Young Hound

Suck out marrow from bone,
Blueprint of skeleton homes,
Tangled in cords, telephones

ringing into nights and into souls.

I Could Say Beautiful Things

Sometimes I will see people

who are paid to say beautiful things

and think “I could say beautiful things.”

Cue the unfinished canvas in the garage.

Cue the demo tape that sounds like mummies having anal sex.

Cue the poems that make people throw their orange juice at me.

So my next question is who are they talking to?

Who is the beseecher’s beseechee?

This phantom muse on the other end of the microphone?

Cue the swinger timpanist.

Cue the Gay-Only-On-Wednesday phase.

Cue the cockatoo, turtle, chinchilla, and electric eel, all dead.

After all this questioning I must conclude

that I am speaking to myself, to the lint

lodged in my belly button. They say navel-gazing

like it’s a bad thing. They haven’t heard the echo in that depression,

the crater that once connected us to another.

(Source: goldshrapnel, via yelyahwilliams)

"If he writes her a few sonnets, he loves her. If he writes her 300 sonnets, he loves sonnets"

the-humdrum-gatsby:

- my english professor

(via freechampagne)

huskdawgzilla:

you’re hired

huskdawgzilla:

you’re hired

(Source: awwww-cute, via crassassbajablast)

(via kockamaniahu)

(Source: portugaltheman)

(Source: daysrunaway, via schmookens)

lynchmobzz:

The most perfect Portland date with this handsome boy πŸ’–πŸ•πŸ»πŸŽΆπŸ’

lynchmobzz:

The most perfect Portland date with this handsome boy πŸ’–πŸ•πŸ»πŸŽΆπŸ’