les poteaux étiquetés fallflowerbythebeach© sont les miens. ne volez pas.

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  1.   arsvitaest: Cult poet and novelist Charles Bukowski (1920 - 1994)from Love Is a Dog from Hell: Poems, 1974-1977there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock. people so tired mutilated either by love or no love. people just are not good to each other one on one. the rich are not good to the rich the poor are not good to the poor. we are afraid. our educational system tells us that we can all be big-ass winners. it hasn’t told us about the gutters or the suicides. or the terror of one person aching in one place alone untouched unspoken to watering a plant. [via lumpy-pudding]

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    arsvitaest:

    Cult poet and novelist Charles Bukowski (1920 - 1994)

    from Love Is a Dog from Hell: Poems, 1974-1977

    there is a loneliness in this world so great
    that you can see it in the slow movement of
    the hands of a clock.

    people so tired
    mutilated
    either by love or no love.

    people just are not good to each other
    one on one.

    the rich are not good to the rich
    the poor are not good to the poor.

    we are afraid.

    our educational system tells us
    that we can all be
    big-ass winners.

    it hasn’t told us
    about the gutters
    or the suicides.

    or the terror of one person
    aching in one place
    alone

    untouched
    unspoken to

    watering a plant. 


    [via lumpy-pudding]

    (via mayeeware)

    Source: lumpy-pudding

  2.  

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    Source: nevver

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    Source: catblue

  4.  

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    Source: absolutely-sweet-marie

  5.  

    Here I Love You

    Here I love you. 
    In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
    The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
    Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.

    The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
    A silver gull slips down from the west.
    Sometimes a sail. High, high stars. 
    Oh the black cross of a ship.
    Alone.

    Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
    Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
    This is a port.

    Here I love you.
    Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
    I love you still among these cold things.
    Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
    that cross the sea towards no arrival.
    I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.

    The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
    My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
    I love what I do not have. You are so far.
    My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
    But night comes and starts to sing to me.

    The moon turns its clockwork dream.
    The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
    And as I love you, the pines in the wind
    want to sing your name with their leaves of wire. 

    ~Pablo Neruda

  6.   Every day you play with the light of the universe.Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.You are more than this white head that I hold tightlyas a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands. You are like nobody since I love you.Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed. Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.The rain takes off her clothes. The birds go by, fleeing.The wind. The wind.I can contend only against the power of men.The storm whirls dark leavesand turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky. You are here. Oh, you do not run away.You will answer me to the last cry.Cling to me as though you were frightened.Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes. Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,and even your breasts smell of it.While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterfliesI love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth. How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,and over our heads the gray light unwind in turning fans. My words rained over you, stroking you.A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.I go so far as to think that you own the universe.I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. I wantto do with you what spring does with the cherry trees. ~Love Poem XIV by Pablo Neruda (photo via possiblydreaming)

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    Every day you play with the light of the universe.
    Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
    You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
    as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

    You are like nobody since I love you.
    Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
    Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
    Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

    Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
    The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
    Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
    The rain takes off her clothes.

    The birds go by, fleeing.
    The wind. The wind.
    I can contend only against the power of men.
    The storm whirls dark leaves
    and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

    You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
    You will answer me to the last cry.
    Cling to me as though you were frightened.
    Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

    Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
    and even your breasts smell of it.
    While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
    I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

    How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
    my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
    So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
    and over our heads the gray light unwind in turning fans.

    My words rained over you, stroking you.
    A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
    I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
    I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
    dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.

    I want
    to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

    ~Love Poem XIV by Pablo Neruda

    (photo via possiblydreaming)

    Source: Flickr / etoile2802

  7.   When I cannot look at your face I look at your feet. Your feet of arched bone, your hard little feet. I know that they support you, and that your sweet weight rises upon them. Your waist and your breasts, the doubled purple of your nipples, the sockets of your eyes that have just flown away, your wide fruit mouth, your red tresses, my little tower. But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me. ~Your Feet by Pablo Neruda fallflowerbythebeach©

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    When I cannot look at your face
    I look at your feet.
    Your feet of arched bone,
    your hard little feet.
    I know that they support you,
    and that your sweet weight
    rises upon them.
    Your waist and your breasts,
    the doubled purple
    of your nipples,
    the sockets of your eyes
    that have just flown away,
    your wide fruit mouth,
    your red tresses,
    my little tower.
    But I love your feet
    only because they walked
    upon the earth and upon
    the wind and upon the waters,
    until they found me.

    ~Your Feet by Pablo Neruda

    fallflowerbythebeach©

  8.  

    I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
    or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
    I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
    in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

    I love you as the plant that never blooms
    but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
    thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
    risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

    I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
    I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
    so I love you because I know no other way

    than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
    so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
    so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

    – Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda