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The first time he calls you holy,
you laugh it back so hard your sides hurt.
The second time,
you moan gospel around his fingers
between your teeth.
He has always surprised
you into surprising yourself.
Because he’s an angel hiding his halo
behind his back and
nothing has ever felt so filthy
as plucking the wings from his shoulders—
undressing his softness
one feather at a time.
God, if you’re out there,
if you’re listening,
he fucks like a seraphim,
and there’s no part of scripture
that ever prepared you for his hands.
Hands that map a communion
in the cradle of your hips.
Hands that kiss hymns up your sides.
He confesses how long he’s looked
for a place to worship and,
you put him on his knees.
When he sinks to the floor and moans
like he can’t help himself,
you wonder if the other angels
fell so sweet.
He says his prayers between your thighs
and you dig your heels into the base of his spine
until he blushes the color of your filthy tongue.
You will ruin him and he will thank you;
he will say please.
No damnation ever looked as cozy as this,
but you fit over his hips like they
were made for you.
You fit, you fit, you fit.
On top of him, you are an ancient god
that only he remembers and he
offers up his skin.
And you take it.
Who knew sacrifice was so profane?
And once you’ve taught him how to hold
your throat in one hand
and your heart in the other,
you will have forgotten every other word,
except his name.

PROFANE, by Ashe Vernon (via 5000letters)

(via pniepple)

I feel as if I am an ad
for the sale of a haunted house:

18 rooms
I’m yours
ghosts and all.

Richard Brautigan  (via splitterherzen)

(Quelle: cartographe, via pniepple)

In my mind, there is a graveyard
where all the spoken things go.
The corroded words. Sandpapered words.
Words falling apart at the spine from how
sharply they rubbed against your teeth
while you spoke them. Words almost as old
as your mouth. In the graveyard is a pile
of our ashes and I can no longer remember
how many little deaths we died before
we finally had the courage to keep ourselves
underground. You were last seen at the site
of a murder. Words like bloodstains seeping
beneath the floorboards. The chalk outline
of two bodies: a double homicide.
You’re honestly brutal for someone
usually so brutally honest. Please.
Spare me. Last night, I found you underneath
the threshold underneath the apartment
underneath the building underneath
the sky you told me your first truth under
and shut the door before you even
opened your mouth.


Supa Relax II tee

Available from The Club of Odd Volumes

(via pniepple)

tell me about the time when the Earth
was softer, when the roundness didn’t
cut people open and leave them
bleeding into the cracks of
their bathroom tiles.
tell me the names of all the
fallen angels because
I think I met one the other day.
He’s sleeping next to me now. There are wings
scratched down either side of my spine.
I think he wants them back. He
still dreams of flying.
do you think you can do something
about the lonely souls?
There’s a lot of us.
And what about the hurt? Or
is this all part of something bigger,
a lesson to be learnt?
it’s me,
are you there?

A.Y // a midnight conversation  (via 2wentysixletters)

(via pniepple)


a cool photoset

(via pniepple)

I wish you a tongue scalded by tea.
A hangover. Burnt toast. Stubbed toes. A lost job.
I wish you weeping in the shower. Salt in the sugar bowl.
A wishlist of sorrows. Grief, not guilt.
Hole in your favorite coat. Stain on the good suit.
Arthritis for your joints. A broken guitar string at every show.
I wish each breath a little harder. Each workday
an hour longer. I wish your heart a thousand breaks.
All your sports teams, bottom rank. I wish your friends
go quiet. The leaves brown above your head.
A thunderstorm every morning. Nothing but pearls
when you shop for her diamond. I wish you bad knees,
a sore back. Empty sheets. A ghost to haunt your house.
A tub brimming with mud. Closet stuffed with too-small shoes.
Flat beer. Sour milk. Weak coffee. I wish you
flat tires, soggy pasta, a tax audit to fail.
Bent forks, dull knives. A hangnail for every finger.
I wish you a room wallpapered with my photographs.
A chamber filled with empty bassinets.

Jeanann Verlee, Grief, Not Guilt (via fypoetry)

(via pniepple)


words that start with the letter “s”

saprophyte: plant living on dead or decaying matter

sanguinolent: bloodthirsty

sepulchral: funereal or gloomy

serotinous: flowering late

somatasthenia: weakness of the body

sparagmos: ritualized tearing apart of a person

spinneret: silk-spinning organ of an insect or spider

syzygy: alignment of celestial bodies

(via pniepple)

Léa Seydoux for The Edit magazine, October 2014

(Quelle: memorylight, via mashamorevna)


The jewel-encrusted remains of a Christian martyr, recently discovered at Waldsassen, Bavaria, Germany.
(source: Paul Koudounaris, via smithsonianmag.com)


The jewel-encrusted remains of a Christian martyr, recently discovered at Waldsassen, Bavaria, Germany.

(via mashamorevna)

Why, is he scared of the dark?"
“Like all monsters. Because it reminds him of what he truly is.

Cruel Beauty by Rosamund Hodge (via ignifex)

(via mashamorevna)

Feed me to the wolves,
let them have my flesh. I am
something skin can’t hold.

r.l.m, “wild thing” (via mazzello)

(via mashamorevna)

Never tell a man your name. Never mention where you live, or any place we go. Never let a man take you anywhere; if you take one into the alley to neck, tell one of your sisters, and come back as soon as you can.

Never fall for a man so hard you can’t pull your heart back in time.

We’ll leave without you if we have to. 

The Girls at the Kingfisher Club by Genevieve Valentine

+ an anachronistic dancehall mix
[tracklist: 1. the charleston, james p. johnson; 2. you know i’m no good (amy winehouse cover), coeur de pirate; 3. ringleader man (t-pain cover), joan as police woman; 4. umbrella des étoiles (rihanna x niagara), amoraboy; 5. sacrilege (tommie sunshine & live city remix), yeah yeah yeahs; 6. dancing on my pyramids (frank ocean x robyn), the hood internet; 7. we can’t stop (miley cyrus cover), lux laterna; 8. after you’ve gone, jessy carolina]


(Quelle: widespindriftgaze, via mashamorevna)