodes as if the embrace of million different witherings. how did we fit the flame of this fanatic desire in those veritable lacunae? how did we even conceive that the slum of that grief was dwelling enough?

    for 29 years i carried a hoax in place of a heart; every inhale a misstep. how do we remain singular in the face of this impossible yet principal articulation of heartache? this metronome sinking its fingernails into the braille of our bruise. 

    know this, that every fever breaks at the tip of your name nudging its brief syllable into petaled marble paper of my lips. you will have never moved like this with a woman who is autographed by a grin different than mine. you will not have been tautened to a magnet’s expanding longitude, the extolling diorama of an unarticulated ache; the insinuation of another pleasure that whispers like an aria & weeps like shorelight.

    listen, my perfect valentine, my forest-dark octave of a calliope hummingbird, my lotus belled citadel of ancient demons —

    let us demand of each other a nearly criminal desire that blacklists us from any and every failing of Eros.  

    i want to pledge you a trick or two; i want to become adept in the alchemy of opalescent daybreaks that undress the moss-lidded camouflage of the highlands where the mist is a crackle in the thin cellophane of this earth’s hem. i want to brush your brokenness as an archaeologist emptying the chiffonier of greek coins. i want to take apart that studied spire stitch by stitch till we are a mess of a magnificent unfolding sharper than a shark’s jaws; a raven’s eye that tugs at the edge of each connoted rebirth.let us be made of pages and possibilities. 

    what self hasn’t been a tyranny - a colossus of doubt, a  bout of siphon or a drag out. you come haphazard as the quest in my question, the test in the testament and i think love is once again a search for a home.

    you have not come to live with me but you have come to live in me. 

    Scherezade Siobhan©

     

  6. "Rafael, we are still a thousand miles of anatolia, bygone,
    byzantine paisley of magnolia; antiphon tiptoeing the quarantine
    call Indra through the divining rod of that hairline bluestem
    signed by bushfire, this combat of gnats, this luminara anadem
    what is flesh folded into the jacket sleeve of a dying book
    sum me up: cartilage & synapse, each tendon spelled in arabic
    thick as brick stamping its corpse on the furtive tick against the hasp of a boat hook;
    your textbook nihilism, your belated gauntlet, your ego whetted electric
    if not, then why not; skipping Sorbonne for the brothels rife in dialectic
    you were the patron saint of salt stripped tooth marks,
    the international sign for abandoned amusement parks
    i want to empty the world of its present tense,
    its gemini gender, its cabal spat out from the rotary picket fence
    the revisionist’s coda, the statique of its cap-shut lens
    how many centuries elapse in the breath of a single frame?
    i remember; an earthworm small as error, a morning mimicking rosebuds
    i remember; strength is a pseudonym we assign to forgetting
    i remember something gray in the archway of our final days
    & sun - an amaranth, a sadness too impossible to tame"
    — Istanbul & Paisley, Scherezade Siobhan© 

    (Source: viperslang, via viperslang)

     

  7. Anonymous asked: HOW. ARE. YOU. SO. FUCKING. BRILLIANT. ???

    tea. lots of tea.

     
  8. in case of fire, look for the emergency shaft. 

     
  9. a poem that will change everyone’s life.

     
  10. this is a fun fact. 

     
  11. a poem that will change vincent philip’s life.

     

  12. inkeddiaries said: This is amazing! Love this!

    beautifulimposter24 said:reading this was like stepping inside a cathedral, stunning, rapturous, reverent.

    merci. :)

     

  13. drape me in the valance of your hair

    i think i have bartered the recherché symmetry of every rice grain that fills the coterie of my many mouths for the untranslated and dangerous to swallow diamonds studded in the word "cafune" - to run your hands through someone’s hair. there had to be a phrase, an archetype, an animal on the cusp of weakness and will that explained the unimpaired repetition of my hands in your hair. beyond this, i have many recitals of you: a bengal tiger in the verdigris reign, the threadwork of rock-keeled belladonna; the choker cut up from tobacco shish; the lustre of the vanishing point on a peregrine falcon’s trail. 

    you see, i am making you home in every swerve, every curve of my nerve, in my spells and smells; in my rapture and rupture. 

    look at us; making concessions to each’s handicap; we who have been blindsighted by conditioned routes we have been made to walk. we both have lettered the gravity of loss; we have scalded our soles on enough volcanic ash from the holocausts that voided our pasts. we were flawed into arranging and rearranging these gaps in memory like a tablecloth at a table that always goes unpeopled. the cull of these episodes as if the embrace of million different witherings. how did we fit the flame of this fanatic desire in those veritable lacunae? how did we even conceive that the slum of that grief was dwelling enough?

    for 29 years i carried a hoax in place of a heart; every inhale a misstep. how do we remain singular in the face of this impossible yet principal articulation of heartache? this metronome sinking its fingernails into the braille of our bruise. 

    know this, that every fever breaks at the tip of your name nudging its brief syllable into petaled marble paper of my lips. you will have never moved like this with a woman who is autographed by a grin different than mine. you will not have been tautened to a magnet’s expanding longitude, the extolling diorama of an unarticulated ache; the insinuation of another pleasure that whispers like an aria & weeps like shorelight.

    listen, my perfect valentine, my forest-dark octave of a calliope hummingbird, my lotus belled citadel of ancient demons —

    let us demand of each other a nearly criminal desire that blacklists us from any and every failing of Eros.  

    i want to pledge you a trick or two; i want to become adept in the alchemy of opalescent daybreaks that undress the moss-lidded camouflage of the highlands where the mist is a crackle in the thin cellophane of this earth’s hem. i want to brush your brokenness as an archaeologist emptying the chiffonier of greek coins. i want to take apart that studied spire stitch by stitch till we are a mess of a magnificent unfolding sharper than a shark’s jaws; a raven’s eye that tugs at the edge of each connoted rebirth.let us be made of pages and possibilities. 

    what self hasn’t been a tyranny - a colossus of doubt, a  bout of siphon or a drag out. you come haphazard as the quest in my question, the test in the testament and i think love is once again a search for a home.

    you have not come to live with me but you have come to live in me. 

    Scherezade Siobhan©

     

  14. michael is livetweeting easter.

     

  15. "The allegory is clear: we spend countless hours, days, and years creating our ideal objects (writing, painting, music, relationships, lifestyles), and much of this construction is performed in a myopic spirit of containment and control. That is, if all mitigating factors are accounted for, they can be controlled, and we will eventually arrive at the perfect object. But one of the fundamental structures of our universe—Time—is completely beyond control. As we are thus subject to Time, so too are our creations. It is thus that the Buddhist monks sweep away the sand mandala and through this process the ‘wheel’ becomes a synecdoche for the artifice and mutability of beauty and symmetry."
    —  Anobium, Watch the Wheel of Time 

    (Source: anobiumlit.com)