Xavier Dolan by Nan Goldin for Vogue Hommes
Rage
Txema Yeste
Antidote #4 The Animal issue
hey people who know astrology shit. ive been having a lot of feeligs lately. any planets i can blame that on.
earth
(via moonswooning)
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The drunk’s face breaks into sweat
As his friend falls under the wheels
But the headlights don’t flinch
And the engine doesn’t stutter
Oh yeah
Think about myself, I think about myself
Care about myself, I care about myself
I only care about myself
And other fears too stupid to mention
The ending of “Dramamine” scared Degnan
The way that you all see me
That’s who I am, but not who I need to be
Moving my joke body
Through the cold November night
Haha
Hate yourself, do you hate yourself?
I don’t hate myself, I tolerate myself
I wish I was someone else
But it seems too stupid to mention
I know I’ll be ripped in heaven
I was young, I was thin
I had money and I loved you
But then came the shabba de bop bop be shibby day, oh yeah
Shabba de bop bop be shibby day, oh yeah
I need a name for what I’m feeling
Then I can start to work on a meaning
Speaking of the shabba de bop bop be shibby day, oh yeah
Shabba de bop bop be shibby day, oh yeah
In a crowded room you will
Hear your own opinion voiced
You can sit back without a word
Watch it spread or fall silent
Oh yeah
If it’s too late to speak, I could get out of bed
Find a pencil and write, leave it for you to find
If the moment is gone
To say I figured out what the problem was
I’d been thinking about it earlier
Hey! Can you hear me now?
Am I alone in my futile efforts?
Sometimes I get so mad
I can’t do the few things I usually can
Which is sad
Occupying space, I know I take up space
Will there be a space for my soul in space?
That’s heaven to me
98083, Post Office Box 295
And now I’m young, and I’m thin
I have money and I love you
But here comes the shabba de bop bop be shibby day, oh yeah
(Thanks for fucking with my head, come again soon)
Shabba de bop bop be shibby day, oh yeah
(Thanks for fucking with my head, come again soon)
I need a name for what I’m feeling
Then I can start to work on a meaning
Speaking of the shabba de bop bop be shibby day, oh yeah
(Thanks for fucking with my head, come again soon)
Shabba de bop bop be shibby day, oh yeah
(Thanks for fucking with my head, come again soon)
And in the sky, there is a place
Where it’s warm, and you’re there
And I’ve got the power now
Yeah, I know what to do
To make you feel something besides pain
‘Cause it’s the love
That we’ve come to expect, to deserve
And then we fuck and it’s nice
It’s not a complicated mess
And my back doesn’t hurt
And your head doesn’t tell you to kill yourself
So we smile and embrace
Until we don’t know who we are
I can’t hear a thing now
I guess I belong to me now
But when night fell on Montana
I found a rest stop completely deserted
But I still felt the eyes upon me
So I drove away
“A monster is not such a terrible thing to be. From the Latin root monstrum, a divine messenger of catastrophe, then adapted by the Old French to mean an animal of myriad origins: centaur, griffin, satyr. To be a monster is to be a hybrid signal, a lighthouse: both shelter and warning at once.”— Ocean Vuong, from “A Letter To My Mother That She Will Never Read”, published in The New Yorker (via patsywalker)
(via levskinautique)
(via psilocybinladen)
Irving Penn Writer Carson McCullers, New York City 1950
“…“the way i need you is a loneliness i cannot bear.” Carson McCullers, “The Heart is a Lonely Hunter” 1940
–
she died of alcoholism
wrapped in a blanket
on a deck chair
on an ocean
steamer.
all her books of
terrified loneliness
all her books about
the cruelty
of loveless love
were all that was left
of her
as the strolling vacationer
discovered her body
notified the captain
and she was quickly dispatched
to somewhere else
on the ship
as everything
continued just
as
she had written it–Charles Bukowski, “Carson McCullers”
For the press – D-Day
No connection with Jean Seberg. Lovers of broken hearts are kindly asked to look elsewhere.
Obviously, one could blame this on nervous depression. But then, one would have to admit that it has lasted since I reached manhood and has permitted me to carry on my literary work.
Why then? Perhaps one must seek the answer in the title of my autobiographical book The Night Will Be Peaceful, and in the last words of my last novel: ‘Because it could not be said better.’ At last I have said all I have to say.
Romain Gary
December 2, 1980
Jane Fonda on set of They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?, 1969
// © Bob Willoughby