brown thoughts & frisky views

slugstyle:

Ms. Dapper at Humanities

Lucky coincidence that I’m reading my advisor’s first book, or strategic sycophancy? We’ll never know for certain…

do you ever….

do you ever do you ever do or say really stupid things instead of i need you and i’m sorry and saudade and how the longing and at night the longing and the tears and the stars hang low and the smell of pine reminds me of the cardigan you mostly wore and not that the cardigan you wear ever smelled of pine, oh god let me start again, no it’s just that your smell is in my nostrils or what i imagine your smell to be if we ever got close enough besides that one time. and so i’m leaving and deleting and drinking whiskey and deleting and regretting the potential infinities of the past. and leaning and deleting and somehow leaning further sadward which is a direction i never knew existed until right fucking now. don’t invest what is not yours to invest in friends. this is my final post. see wordpress for more glorious yet sober mistakes.

and all i loved, i loved alone...

ladyolivierx:

From my childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then - in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life - was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which blinds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightening in the sky
As it passed ne flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

i miss my father. i miss my mother. i miss the two of them together & being three years old & being life affirming & having life affirmed for me & being radiant & looking good in skirt suits & sunday school & berets & “oh, happy birthday, here’s a pony!”. i miss “of course you’re valedictorian” & the letters he would write, the letters she would write. the letters they would write together, evidenced by trailing penmanships, curlicue exes & ohs. i miss “can i sleep with you tonight” six nights in a row, on principle. i miss “can i sleep with you tonight” twenty years later, on principle. i miss knowing who i am & who i should be at this age, now. i miss the moments up until this very becoming. i miss perfect health. i miss not being so sad all the time. time. it goes too fast. i want to go home. i miss knowing who that was. and where.

(Source: jimmy-pages-hands, via )

To a Young Girl

wanton-lascivious-licentious:

My dear, my dear, I know
More than another
What makes your heart beat so;
Not even your own mother
Can know it as I know,
Who broke my heart for her
When the wild thought,
That she denies
And has forgot,
Set all her blood astir
And glittered in her eyes.

W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)

(Source: sex-and-shakespeare)

vintagelesbian:

Posting this again in honor of all the wonderful proud mothers. Happy Mothers Day!!

if only, you guys…

vintagelesbian:

Posting this again in honor of all the wonderful proud mothers. Happy Mothers Day!!

if only, you guys…

(Source: heybodiddley, via fyeahqueervintage)

(Source: yourhandiheld)

garfieldminusgarfield:
- I know how you feel.

garfieldminusgarfield:

- I know how you feel.

"it’s ok, as long as i’m the lady." 

"it’s ok, as long as i’m the lady." 

(via disneyslove)

theclassyissue:



thanks for the tip, internet.

theclassyissue:


thanks for the tip, internet.

(via anesugunz-deactivated20120707)

'Gee baby, you are rare.'

From ”Lesbos”

I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair.
I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair.
We should meet in another life, we should meet in air,
Me and you 
Meanwhile there’s a stink of fat and baby crap.
I’m doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.
The smog of cooking, the smog of hell
Floats our heads, two venemous opposites,
Our bones, our hair.
I call you Orphan, orphan. You are ill.
The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B.
Once you were beautiful.
In New York, in Hollywood, the men said: ‘Through?
Gee baby, you are rare.’
You acted, acted for the thrill.
The impotent husband slumps out for a coffee.
I try to keep him in,
An old pole for the lightning,
The acid baths, the skyfuls off of you.
He lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill,
Flogged trolley. The sparks are blue.
The blue sparks spill,
Splitting like quartz into a million bits.