Cou Cou Baby
urshad:

I’m back.

urshad:

I’m back.

Women who were brought up devout and fearful
get stirred, like anyone else.
Want men. Want
other women. Stink under the arms at the end of
the day.
Get that all too familiar mix of fear and discontent
in the night. Want to do the things
that they Must Not Do.
Those dirty, bloody attractive things.

'liking things'

Yrsa Daley-Ward, ‘bone.’

now available at amazon.com

(via yrsadaleyward)
In the embrace where madness melts in bliss,
And in the convulsive rapture of a kiss—

Thus does Love speak.
Ella Wheeler






















(via franflow)
Until you have been the last ones sitting in the café on the corner and she has kissed the dark rum from the rim of your glass and schooled you in the art of eating artichokes…until then, you are not yet woman. Until you put soft leaf to lip, touch tongue to flesh, bite the lobe, swallow the juice she says will purify you, until you open it up, sigh at the colour, see its very middle and learn what fingers are best at…
until you reach further still into that thick, hot, heart life has not yet started.
Before you had been promised. Before she is a liar. Before you are dismantled, fixed and broke again you are not yet a lover. Remember on the right night and under the right light any idea can seem like a good one and love
…love is mostly ill advised but always brave.
The most important thing to do is not to worry. The lines on your face will never stop the sun from coming up. Your tears cannot affect the weather. There are wars going on. The one in your body is the only one you can be sure of losing
or winning, then losing again. You drink more water than rum, these days, don’t you? But you drink to her memory, don’t you? And you only take artichokes in salad. Never whole. Not in a café on a dusky street at midnight. Not with her. Never with her, or anyone like her.

'artichokes'

Yrsa Daley-Ward, ‘bone.’

now available at amazon.com

(via yrsadaleyward)

vimuttimagga:

"When I mourned my inability to finish any of my poems, he quoted Mallarmé to me: “Poets don’t finish poems, they abandon them,”

aquariusplanet:

theartgeeks:

Celestial Ride, 1957 ~ Salvador Dali

likes this ♥

aquariusplanet:

theartgeeks:

Celestial Ride, 1957 ~ Salvador Dali

likes this ♥

menentk:

Yellow and alive by tanakawho on Flickr.
I sleep because one hour with Henry contains five years of my life, and one phrase, one caress answers the expectations of a hundred nights.
Anaïs Nin, Henry and June: From “A Journal of Love” (via casualboundaries)