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tumblr is basically a gay bar in a mental institute

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Credits

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Art by Chloe’s arts

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I shall have many others, verbena rosettes, Aristo-lochia pipes, thrift tufts, Maltese cross crosses, lupine spikes, and moonflower insomniacs, Agrostis nebulae, and vanilla pinks, St.-John's-cane to help me along the final steps I travel, and asters to star my nights. A Campanula, a thousand Campanulas, to ring in the dawn at the same time the cock crows; a dahlia gadrooned like a Clouet strawberry; a digitalis so that the fox will have gloves or so claims its common name; a Julienne, and not, as you might think, diced into the soup, but as a border! A border, I'm telling you, a border. Lobelias as a border, too, whose blue neither sky nor sea can rival.

As for honeysuckle, I'll pick the most frail, which grows weak and wan for being so odoriferous ... Last of all, I must have a magnolia that is a good layer, all covered with its white eggs as Easter approaches; a wistaria that, abandoning its long flowers drop by drop, turns the terrace into a purple lake. And lady's-slippers, enough to shoe the whole house.

—Colette, Flowers and Fruit

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"The dew is honeydew on that night and full of virtue, and the grass has a special healing power. The ferns flower on that night, brothers. And you must look where you're going in the forest, because the trees walk from one place to another…"

– Boris Pilnyak, from “Wormwood,” The Tale of the Unextinguished Moon and Other Stories (Washington Square Press, 1967)

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might fuck around and drink the daily recommended amount of water

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Fucking hard or hardly fucking am I right brother

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Uruguay🐚

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“Throw away the lights, the definitions, And say of what you see in the dark”

— Wallace Stevens, from section XXXII of “The Man with the Blue Guitar,” The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens (Vintage Books, 1990)

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Who in the morning finds the frayed edge dissolving. Who in the way of those birds would stand in the way? What way what way? What way is this? We found a mossy place, its soothing sigh. We found in the moss a way to breathe. We remember laughing lighter, a loosened scroll. Unfurl that old way of you, that ancient strength, that remembered flair. Too much? Too much? That blows away like a dead blade of grass. Sucked into last year’s winds.

From some scramble you sail, and from some way keep sailing. With all the blue space unpacked from dark trunks. A waiting in waiting growing root after root. What’s the power of a quiet root drinking? In time, my darling, in time. Then time blew away with the blade of grass swiftly. All the doors opened and you sailed straight through.

Bring chairs, bring bowls, bring blankets, bring lamps! We are moving to the earth, its tree branches wait. Moss to pack into your aches and cold gaps. Fresh stream to wash your bloodied knees. A forest enlisted to guard you and keep. An ocean forever just to sing you to sleep.

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—But the fun of the line between the yuds, Yeshua went on, is that it's a fence only if you look at it that way. It is really a road, and like all roads it goes both ways. You have to know which way you're going. Look at the anemones that make the fields red all of a sudden after the first rain of the wet season. The grand dresses at Solomon's court were not such a sight, and they were made with looms and needles, whereas the master of the universe made the anemones overnight, with a word. You can get near the line with much labor, or you can cross it with a step.

—Guy Davenport, “August Blue”, A Table of Green Fields

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