danieltoumine

*(&^%#@$%

danieltoumine:

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

brouhahamagazine
this is not a poem
you had mint eyes burning with copper
ringlets,
smelled of plastic and
thunder
mama said you reminded her of milk and
gasoline,
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
poem
i’m sorry it had to end like this  (via irynka)
roomtemperaturedlovers

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)