doing lines at home and cleaning the kitchen and listening to fucking all these different albums start to finish with my housemate until the middle of the next day

Little Industry of Ghosts

How is it you can explain their living here with me, leaning

On their cellos, doleful and plenty. 

In my single-person tax-bracket of one alive, there are more 
Living here with me not alive

Than are.   You are a good 
Dog now. Rising, supposing, loom large for me.

Turn down all the rows of white sheets in the rows
Of white cots for your wounded

To settle in. Look, the boy with a cane walks

Three-legged down our Avenue, three-quarters
Of a cur, but he’s as gifted limping as the elegy you wrote 

For me and I am still alive! It was a poem clear, here 
In hindsight, as flounder flesh unwrapped from 

Its bed of newspaper, unspoiled. Would that you come home 
Now, healed and appalled.

It could have been reparable; we would have gathered 
Like a din of two nurses at the metal rails of vigil

At your impossible bed. Would that we, erstwhile, will.
            Would that our Liam were living still.

— lucie brock-broido

(Source: motherground)

Hey so I finally got together my writing blog

http://lovevsporn.com

so go check it out, have a read, have a follow.

I promise I’m not terrible.

Muchas gracias x

t'was the night before christmas when i realised i could smoke bongs in my old room at mum’s without anybody noticing

thank god

but i think my family might all be idiots

uh merry christmas

"I hadn’t thought about religion before; I haven’t since; but just at that time, when I was waiting for the birth, I thought, ‘That’s one thing I can give her. It doesn’t seem to have done me much good, but my child shall have it.’ It was odd, wanting to give something one had lost oneself. Then, in the end, I couldn’t even give that: I couldn’t even give her life"

— Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited

"everything extraneous has burned away
this is how burning feels in the fall
of the final year not like leaves in a blue
October but as if the skin were a paper lantern
full of trapped moths beating their fired wings
and yet I can lie on this hill just above you
a foot beside where I will lie myself
soon soon and for all the wrack and blubber
feel still how we were warriors when the
merest morning sun in the garden was a
kingdom after Room 1010 war is not all
death it turns out war is what little
thing you hold on to refugeed and far from home
oh sweetie will you please forgive me this
that every time I opened a box of anything
Glad Bags One-A-Days KINGSIZE was
the worst I’d think will you still be here
when the box is empty Rog Rog who will
play boy with me now that I bucket with tears
through it all when I’d cling beside you sobbing
you’d shrug it off with the quietest I’m still
here I have your watch in the top drawer
which I don’t dare wear yet help me please
the boxes grocery home day after day
the junk that keeps men spotless but it doesn’t
matter now how long they last or I
the day has taken you with it and all
there is now is burning dark the only green
is up by the grave and this little thing
of telling the hill I’m here oh I’m here"

— Paul Monette, “Here”  (via commovente)

(via shinji--moon-deactivated2017123)