lazy butterfly


is wolf haunting
static on your tv

a dump for all the things
that mean something to me
.

lucifelle —>
lucifelle:

Henk Bloemhof

lucifelle:

Henk Bloemhof

hexenacht —>
lookatthisfuckingoogle —>
fluxthotz —>
society6.com —>

desireexelyda:

 Kevin Russ

negativepleasure —>
needlessnoise —>
"The image of Kali, in a variety of ways, teaches man that pain, sorrow, decay, death, and destruction are not to be overcome or conquered by denying them or explaining them away. Pain and sorrow are woven into the texture of man’s life so thoroughly that to deny them is ultimately futile and foolish. For man to realize the fullness of his being, for man to exploit his potential as a human being, he must finally accept this dimension of existence. Kali’s boon is freedom, the freedom of the child to revel in the moment and it is won only after confrontation or acceptance of death." -David R. Kinsley, The Sword and the Flute

"The image of Kali, in a variety of ways, teaches man that pain, sorrow, decay, death, and destruction are not to be overcome or conquered by denying them or explaining them away. Pain and sorrow are woven into the texture of man’s life so thoroughly that to deny them is ultimately futile and foolish. For man to realize the fullness of his being, for man to exploit his potential as a human being, he must finally accept this dimension of existence. Kali’s boon is freedom, the freedom of the child to revel in the moment and it is won only after confrontation or acceptance of death." -David R. Kinsley, The Sword and the Flute

twohousesoftheholy —>
She calls my name as shelter, not realizing I am the storm. (via rainysundaysandcoffee)
tomtebloss —>

tomtebloss:

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it―

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?―

The nose, the eye pits, the pull set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot―
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.

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brutalgeneration —>
dryptosaurus —>
emmajerk:

Eleanor Kish

emmajerk:

Eleanor Kish

human-deformations —>