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REVISITING THIS hapy pride !!!!

happy pride to all my bixbi m/f ships <3

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הבל | hevel

This is how it goes: God whispers in Cain’s jealous ear, drawing his attention to the Sin crouched at his doorway. Sin has haunted eyes and a mouth that has been kissed. Let there be no doubt that Sin has been kissed, with a wet-red mouth that may taste of blood or pomegranate or the electric crackle of a stoplight. Cain looks at Sin. He runs his tongue over his teeth.

This is how it goes: Cain leaves the house at one am in bare feet and a hoodie, careful to avoid the last stair that creaks, and treks out into the Field. There are many fields in the world but there is only one Field. Cain feels the difference in the grass when he crosses the border from field to Field, the way the grey-green blades stand up at attention in his wake, the way the dirt turns ice-cold and furious beneath his heels. The earth is good with foreshadowing. The tree of Knowledge has deep roots.

This is how it goes: God says, I will take you or your brother.

God says, You get to choose.

And Cain says, “When you split me and my brother in the womb, you did not divide us evenly. He got kindness, and I got longing. He got complacence, and I got ambition. I want to kill him sometimes. I think sometimes he wants to die.”

I have never made brothers before, God explains. That is how I thought they were made. What more do you want?

“I want to steal some of his kindness,” Cain says, and shakes his pocket knife out of his sleeve.

Back at home, Abel sits up in his bed with a start, heart racing. That was close, he thinks, that was a damn close one, and does not know why.

In the Field, the ground warms as blood seeps into the dirt. 

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Children's Letters to God

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“This is the house that built me and I’m gonna burn it down. This is the river I crawled from and I refuse to drown here. And bless the strippers but fuck the men. And bless the berries but fuck the farm. And bless the daughter but fuck the family. What is a home if not the first place you learn to run from? You’ve got to bite the hand that starves you, and in doing so Praise the place that birthed you. Birthed you fucked up. Birthed you ugly, and interesting, and ready to scream.”

— Courtney Love Prays To Oregon, Clementine von Radics

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zombie girls

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When you sleep tonight, you will dream in the taste of wild blackberries. You will allow the Earth to hold you in its arms, and kiss you in the form of sunlight. When you wake, you will remember what you have forgotten since you were very small: you are a part of the Earth. She loves you. 

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“CHRYSOPOETICS I. the world ends softly— systole, then the sudden absence of answer. II. the sky burns in pieces—Beijing first, then Bangkok. The news is full of men and women in surgical masks, suitcoats rimed ash-white. Children are being kept inside, it informs, but you catch round faces at the edge of camera frames, small noses pressed against windows. (how to explain Armageddon to those little grigori, wide-eyed and guiltless?) your town gets hit between Nashville and Kansas City, a few chill-sharp hours before dawn. you stand in the gathering white, death dusting your eyelashes. it’s getting harder to breathe. III. the cities flicker, fall dark. The nights become silvercold bright; the milky way a Jacob’s Ladder—ascending, ascending, and impassible. Sometimes you see dark shapes pass across the constellations, slipping from empty to emptiness. Their wings blot out the stars. IV. you forget how to sing. you forget what it was for. V. you count your ribs one morning—trace the crescive struts of them with your ever-lengthening nails. There is blood in your teeth you did not put there; war rides a burned-out red mustang, and his mouth tastes like the wrong end of a bullet. The pale rider sits on the end of your bed at night, carving and sealing shem into your skull, whispering, the harvest is past. Under the bloated sun, you tear down the last gods. It is not enough, this slow monstering— you have remembered the apple still lodged in your throat and you are not saved. VI. the angels come too late, feathers crawling with mites and eyes flat as snakes’. The smell of ozone lingers in their skin, and glory glory glory sounds like a punchline. They promise altars and arks; the hollow earth, the ascending light. You will be gold, and gold again. You are not surprised when their throats are torn open, revealed to be hollow. VII. it is cold here at the end of all ages.”

— by notbecauseofvictories

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mom can you come get me things are getting bad again and i feel every insult like a sharp tooth and i feel my dreams rotting under my fingernails and i feel too much all the time or else i feel nothing at all and it doesn’t seem to matter if i drink and dance and party or if i stay at home curled up to study

mom are you sure when i was born i was a person and not just a vortex. always hungry. always swallowing. no matter how much goes in me i always end up empty.

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the "saint bernard" d:bh animatic idea i never made still haunts me to this day

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happy pride to all my bixbi m/f ships <3

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kristin chang saying "Godhood is just /like girlhood: / a begging to be believed." wow oh wow that is poetry

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“i. back alley angels, concrete kings we recycle prayers like plastic bottles and wish the wings would wither off our backs remind me that we’re holy as we bind our wrists with garbage bags and swear to never speak the blasphemy that bristles on our lips. ii. darling, we are modern martyrs purging promises with dime store bourbon and pawn shop cigarettes hoping that in the ruin of our bodies we will find something purer than the piety that wrecks our hearts and stains our hands. iii. at night, we drink ourselves to pieces and i can feel a baseline beating in my bones they ask me if i miss the taste of ichor and i tell them not if i pump my lungs so full of starlight that my tears turn into rivers and run silver in my veins.”

— they call us holy and they leave us hollow (modern prophets, pt. 2) // (e.c)

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if everyone had a personalized hell mine would be 16 year old conservative-leaning boys that dont pay attention to politics and are insufferable when you try to explain social issues to them

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ohhh prose poems that are filled with imagery and also directly mention months

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W.R., ON THE DEATH OF SUMMER AND BAPTISMAL PROMISES

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The Sun and Other Metaphors - Emily Palermo

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Afraid of Nothing by Keaton St. James

(patreon)

Happy first day of pride month, everyone!

[poem text: june baptizes me in rivers of sunlight and i burst to the surface dripping pollen-green. the air shivers under the weight of so much heat. the wind moves slow as a puddle of water, gets tangled in the red of the rhubarb bush and stays there for hours. even the splintered blue shadows of the oak branches melt into each other, boundaryless and bubbling like a stretch of tar. in the hot shade i dream a man’s lips brushing against the scars of my shoulder blades. he trails his fingers down my spine and thirty three finches unfurl from my skin, yellow and wet as bone marrow, stretching new wings. the dream-finches climb all over his arms, tug at his sweat-slicked curls, while we laugh and laugh and i feel afraid of nothing, not even the indigo prickle of a brewing thunderstorm, not even sitting up shirtless to kiss him through the damp slurry of birdsong and heartbeats lifting up, up into the endlessness of the sky. my lover pulls a tangerine out of his pocket, coaxes away the peel with his delicate, orange-stained fingers, lifts half the sticky, oozing dream-slices to my mouth. together, glowing violet with our hunger, we feast and feast. /end poem text.]