i think i owe you this. listening to me
sing about everyone i’ve come across and lost.
and you are the constant among all my nonsense
with my awful choice of words
i will drive you home. listening to you
drunk and cute, heart on your sleeve and it barely coming true.
and i am your constant among all your nonsense
with your awful choice in boys.
i speak in ninth grade form, cord under the door
powers out, we wait out the storm and i am floored
but you were such elegance, in your city of progress
but an awful absence.
this is a very crude brainstorm demo i recorded maybe two years ago in my bedroom; which is the origin of the title of my most recent print. it sounds like an unfinished song that was recorded in a bedroom. it also doesnt really have a chorus, because you know… punk.
Mark McCormack, The Demise of a Particular Type of Guy
GOD, IT MUST BE SO HARD FOR YOU. See: Zimbardo’s The Demise of Guys
Why do manarchist tears taste so disgusting?(via mohandasgandhi) My boyfriend seems happy with his masculinity. But he doesn’t have to live at home since he isn’t a lazy whiner. It makes perfect since that you feel looked down on if you neve do anything for yourself.
n. the smallest measurable unit of human connection, typically exchanged between passing strangers—a flirtatious glance, a sympathetic nod, a shared laugh about some odd coincidence—moments that are fleeting and random but still contain powerful emotional nutrients that can alleviate the symptoms of feeling alone.
By: Hugo Macdonald, Monocle issue 46 Sept 2011 (yes I typed this up, very ghetto)
Now everyone has ‘design’ in their job title, are we forgetting what it actually means?
I met someone the other day who, with a straight face, introduced himself as a hair designer. “What is it that you design…
When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend
all day among the high
my ripped arms, thinking
of nothing, cramming
the black honey of summer
into my mouth; all day my body
accepts what it is. In the dark
creeks that run by there is
this thick paw of my life darting among
the black bells, the leaves; there is
this happy tongue.
Psychopaths use charm and manipulation to achieve success in the workplace, according to a US study
“I’d rather be hated for who I am, than loved for who I am not.” -Kurt Cobain
Compulsion is a treasured note of a friendly disease,
when accompanied with cold blue eyes and youth fueled and filtered perspective.
I never asked why I felt so close to you or fell so hard into you
in the years where you were always there, forward facing, marching steadily away.
I feared if you ceased to exist my soul would finally fall flat
on the pavement and I’d plainly plunge into the category of
drone: program install completed: plastic marriage ready.
Compulsion is a closet-case of a pleasant disease,
when accompanied with strong-willed dreams and youth past-tense and passive feelings.
I still never stop to ask why I please you or take pride in your smile
in these years where you stay on my mind, patiently positioned, not afraid of the recoil.
I panicked in the thought of your kiss causing pleasant painful peace
to my fate and I retain ferocious fear of the moment when
over resides: final words are spoken: failure settles in.
Compulsion is a simple and mislead fiery disease,
when accompanied with warm blue eyes and age fueled and filtered perspective.
We never ask why we feel so close to this or fall so hard into this
in these years: we are idle here and rage non-complacence there, forced fierce, in battle.
We forget momentarily of life’s waged war and finally fall flat
into pillow top mattresses and perfectly please a desire of
normalcy: picturesque humanity: photo-shopped love.
I lick my lips and then kiss you
(with a mildly murderous intent).
Simple, on the cheek:
Without meaning, or so I’d have you think.
I steal your time and exhale;
I’m waiting to hear you breathing.
You just keep pushing towards freedom
of this future memory - -
We seem to have lived better in past tense.
Such a torturous game we play,
waiting for life to bloom from our idle intentions and yesterdays.
Escaping the cubical drones; armed with play-doh.