Cou Cou Baby
nudityandart:

tree of life (by weissenegger). See it: http://ift.tt/1AbB7Rh

nudityandart:

tree of life (by weissenegger). See it: http://ift.tt/1AbB7Rh

allthelittlehouses:
I believe pain breeds wolves
and joys give rise to moons.

We grow forests in our bones
so our memories can’t find us.

I believe we hide and haunt ourselves.
Pavana पवन (via maza-dohta)
hexennacht

ozthewild:

i lit up my first novel in my lover’s backyard with a shaking handful of matches. it bit the ground a blue-flamed pyre & i had a mind to dance awhile. when i gulped down the smoke of words loved & lost, feeling nearly heroic & closer still to satanic, it felt only natural to lose every inch of clothing to the wind.

that night after twisting and roiling in bed, i rose to start & write again.

Tonight, she brushes her teeth
with the razor
washes her mouth with perfume
applies the red with her left
hand, powders her nose with
moonlight.

Tonight, she isn’t just pretty.

MJL, tonight, death makes her beautiful (via mimickingmaelstroms)
hexennacht

ozthewild:

i lit up my first novel in my lover’s backyard with a shaking handful of matches. it bit the ground a blue-flamed pyre & i had a mind to dance awhile. when i gulped down the smoke of words loved & lost, feeling nearly heroic & closer still to satanic, it felt only natural to lose every inch of clothing to the wind.

that night after twisting and roiling in bed, i rose to start & write again.

redchronicles:

Big Sur, California

redchronicles:

Big Sur, California

galleritito:

Please, darlin’, don’t stop now!
Photo: Tito Titus
Perhaps you noticed —-a Big Dick dry rub costs more than a good butt rub.  That makes sense, don’t you think?

galleritito:

Please, darlin’, don’t stop now!

Photo: Tito Titus

Perhaps you noticed —-a Big Dick dry rub costs more than a good butt rub.  That makes sense, don’t you think?

poetfire:

Take me away.

poetfire:

Take me away.

To kill our dream life would be to kill ourselves, to mutilate our soul. Dreaming is the one thing we have that’s really ours, invulnerably and inalterably ours.
Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)