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Mouldy Landscapes By Tracy Debenport (sourced from @distantvoices)

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isip.ink

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Friend's House, August 1999

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spoke deeply to me.

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Everything needs to be glass, if it can’t be glass it needs to be ceramic, if it can’t be ceramic it needs to be wood, if it can’t be wood it needs to be stainless steel, if it can’t be stainless steel it needs to be stone, if it can’t be stone it needs to be glass

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hey does anyone know if theres a way forward that ISNT going through because i triwd that and i almost fucking died

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Lucien Lelong perfume castle

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Jinhee Lee

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Praise House: The New Economy

        -- after and for Ross Gay The rosemary bush blooming its unabashed blue. Also dumplings filled with steam and soup  so my mouth fills and I bubble over with laughter. Little things. People kissing on bicycles. Being able to walk up the stairs and run back down. Joanna’s garden after the long flight to Tel Aviv. Not being detained like everyone thought I would. The man with dreadlocks and a perfect green shirt walking home from work. One cold beer  before I drink it and get sick. How peaches mold into compost in a single day: orange to gray to darkness into dirt. Her ankle’s taste. The skin right under the knob, delicate as a tomatillo’s shroud. All the animals that talk to me. That I finally let them talk to me. The blessing of waking early enough to watch the fox bathe itself. The suction of a man’s hands  meeting another’s on the street.  Every single person looking up  to see them. Bros, yes. But lovely  in the golden light with brims swung to the back. I want shoulders like  they have. Want my waist to taper  to an ass built like the David’s. I admit it: this body’s not enough for me. Still I love it. Al B Sure blasting out a Nissan Sentra’s windows. Bowties. Ridiculous blues. My mother’s seizures- specifically that I don’t have them. That I can answer Ross’ call or not because we live Harmonious and are always talking somehow.  Tapestries with their gluttony of deer. Fig perfume and also cypress. Boxer briefs and packing socks in jockey shorts. Strap ons. Soft and hard. Welcome in her hand and in mine as I greet the real me. The little shop in Provincetown. And the speckled dog that licks itself in that fresco of the crucifixion. Mary Oliver. I love her. I really do. The baseball she gave me that says, “Go Sox!” Though, I love the Orioles. Old Bay on all my shrimp. And justice. And cities burning if people need to burn them to get free. My grandmother gardening  in the late light. Sun Ra. The first time. Paris, even though I’ve never been there. Natal plums. Tattoos everlasting: Clouds. Orion’s belt. Pushing inside her with both hands holding myself  up. My weight. Her grabbing and saying, “God.” “Fuck.” The neighbors. Casablanca. Not knowing anything.  Angels. Mashed potatoes. Good red wine.

Gabrielle Calvocoressi in American Poetry Review, November/December 2015

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nobody tears through library books quite as fast as a 12 yr old girl with no friends

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Commissioned work for David Bestué and Marc Vives. Exhibited in Arco art fair in Madrid (February 2010). Done in crochet with Aviv Kruglanski

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Evening dress of blue silk damask and pearls (1860s) at the Gothenburg City Museum.

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Salvador Dalí (Spanish, 1904 - 1989), Vibrations nues dématérialisant un nu habillé de vibrations super-nues, 1956. Oil on canvas, 43.2 x 30.5 cm

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🗡️

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hey, don't cry. marbled polecat, ok?