nofearpioneer:

bennett made a gif of me stealing my asshole father’s facial hair while i was drunk as shit the other night.
note: i wasn’t on the floor yelling about america
but damn, do i usually end up shitfaced and being captured on film in ways that could compromise my national security

nofearpioneer:

bennett made a gif of me stealing my asshole father’s facial hair while i was drunk as shit the other night.

note: i wasn’t on the floor yelling about america

but damn, do i usually end up shitfaced and being captured on film in ways that could compromise my national security

theunknownmary:

Especially poking dead things with a stick.

theunknownmary:

Especially poking dead things with a stick.

  • nearlya:

Cris Brodhal. Young Jesus |  Helmet | The Virus, oil on linen
  • nearlya:

Cris Brodhal. Young Jesus |  Helmet | The Virus, oil on linen
  • nearlya:

Cris Brodhal. Young Jesus |  Helmet | The Virus, oil on linen

nearlya:

Cris Brodhal. Young Jesus |  Helmet | The Virus, oil on linen

  • 2headedsnake:

Ricardo Martinez
  • 2headedsnake:

Ricardo Martinez
  • 2headedsnake:

Ricardo Martinez

2headedsnake:

Ricardo Martinez

keep those eyes closed at night
can’t see in the dark anyway
forgotten all about
the veil of moss across your face
as fingertips grip and retrace deep
scars left in the bark
marked a familiar path back to the sea
where salt burns your throat and
dry air cracks thirsty lips
barefoot, kick the sand
into the storm so strong each grain
like needles slice through skin
wont to cripple your step, you say
wont trip over quartz and fall flat
the same way
these old ghost waves echo through bones
that can never ignore the cries of the coast
caught somewhere between
orange and lemon, pocketing
monsters to keep close these demons, these
sadistic reminders that
although fire and water may temper steel
you cant wield ideals
against rock
but if you make it to that shore,
and you get your chance to face down the dark abyss
I hope your eyes open to meet their own
long enough to recount the journey
of the reflection that faught its way
through the forest,
on the back of a buffalo
just to face the depths once again
with the strength to finally walk away

Origami

arms, back, neck
top heavy
camel hump
swollen
slouchy shoulders
blobbing out the
meaty chicken wing slump, just

re-adjust
sit up, ‘cepts back
fidget arms, compress
it’s all in the technique, years of
suck in, sit back
folded up to
shrink down, these

origami’d fragments
- just parts of a hole
abstract nebulous I am until
the third layer band is an
inch too low to restrict
the bump that pokes the shirt, so I
adjust the girt, inhale and

exhale the anxiety,
fuck the chronic sorrow, see
i’ve got this ticking in my stomach,
sending sonic power through my veins
filling the hollow with a warmth that glows
reverberations to serve as a reminder
that I can hold off another hour

Or two, or three,
until I cave and forget to remind
that I’m trying to forget to remind myself
that this strategy is not the best way
to go about addressing the fact that
I have never wanted to admit

any of this.