Stand in the parking lanes
with a stolen golf umbrella.
Saliva glands dancing—
count out that wom-wom bass.
Feed on carnivals with cables
dragging you off in threes.

Cook up the greatest things 
that never happened.
Entertain the taste with snacks—
track yr ‘don`t give a fuck’ prints.
Find shoes with teeth for a soul
and gnaw at anything but ease.

- @DanielToumine

this is not a poem
you had mint eyes burning with copper
smelled of plastic and
mama said you reminded her of milk and
paper never knew you, ran off with a twenty-something
year old who didn’t know
the difference between religion and
pink lipstick
i drink champagne and cook
eggs, pour wine on white
sheets, kiss boys with blue
mouths and wet tongues, i
shower in my mothers wedding
gown, i sell paintings of
your wrists, i have become
so free i have no soul,
this is not a poem,
you are a
i’m sorry it had to end like this  (via irynka)

One night between sunset and river
On the old bridge we stood, you and I,
Will you ever forget it, I queried,
That particular swift that went by?
And you answered, so earnestly: Never!

And what sobs made us suddenly shiver,
What a cry life emitted in flight!
Till we die, till tomorrow, for ever,
You and I on the old bridge one night.

Vladimir Nabokov, The Swift (via roomtemperaturedlovers)