Two-Headed Calf

apoemaday:

by Laura Gilpin

Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.

But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.

(via the2headedcalf-archive)

pendulum-north:

https://www.indeed.com/careers/gods-favorite-sacrificial-lamb

(via vampirismes)

vitruvian-bro:

(via twinprime)

literalliterature:

babygirl i can waste time i don’t even have

(via anotherstarling)

escuerzoresucitado:

(via anotherstarling)

yourgfdgirlfriend:

why are crying men so hot? it literally should be illegal

(via sapphicsoyboy)

manywinged:

manywinged:

smoking with the cherubim sucks because those mfs have the head of a man, a bull, a lion and an eagle and all four of them expect you to offer them a cigarette

incredible blunt rotation though

snailtongue:

“The wreath was made from the leaves and branches of honeysuckle and grewia plants grown at the Zoo.”

[ID: A hippo and her calf swimming to investigate a colorful wreath floating on the surface of the water.]

(via cloverkiss)

poetrylesbian:

i want to be hozier’s best friend

sightofsea:

I CRACK SUMMER OPEN LIKE AN EGG AND I FRY IT WITH A BIT OF BUTTER AND SOP UP ITS GOLDEN YOLK WITH TOAST AND ITS ALL WARM ALL SALT ALL THE TIME !

(via saintflint)

2urban2fantasy:

I need a good night’s sleep, a punching bag, a deep tissue massage, $300,000 USD, and a kiss from my beloved

(via saintflint)

whyamionlyabletouse32characters:

i miss you guys in a different life we were all organs in the same angel

(via saintflint)

hazzzyrider:

don’t you dare call me sweetheart i’ll cum

(via tired-twink)

log6:

the parallels between confession booths and bathroom stall gloryholes are not lost on the intellectual homosexuals

(via saintflint)

fluttering-slips:

From the Desire Field

I don’t call it sleep anymore.
            I’ll risk losing something new instead—

like you lost your rosen moon, shook it loose.

But sometimes when I get my horns in a thing—
a wonder, a grief or a line of her—it is a sticky and ruined
            fruit to unfasten from,

despite my trembling.

Let me call my anxiety, desire, then.
Let me call it, a garden.

Maybe this is what Lorca meant
            when he said, verde que te quiero verde—

because when the shade of night comes,
I am a field of it, of any worry ready to flower in my chest.

My mind in the dark is una bestia, unfocused,
            hot. And if not yoked to exhaustion

beneath the hip and plow of my lover,
then I am another night wandering the desire field—

bewildered in its low green glow,

belling the meadow between midnight and morning.
Insomnia is like Spring that way—surprising
            and many petaled,

the kick and leap of gold grasshoppers at my brow.

I am struck in the witched hours of want—

I want her green life. Her inside me
in a green hour I can’t stop.
            Green vein in her throat green wing in my mouth

green thorn in my eye. I want her like a river goes, bending.
Green moving green, moving.

Fast as that, this is how it happens—
            soy una sonámbula.

And even though you said today you felt better,
and it is so late in this poem, is it okay to be clear,
            to say, I don’t feel good,

to ask you to tell me a story
about the sweet grass you planted—and tell it again
            or again—

until I can smell its sweet smoke,
            leave this thrashed field, and be smooth

Natalie Diaz

(via maybuds)