tonight’s playlist brought to you by spreading peanut butter on bread on a Tuesday night in September in Los Angeles:

the gun club, fire spirit (I am going to the mountain)

aretha franklin, all night long (fate, how could you be so wrong?)

blondie, hanging on the telephone (parallel lines)

pedro the lion, indian summer (don’t you just love the sun/ doesn’t it make you feel good, all over?)

~ René Magritte, Le regard intérieur, 1949
Donovan - Season of the Witch

when I look out my window

what do you think I see?

and when I look in my window

so many different people to be

it’s strange

sure is strange

(Source: unhistorical)

~ René Lalique    

~ René Lalique    

To The Muse

It is all right. All they do
Is go in by dividing
One rib from another. I wouldn’t
Lie to you. It hurts
Like nothing I know. All they do
Is burn their way in with a wire.
It forks in and out a little like the tongue
Of that frightened garter snake we caught
At Cloverfield, you and me, Jenny
So long ago.

I would lie to you
If I could.
But the only way I can get you to come up
Out of the suckhole, the south face
Of the Powhatan pit, is to tell you
What you know:

You come up after dark, you poise alone
With me on the shore.
I lead you back to this world.

Three lady doctors in Wheeling open
Their offices at night.
I don’t have to call them, they are always there.
But they only have to put the knife once
Under your breast.
Then they hang their contraption.
And you bear it.

It’s awkward a while. Still it lets you
Walk about on tiptoe if you don’t
Jiggle the needle.
It might stab your heart, you see.
The blade hangs in your lung and the tube
Keeps it draining.
That way they only have to stab you
Once. Oh Jenny.

I wish to God I had made this world, this scurvy
And disastrous place. I
Didn’t, I can’t bear it
Either, I don’t blame you, sleeping down there
Face down in the unbelievable silk of spring,
Muse of the black sand,
Alone.

I don’t blame you, I know
The place where you lie.
I admit everything. But look at me.
How can I live without you?
Come up to me, love,
Out of the river, or I will
Come down to you. 

I won’t tell anybody else

I’ll keep it to myself

I know it’s late, whoa I can’t wait

So come on and steal away, please

Friday evenin’/ Sunday in the afternoon

what have you got to lose?

Tuesday mornin’/ please be gone

I’m tired of you

1910-again:

Otto Marseus van Schrieck, Snakes, Toads and Butterflies c.1639-1678

1910-again:

Otto Marseus van Schrieck, Snakes, Toads and Butterflies c.1639-1678

(via remnev)

(Source: wigglemore, via seinfeld-quotes)

"… let justice roll down like waters" — Amos 5:21-24

~ a prayer, written by Mark Twain

~ Rudyard Kipling, from his poem “the Naulahka”

~ Rudyard Kipling, from his poem “the Naulahka