Bugging the Dragonfly
I am a house of words, and a box of things.
This is a blog of the things I write and the things that I like.
For all my writing - there's a link at the top.

starplatinumtheworld:

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who reads ancient scrolls written in a forbidden tongue and summons nightmarish beings from beyond the mortal plane.

Surrealist Floorboard Aesthetic:
The cracks glow darkly with a void of radioactive stars. They do not creak, but whisper secrets in an insidious percussive murmuring that chitters out of the pale knots. Walk on them; suddenly the world is a different colour, the floorboards are you mother’s skin. They are soft, soft, soft. You are a god with five heads, your mouth contains the spark of the universe - you understand all and atoms tell your their desires. The knowledge consumes you; it pulls your head out of your teeth, the world stretches. You take another step and you are you again. The floorboards blink up at you with gleaming wooden eyelids shuttering over flesh eyes, they critique your underwear. You should not have worn a dress.

dutchbag:

babyslime:

cyprith:

basedgaben:

garconniere:

tothecabaret:

1930’s Teen Delinquents

i.e. life role models

I’m just gonna reblog this again because it’s one of my favorite pictures ever.
That girl in the chair seems like such a badass I bet she was the leader of the crew.

I want to write about these girls.

When I was a teenager my mother found my grandmother’s (her mother) school scrapbook. It included things like photos, notes, and a two page spread of every demerit she ever received over the course of her formal education. Each of them set aside with little tags like she was so fucking proud of them. They were all for things like, “Unladylike behavior” or, “Skirt too short” or, “refuses to listen to authority”. I loved that spread so much.

I always have to reblog this.

dutchbag:

babyslime:

cyprith:

basedgaben:

garconniere:

tothecabaret:

1930’s Teen Delinquents

i.e. life role models

I’m just gonna reblog this again because it’s one of my favorite pictures ever.

That girl in the chair seems like such a badass I bet she was the leader of the crew.

I want to write about these girls.

When I was a teenager my mother found my grandmother’s (her mother) school scrapbook. It included things like photos, notes, and a two page spread of every demerit she ever received over the course of her formal education. Each of them set aside with little tags like she was so fucking proud of them. They were all for things like, “Unladylike behavior” or, “Skirt too short” or, “refuses to listen to authority”. I loved that spread so much.

I always have to reblog this.

(Source: germiest, via sarriane)



First day at school, Gaza, Palestine.

this is the most important thing right now.

First day at school, Gaza, Palestine.

this is the most important thing right now.

(Source: hadeiadel, via harrypotterandthehalfblooddoctor)

He was a fright train, eagerness reigned his veins. But her heart was still in the oven, waiting for time to shape out her form. He saw the world as a little snow globe glistening in his palms. She saw the world in his emerald eyes, and it was enough. Silly little humans, they are.

This is where I close this book. -s.p. (via mystrangesilhouettes)

(via lzlabseesu)

http://incitatusforconsul.tumblr.com/post/97722263772/nanyoky-i-want-to-write-an-alternative-version → http://incitatusforconsul.tumblr.com/post/97722263772/nanyoky-i-want-to-write-an-alternative-version

buttonpoetry:

G. Yamazawa - “Elementary”

"I became a bully, because we all want to feel like America sometimes."

Performing for Beltway (D.C.) at the 2014 National Poetry Slam. Beltway won the tournament.

Poetry leads to the same place as all forms of eroticism — to the blending and fusion of separate objects. It leads us to eternity, it leads us to death, and through death to continuity. Poetry is eternity; the sun matched with the sea.

— Georges Bataille, from Death and Sensuality (via violentwavesofemotion)

(Source: ljosio, via howitzerliterarysociety)

Stream of consciousness

thornsides:

thrown out to the wild city, with rooftops
sloping downwards like the irish moors
diving, hand-in-hand to the muddy
undertow of bordellos and discotheques
pulsating giddily to the beat of another
ganja-laden nocturne

repeating on four infinite bars
I am one
I am two
begging of the other
to break my dualism
in three pieces
and play chopsticks with it

You know how to,
they thought the song
and the touch at the
pre-elementary,
entirely natal school
of our existence

the gray tubes of our minds
are still whistling smoky melodies
revealing under the humming
of greater organ-pipes
carefully breathing machinery
orgasming even of our most
wasted ideas, gently
fingered-wet ostinatos
moaning sensually inside
mental cathedrals of junk

It’s all spirit or nothing
and sometimes
nothing
has to be thrown away

On The Gears Of A Pocket Watch

iamananggryyoungman:

If I connected myself to the coils of a pocket watch, could I hypnotize myself into believing I had passed beyond the reach of time for good?

Or would that ouroboros come around, snake with a hundred mouths, and swallow me again, and once inside, how long to be knocked about,

eternity would not be so bad if it allowed itself to start again from time to time, or maybe rebirth is just too frightening, and reincarnation too traumatic, and memories imprinted on the infant universe would filter down, and we would get them all as dreams.

