Saturday, May 19, 2012

The Mane Event - Hair and Poetry


Is there anything more beautiful, wild, wonderful, heartbreaking, artistic, natural, high-maintenance, defiant, expressive, individual, universal than a head full of hair? Not really.

 Unless it's poetry...

Pinned Image

there's a fire in my heart

 (9) Colores variados para tu cabello:* cool;$

because im addicted

The Beauty Of Hippies / .



illustrations / Tumblr 

☆ Alternative Purple ☆彡

illustrations / gorgeous.

beautiful, cute, fashion, girl, love - inspiring picture on

My Hair

Robin Behn
When I gather my long
leaf-colored hair
and make of it a stem

and twist the handle of my head
and join it back to me
with metal pins

I’m on your lap again
my hands are in the air
my view is mile upon mile

I feel you fashioning the serpent
on my head and the thick braid
of you inside me

I’m ready now to enter
a prim public place
where I am the teacher the police a saint

I turn my back
and everyone I command
sees what it can be to be commanded

Random / Maiden Braid

The Beauty Of Hippies / .

Random / Side french braided hairstyle

No one here to save me


No one here to save me

No one here to save me

peace please✌

Coleção Outono-Inverno 2012 Piccadilly – Uma Nova Mulher.


Fotos do mural



Bow Bow


Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Self Portrait as a Meadow

by Linda Norton
There is a chair
the heart of which
is wooden
split five ways
and grass pressed flat
where we kissed
where others later kissed
on the same mattress
and solemn nothing
happening under a canopy—
Have you forgotten me?
I will go down wonderfully
as was told in proverbs
though for a long time I thought
I should not go.
Here are things that have
no Latin names
or none
that men would know.



she's lost control
*booksie, **thepoetryfoundation, ***milly, ****weheart it, *****quitesadrobot, ******soap lobster, *******ladyofdogtown, ******** your drugs are quick, *********quitesadrobot, **********vivalavida2012***********seizuretron

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

On the Disadvantages of Central Heating


Corduroy coat

Amy Clampitt


by Amy Clampitt 

cold nights on the farm, a sock-shod
stove-warmed flatiron slid under
the covers, mornings a damascene-
sealed bizarrerie of fernwork
        decades ago now

waking in northwest London, tea
brought up steaming, a Peak Frean
biscuit alongside to be nibbled
as blue gas leaps up singing
        decades ago now

damp sheets in Dorset, fog-hung
habitat of bronchitis, of long
hot soaks in the bathtub, of nothing
quite drying out till next summer:
        delicious to think of

hassocks pulled in close, toasting-
forks held to coal-glow, strong-minded
small boys and big eager sheepdogs
muscling in on bookish profundities
        now quite forgotten

the farmhouse long sold, old friends
dead or lost track of, what's salvaged
is this vivid diminuendo, unfogged
by mere affect, the perishing residue
        of pure sensation



* wooden nest
** (The Poet) The Poetry Foundation
***we heart it
****Academy of American Poets

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

The Poetry of Science

   Tumblr Vanessa Vespertine i can't afford to breathe in this time | Flickr - Photo Sharing!
About Foam
A paradoxical pleasure is both solid nor liquid that can be wet, dry, hard, soft, expansive, changeable. An intricate and hollow polymer network is energy transport at its finest, a compound structure of gas nor bubbles nor fans. Once hardened it can be tough to break. What binds. A gel for instance can envelop like an elastic skin. It can be prodded distorted pushed about, yet will bounce back and hold its shape. Under greater surface tension, it breaks into liquid starts to flow. A resilient responsive substance is mysterious, swift to morph, ever present in all that is cellular and delivers a shake-up. It supports the many invisible synthetic demands of industry-dependent living from insulants to binding agents. It has naturally assisted in the solidification of soap, the rising of bread, egg whites, and soufflés since the 17th century. The old ponce pumice stone works on hard callouses. Once exploded it can be hard as ash. The skeletal containers of dead sponges were used by Romans for brushes and combs, and for cups. Proust's memory work is foamic in a foam-lined room. A sudden foaming from the mouth for instance is the warning of miles of a thick sluggish matter heaped along coastlines, or bubbling up, obstructing the flow of vast industrial evacuation conduits. Matter turns unwelcoming, seemingly unregonisable. A persistent reactivity to events in its surroundings acts on a profound imbalance, the sign of a system being worked beyond capacity. Foams everywhere like the letter e, down to the alveolar structure.

 ††† ††† ††† †Enjoy the kiss ††† ††† ††† The Beautiful Ordinary You're the best paint life's ever made.

 - Caroline Bergvall

Making it Happen


“Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark in the hopeless swaps of the not-quite, the not-yet, and the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserved and have never been able to reach. The world you desire can be won. It exists.. it is real.. it is possible.. it's yours.”
Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged


Monday, May 7, 2012

I don't know. . .


"I don't know you. The only thing I know about you is, you're reading this. I don't know if your happy or not; I don't know whether you're young or not. I sort of hope you're young and sad. If you're old and happy, I can imagine that you'll smile to yourself when you hear me going, he broke my heart. You'll remember someone who broke your heart, and you'll think to yourself, Oh yes, i remember how that feels. But you can't, you smug old git. Oh you'll remember feeling sort of plesantly sad. You might remember listening to music and eating chocolates in your room, or walking along the embankment on your own, wrapped up in a winter coat and feeling lonely and brave. But can you remember how with every mouthful of food it felt like you were biting into your own stomach? Can you remember the taste of red wine as it came back up and into the toilet bowl? Can you remember dreaming every night that you were still together, that he was talking to you gently and touching you, so that every morning when you woke up you had to go through it all over again?"

- Nick Hornby