— Larry Lewis

(Source: speioritur, via godddamnit)

(Source: fuckyeahhenryrollins, via itsmellslikegrrl-deactivated201)

— Brett Elizabeth Jenkins (via tylertorres)

(via sarahbee-in-the-stacks)

(Source: pushthemovement, via faeriefilth)

(Source: larmoyante, via rachmangler)

you are six crisp
budweisers
hissing and kissing
in griffith park 
you are red white
and blue stripes
smiling and smart

and secret linen lay outs
between bouts of air conditioned
exposition.

(desert cloud interlude:
space travel
and withdrawal) 

the city sirens
drop back seat
and palms cough
quietly as i ghost
through crowds
and now
crayola cooked
l.a. on mute
without you.

(Source: lookedlikelaughing)

First I get a father
from some city
of fathers

One with a neck

bright
red

And with all the tiny bird bones in my fingers carefully tip his chin back into the light like love
     so I can see
     so I can smell

I tell a dirty joke, then drag the steel across the universe

There’s nothing better
than shaving your father’s face
except maybe
shaving

your mother’s legs

My bedside manner is impeccable

The white foam
stays white

*

In the evening
his face attracts moths and women
sons
daughters

It’s as if his chin is made of Christmas lights, you have to shave the moths and family off
     it takes forever

The wings get all over your fingers

I like to use Merkur Super
platinum coated
stainless
steel

You could write on water with it

Rust free
Rost Frei

Made in Germany
so it will

last and last

*

Shaving my father’s face
I’m not shaving
my face

I’m shaving my brain

Lifting
the gray folds
to get at
the pink parts

Stuffing toilet paper into all the tiny holes I cut so it looks like a field of red flags waving
     paper tulips
     love notes

The universe wants a close shave
it wants its hair
high
and tight

You could bounce a dime off dad’s skin

My hand
on your face can you
feel it

-Michael Dickman

(Source: suffire, via comelylittletree)

— Charles Bukowski (via slothgrrl)

(Source: plutowater, via slothgrrl)

ululates:

you have found a way to make me a thunderstorm. an entire horizon of clouds that turn midday to midnight in moments; you make me want nothing but to hurl myself to the ground over and over and over again until a small part of me splashes up on the leg of your jeans. lands on a leaf you could brush. split myself on the top of your umbrella, and slide down just close enough to your shoulder to moisten your skin. at times i like to think people watch for me. they maybe sit out on a porch until i pass, then continue to poke a small fire inside. i wonder, are you waiting for me to cover your day? do you feel something in the air just before i’m there? do you even notice when it rains?

(via hallelujah)

— “We Were Emergencies”by Buddy Wakefield (via my-cartouche)

(Source: ymehcuotrac, via seacurrents)