your body's pine

hummuslove:

IMG_7041 (by sleepy time gal)

hey gurl, i just want more humus all the time

(via hummuslove)

williamchavez:

I Never Learnt To Share - James Blake

(via futurewitchdoctor)

deerlyawake:

derradiokopf:

yay it’s here it’s here

Window, by Forough Farrokhzad 

One window is sufficient 
One window for beholding 
One window for hearing 
One window 
resembling a well’s ring 
reaching the earth at the finiteness of its heart 
and opening towards the expanse of this repetitive blue kindness 
one window filing the small hands of loneliness 
with nocturnal benevolence 
of the fragrance of wondrous stars 
and thereof, 
one can summon the sun 
to the alienation of geraniums.

One window will suffice me.

I come from the homeland of dolls 
from beneath the shades of paper-trees 
in the garden of a picture book 
from the dry seasons of impotent experiences in friendship and love 
in the soil-covered alleys of innocence 
from the years of growing pale alphabet letters 
behind the desks of the tuberculous school 
from the minute that children could write “stone” 
on the blackboard 
and the frenzied starlings would fly away 
from the ancient tree.

I come from the midst of carnivorous plant roots 
and my brain is still overflowed 
by a butterfly’s terrifying shriek 
crucified with pins 
onto a notebook.

When my trust was suspended from the fragile thread of justice 
and in the whole city 
they were chopping up my heart’s lanterns 
when they would blindfold me 
with the dark handkerchief of Law 
and from my anxios temples of desire 
fountains of blood would squirt out 
when my life had become nothing 
nothing 
but the tic-tac of a clock, 
I discovered 
I must 
must 
must love, 
insanely.

One window will suffice me 
one window to the moment of awareness 
observance 
and silence. 
now, 
the walnut sapling 
has grown so tall that it can interpret the wall 
by its youthful leaves.

Ask the mirror 
the redeemer’s name. 
Isn’t the shivering earth beneath your feet lonelier than you? 
the prophets brought the mission of destruction to our century 
aren’t these consecutive explosions 
and poisonous clouds 
the reverberation of the sacred verses? 
You, 
comrad, 
brother, 
confidant, 
when your reach the moon 
write the history of flower massacres.

Dreams always plunge down from their naive height 
and die. 
I smell the four-petal clover 
which has grown on the tomb of archaic meanings.

Wasn’t the woman 
buried in the shroud of anticipation and innocence, 
my youth?

Will I step up the stairs of curiosity 
to greet the good God who strolls on the rooftop?

I feel that “time” has passed 
I feel that “moment” is my share of history’s pages 
I feel that “desk” is a feigned distance 
between my tresses 
and the hands of this sad stranger.

Talk to me 
What else would the one offering the kindness of a live flesh want from 
you? 
but the understanding of the sensation of existence.

Talk to me 
I am in the window’s refuge 
I have a relationship with the Sun.

Translated by: Leila Farjami (source)

(via meschosettesla)

jesuisperdu:

A Magazine, curated by yohji yamamoto

(via futurewitchdoctor)

(via wakethedead-blog)

(Source: bgarbee, via coletters)

(via wakethedead-blog)

somebody remind me where i am, that’s right i’m at home, yeah, i’m right where i belong… you say you feeling faded, yeah me too.

cauliflowers:

zaralikeschicken:

(via obssesivedisneyfreak)

likeneelyohara:

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inothernews:

ORANGE WE GLAD   Just 12 hours old, a baby gibbon has his parents’ full attention at the Columbus Zoo in Columbus, Ohio.  (Photo: Xen Riggs via National Geographic)

(via likeneelyohara)

sealegslegssea:

sosayssophie:

(by Mary Robinson)

(via funeralface)