clevermeat-blog

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drinkin' limeritas & readin' all the things <3

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you seem wicked. and you are absolutely breathtaking!

aw wow thank you so much! wicked indeed, evil abides xo

edit: i meant to answer this privately but imon a lot of drugs!! maybe its serendipitous tho bc flusterpress has a really ace blog u should follow

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Do Your Best and Call it Your Life

There’s a moment in our lives that everyone gets—a sudden realization that there are more than 6 billion souls on this planet—and each one lit by an ineffable light, each one endless in its own mystery and reach, burning like stars inside the dark vacuum of the universe. This moment can hit you like a thrown brick, or touch you like a soft finger—but once it does, you can’t deny it.  Faced with the immensity of this world, you can go down and let it drown you like a rising tide…or you can say fuck it and try to do your thing anyway.  Stars don’t feel jealousy, although their numbers are beyond measure.  Stars don’t feel lonely, although they are always alone.  This what the stars do: burn, and burn, and burn, and burn, and burn, and burn, and burn…

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Astrid Oudheusden. Dreams.

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a hand-crafted absence

An oceanic absence of store-bought brain chemistry, soft spin of pen on paper— I take my own habitual homeostasis for granted like the expensive slippers we unveiled to papa on his birthday, never worn.

Vanity is a synonym for or symptom of death. I create and recreate these odd pockets in time, these null-holes, these comical and solitary voids.

Years spent alone reveling in a nameless, peculiar sort of disgust. Filth of the self, cave dripping

eroded paths of comfort.

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@triplecherry

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hella trol buzy x peny gorig

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GRAVE

running into a graveyard and inverting wooden crosses of the freshly dead. rotting bodies have a great sense of humor i’m sure. the bigger the graveyard the bigger the crowd; i’d go just to convince myself i didn’t mind people. silent folk with their antiquated names and cheesy headstones—marble in the shape of a car, of a fucking poodle. and across the street a store selling both caskets and trophies. spent a paycheck on a huge gold and green one, #1 Dead Person 2012. lugged it around like yeah, what?

  And the head of the place lived in the back - owned the town #1 source of wasted mean in the country. Big black car from the 40's lugging around sleepy face or something thinking about getting a new sign. Neon or something inviting. He owned the town. Perfectly preserved now.. decided one night while luggin round you uunderstand.. nobody missed #1 wake. Poisoned the cake. Town in a ditch. Come visit museum of death...

  the city doesn’t feel too different, never having been a lively place. run-down houses and corner stores surviving off food stamps alone—everything’s shuttered now, dead cats lying lethargic in windowsills, old men still propped up behind newspapers now yellow, Old News. it’s me and the birds making all the noise, no more drunk heckling on night walks, domestic disputes next door. and of course on occasion his car the sinister hearse i’m hiding from in the dusty closet of some dead family, don’t let me overstay my welcome.

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flash fiction by victoria sélavy and francisco cortés

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excerpt from 'Museum of Cancers'

(That’s why they’ll cut off your feet. That’s why they’ll seal your eyes with bits of ancient maps. That’s why they’ll say your name in celebration of the pancreas. Got it? That’s why the uterus is darker - intestine and cornea-. That’s why they’ll cut out prayer. Got it?) -Luna Miguel Santos: living / sugar cancer -Ana Santos Payán: living / mom cancer -Pedro Miguel Tomás: living / health cancer -Chus Tomás: living / patience cancer -Pedro Miguel: dead / grandpa cancer -Mercedes Payán: living / loneliness cancer -Manolo Santos: living / family cancer -José Ángel Valente: dead / light cancer -Roberto Bolaño: dead / probabilities cancer -David Foster Wallace: dead / economic cancer -Marcel Schwob: dead / syphilitic cancer -Antonio J. Rodríguez: living / Europe cancer (That’s why it hurts me, you know? That’s why my blood hurts: because it’s outside. And inside it doesn’t hurt and outside it kills. And inside it doesn’t ache and outside it frightens. What intense blood. How dangerous. That’s why it hurts me, understand. Do you understand?) _ Luna Miguel http://www.shabbydollhouse.com/museum-of-cancers

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Breasts

I have one breast bigger than the other. So men caress the one that is more bulky. They are smart. I think. It’s an animal instinct. My chest my breast my tit purple from bites from the cold from imperfection. Only you are perfect only him, I say, greasy heart, he prefers the smell of shit to the smell of bleach he and the perfect defect of his warm chin from his warm touch from his sterile I love you. _ Luna Miguel   (translated by Jeremy Spencer) http://www.amazon.com/Bluebird-Other-Tattoos-Otros/dp/0578098903/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1375579293&sr=8-1&keywords=luna+miguel

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tweets of the week

compiled by @cdankland