powers out by caspermask from the album: demo

tinymediaempire:

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.

And without warning… You’re suddenly that family of four.

And without warning… You’re suddenly that family of four.

In The Demise of Guys, Professor Zimbardo argues that young men are struggling: emasculated by dominant women and infantilized by parents whom they continue to live with, young men are eschewing work, marriage and responsibility in favor of porn, video games and online friendships. The bleak picture that Zimbardo paints is attributed to changing social structures and “the dramatic rise of gals.” Masculinity, it seems, is in crisis. Again.

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

(via maozedongisnotcool)

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.
pica

dictionaryofobscuresorrows:

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.

pineconeonthetent:


When the blackberries hang swollen in the woods, in the brambles nobody owns, I spend all day among the high branches, reaching 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.

mary oliver

pineconeonthetent:

When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend

all day among the high
branches, reaching
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.

mary oliver

I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via grotesque-s-u-i-c-i-d-e)
joooeyyy:

“I’d rather be hated for who I am, than loved for who I am not.” -Kurt Cobain

joooeyyy:

“I’d rather be hated for who I am, than loved for who I am not.” -Kurt Cobain

It always looks better in pen.

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.

Sometimes things change before I finish confessing.

I lick my lips and then kiss you
(with a mildly murderous intent).
Simple, on the cheek:
Without flaw:
Without meaning, or so I’d have you think.
I steal your time and exhale;
I’m waiting to hear you breathing.
You don’t.
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.

Escaping the cubical drones; armed with play-doh.

Multiply.

Multiply.

If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I’m neurotic as hell. I’ll be flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days.
Sylvia Plath