Where do you fly when you’re asleep? To where you’re happiest, some gateway, or through a nameless interstitium, the universe’s unconscious fear,

I’ve watched you dream, when your thoughts move forward as fast as train cars toward some distant shining star of futures lost, and what the righteous see, my love, another wants to know,

but I get ahead of myself, as I do, and now let me turn on the radio, that snow between the stations always seems to calm me down, and I come again to that selfsame pocket watch,

and doesn’t time itself have moods?

Is not a damp December when a year reflects upon its sins?

(via lzlabseesu)

notesfromtheunprofound:

The Conjurer makes his notes
with knuckles
so they can not read his spells
                                                  //
                                                     The Blacksmith’s hands are charcoaled
                                                     badly smudging
                                                     all he knows of Renaissance 
                                                 //
The King has the hands
and typewriters to rewrite
Shakespeare at his whim
                                                //  
                                                    The Peasant silences his hunger
                                                    with a journal
                                                    filled with his streets signs and tricks
                                                //

(via lzlabseesu)

supersmashkev:

badass-bharat-deafmuslim-artista:

realmfighter:

oyezayn:

vladith:

Pakistani teenager Aitzaz Hasan died Monday after tackling a suicide bomber trying to enter his school. By sacrificing himself, he saved the lives of the 2,000 students studying inside. Hasan’s father says, ”My son made his mother cry, but saved hundreds of mothers from crying for their children.”
This is bravery. This is selflessness. This is true courage.

Source


Here is a beautiful picture of his grave decorated with many flowers. May Allah rest his soul in peace…

rest in power my friend

supersmashkev:

badass-bharat-deafmuslim-artista:

realmfighter:

oyezayn:

vladith:

Pakistani teenager Aitzaz Hasan died Monday after tackling a suicide bomber trying to enter his school. By sacrificing himself, he saved the lives of the 2,000 students studying inside. Hasan’s father says, ”My son made his mother cry, but saved hundreds of mothers from crying for their children.”

This is bravery. This is selflessness. This is true courage.

Source

Here is a beautiful picture of his grave decorated with many flowers. May Allah rest his soul in peace…

rest in power my friend

(Source: bachvevo, via unicyclehippo)

inseeing

fakesurprise:

She stares at me with eyes scarred with needs. “I know what you are,” she say, and her voice isn’t rough, not yet crushed velvet and burnt smoke.

“I know that too.” I offer up a smile the Cheshire Cat would have given up so much to own.

It wins a bark of not-laughter. “Magician. Magic-man.” Her heads cocks to the side. “What can you give me?” she asks, not smiling though she fakes it well.

“What do you need?”

“Fuck. If I knew that – fuck.”

I light a cigarette, offer her one. She shakes her head, hair twisting in winds all its own.

“No. They don’t do anything for me. I need,” and the first time she flatters. “I need stronger things.”

“Perhaps.” I pull smoke in, let it out.

“You don’t need that.”

“Perhaps not. It is easy to give people what they want. But what they need, what they desire – there’s no magician born who can match the impossible needs of young love. For example.”

“Don’t want that. I’ve seen what it does.”

“Not every story is the same every time it is told.”

“Enough are. Enough of them.”

I drop the half-smoked cigarette, ask the wind to take the ash where it is needed. Sometimes that is all being a magician is: knowing what to let go. And sometimes why, or even when. “I can take away the longing,” I say quietly.

“For him?”

“No. But for the drugs.”

“Won’t matter. They’re about forgetting him. Without them – heh! Without them I’d go back. I’m not strong enough not to. Karmic butt-monkey, that’s me. You believe in karma?”

“No. But I understand that my belief has no basis on whether it exists or not.” I consider her. “I could take away your memories of him. If you’d let me.”

She lets out a laugh. “I don’t think you’d have talked to me, if I wanted that. You have power, magician?”

“I do.”

“Yeah. I can see it. Like worlds of hurt in your eyes.”

“Everyone has that; most people spread it out more than we do.” I reach into my wallet and pull out a billfold, handing it over. “You can go to a new city. Build a new life. He won’t follow.”

“I could come back.”

“You could.”

“You could stop me. Make sure I couldn’t.”

“Magic isn’t about taking away choices,” I say as gently as I can.

“But you gave me money. That’s it?”

“I would be a poor magician if I thought every problem had to be solved with magic. Or that magic could solve them. No one can make a choice they don’t know how to make; I’ve opened up your options. It’s up to you what you do with them.”

She nods; I am halfway down the street when she picks up my cigarette and begins to burn the billfold with the last smoulder of ash. I do nothing to stop it. I could. But not without hurting her. I bend the world, just a little, turn the money she burns into luck she’ll find as she needs it. Money for when she is ready. Or a friend who answers her phone call when she needs it most.

She doesn’t burn the entire billfold. She accepts some of the gift. Sometimes that’s the best we can hope for in this world.

(via lzlabseesu)

Being born a woman is an awful tragedy. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars—to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording—all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.

Sylvia Plath

fuck every single time that last line gets quoted without the rest

(via sex-positive-bitches)

(Source: raccoonwounds, via gaydicks420)