/ Ask Archive
lehroi:

'SELF-DEFINED SUBJECT..' [Violet Neon], 1966.
Joseph Kosuth
kindahorny:

me everytime I go out with friends
brownrosy:

art—gallery:

Craigie Atchinson, Crucfixion 9

Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor,
for the eternal idleness of the imagined return,
for rare flutes and bare feet, and the August bedroom
of tangled sheets and the Sunday salt, ah violin!

When I press summer dusks together, it is
a month of street accordions and sprinklers
laying the dust, small shadows running from me.

It is music opening and closing, Italia mia, on Bleecker,
ciao, Antonio, and the water-cries of children
tearing the rose-coloured sky in streams of paper;
it is dusk in the nostrils and the smell of water
down littered streets that lead you to no water,
and gathering islands and lemons in the mind.

There is the Hudson, like the sea aflame.
I would undress you in the summer heat,
and laugh and dry your damp flesh if you came.



"Bleecker Street, Summer," Derek Walcott (via
commovente)
Here’s to the security guards who maybe had a degree in another land. Here’s to the manicurist who had to leave her family to come here, painting the nails, scrubbing the feet of strangers. Here’s to the janitors who don’t even fucking understand English yet work hard despite it all. Here’s to the fast food workers who work hard to see their family smile. Here’s to the laundry man at the Marriott who told me with the sparkle in his eyes how he was an engineer in Peru. Here’s to the bus driver, the Turkish Sufi who almost danced when I quoted Rumi. Here’s to the harvesters who live in fear of being deported for coming here to open the road for their future generation. Here’s to the taxi drivers from Nigeria, Ghana, Egypt and India who gossip amongst themselves. Here is to them waking up at 4am, calling home to hear the voices of their loved ones. Here is to their children, to the children who despite it all become artists, writers, teachers, doctors, lawyers, activists and rebels. Here’s to Western Union and Money Gram. For never forgetting home. Here’s to their children who carry the heartbeats of their motherland and even in sleep, speak with pride about their fathers. Keep on.

Ijeoma Umebinyuo - Immigrants. First generation. (via
tuileries)

(Source: theijeoma, via tuileries)

In the embrace where madness melts in bliss,
And in the convulsive rapture of a kiss—

Thus does Love speak.

Ella Wheeler, "Love’s Language," Poems of Passion. (via
literarymiscellany)
jesuisperdu:

jean-michel basquiat
Every introvert alive knows the exquisite pleasure of stepping from the clamor of a party into the bathroom and closing the door.

Sophia Dembling - The Introvert’s Way: Living a Quiet Life in a Noisy World   (via
thenocturnals)

(Source: cumbered-cat, via thenocturnals)

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