halfagod

[halfagod]

he’s too gracious to call out the shit they pulled on him, so i’ll do it instead: fuck genocide apologist bbc, fascist colonial land thieves. and free palestine.

[halfagod]

[halfagod]

art nouveau tile pngs ! credit not necessary for pngs! like or reblog to use, don't repost as your own please.

[halfagod]

*everyone else in westeros being the worst person ever*

brienne of tarth:

[halfagod]

[halfagod]

ages ago you voted on the preliminaries

now it's time to decide a winner

[halfagod]

From Isaac Chotiner's New Yorker interview with Jacob Lew, the former US ambassador to Israel under the Biden government. Whether Democrat or Republican, every American official enables the greatest infamies and terrors.

[halfagod]

16th century flower illustration PNGs.

(source: Book of Flower Studies, ca. 1510–1515)

[halfagod]

Jane Fisher.

[halfagod]

Thanks, Anon!

-submit your poll!-

[halfagod]

Claude Monet Weeping Willow and Water Lily Pond 1919

[halfagod]

do not 'oh it's just mascara' me i mean ANYTHING if you would hesitate to leave the house for a certain occasion without applying a certain thing to your face then you wear makeup for that occasion

[halfagod]

[halfagod]

Blackberry-Picking

by Seamus Heaney

Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills We trekked and picked until the cans were full Until the tinkling bottom had been covered With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s. We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre. But when the bath was filled we found a fur, A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache. The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot. Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.