(via wildcat2030)

(Source: artchipel)

I.

little care-giver, crawling on my finger
I am but distance over you

when the tasters arrive
to dine on your pride
Will a little severance hurt,
or will you drown and boil?

I have come upon this garden
weeping with that yew of yours
the fissures filled with time’s regress
and nature’s crooked stores

my hands are weathered deserts sunk
upon the plates of shifting sorrows
intersecting with the morrow
of a black and sulking sigh
withdrew my thoughts to mountain caves
the homes of frigid thoughts forgot

for when twice I had been given flight
by sleeping insects’ missing bites
I retreated into verbose spaces
cunning fingers willing sight

you are the frozen-under, spilling over
starter fire of distant clover
how the flower burns to you
with such a phosphorescent hue
I cannot fathom, nor with sapphire
recreate your tired eyes

and though you do but linger
dear, I can’t recall my finger

II.

currently I understand
a river’s stance upon the sand

a breath susurrant, white with current
shingles shining nothing forth
with all the light trapped in my legs
recurs in feathered, black remorse

your words entice a forming eye
and sing a lullaby to sleep
the constant murmur of your life
has leapt up to its inky feet

and so I do but dip my sole
into this ever-moving hole
alive with silver specks and

lowing footsteps
mute
encumbered grace

but hardened skin won’t let them in
the loving nereids of my dream
thus on my knees with lifted palms
I tilt my head into their arms

they stroke my hair and fill my face
with watered air and waves’ sweet lace
around a powdered mother
holding on
to one another

I’ve only now begun to see
through waters’ clear obscurity
of ocean’s darkness
pairs of claws
descended thence from buoyed laws

why does it rush so longingly
while speaking softly in my wake?

III.

your pincers block my pulse
creating gulfs within my skin

have I now submerged a species
known to live within the creases?
all but lovingly, fervent dispute
erupted from my gasping throat

I saw at once the forming rocks
and suns expanded with their clocks
of water-choking, half-spun limbs
all expansive, rushed roulette

and all the creatures, never knowing
formed of clay and heaven’s going
clicking through the pale sidewalks
of livid living hollyhocks

or pomegranate eyes below
the sewers loving all the throes
of victimized, abused neglect
what does she want but sects’ caress?

a tepid movement drawn with sinews
revels in the force of being
erupting from the corners of the
salivating cosmos’ gaze
to clot me over empty wells that we have made

always pointing when alone
but full of doubt in company

                “Was I happy once?” It was scrawled messily on the inside wall of the bathroom stall. Jared studied it with calm. What is happiness? Why does it always seem to be in the past or the future, never in the now? Are there people who, honestly in a moment, say that they are happy, and then notice that it continues to be true even after they have said it? Without realizing it, his hand had raised itself to hover near the letters, his fingers distending outward to that confusing ideal.

                Two stalls over, he heard a heavy grunt and a cough that brought him back to the dank community college bathroom. “Fuck,” his neighbor wheezed as the sound of corpses being dropped into a silent lake echoed upon the cheap, tiny tiles. Jared wadded up some toilet paper, quickly wiped, and returned his pants to the full and upright position. He turned around to flush, lingering over his creation for just a second, and picked his backpack up from the dirty floor, not noticing the dampness on its bottom as he walked briskly out of the bathroom, handling the doorknob heavily to quicken his emergence into the fresh smog outside.

                Back inside the bathroom, a faceless guy, about twenty years old, warily washed his hands, dried them with a paper towel, which he threw onto a great pile of wet trash, and stopped, staring at the doorknob. It can’t be that bad, he thought. People only grab this doorknob after they’ve washed their hands, after all.

actegratuit:

Art photography by Iwona Drozda-Sibeijn

(Source: proustitute)

yumuseum:

A MOTHER’S LOVE AND UPPER BODY STRENGTH?  PRICELESS.

Tackle your own mom in the waist this Mother’s Day, May 13!

This 50-Lirot silver coin was produced in Israel in 1979.  The front face depicts a mother heaving bouncing a baby in the air while another child embraces her at the waist.  Inscriptions in both English and Hebrew read, “Mother of Children, Psalms 113,9.” 

Silver coin, 1979.  Israel.  Collection of Yeshiva University Museum (2009.160).

actegratuit:

Антон Семенов

proofmathisbeautiful:

un:

iheartmyart:

Tim Hawkinson, Mobius Ship, 2006, wood, plastic, Plexiglas, rope, staples, string, twist ties, glue

California-based artist Tim Hawkinson is known for taking everyday materials and altering them in imaginative ways, creating works that address broad issues about the intersection of human consciousness, nature and technology. Here, he employed a mix of found objects and common household materials—including twist ties, craft wood, staples, and packing material—which he transformed almost alchemically into a complex and awe-inspiring sculpture.

Echoing the working methods of ship-in-a-bottle hobbyists, Hawkinson created a painstakingly detailed model ship that twists in upon itself, presenting the viewer with a thought-provoking visual conundrum. The title is a witty play on Herman Melville’s novel Moby Dick, which famously relates the tale of a ship captain’s all-consuming obsession with an elusive white whale. The ambitious and imaginative structure of Hawkinson’s sculpture offers an uncanny visual metaphor for Melville’s epic tale, which is often considered the ultimate American novel.

Möbius Ship also humorously refers to the mathematical concept of the Möbius Strip. Named after a nineteenth-century astronomer and mathematician, the Möbius Strip is a surface that has only one side, and exists as a continuous curve. Its simple yet complex spatial configuration presents a visual puzzle that parallels Hawkinson’s transformation of the mundane materials into something unexpected.

via IMA

(Source: surfgoths, via actegratuit)

(Source: proustitute)