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This is in northumberland in the garden. Fucking gorgeous. But it was the winter and i was barefoot, as always, so it was...brisk.
model: jeffrey the sycamore tree
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this is kinda cool
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belsay house, northumberland
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No one touches the keys. But it's not just silence.
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she was a stormcloud, and you loved her,
and the two of you took walks and wore
nothing but promises,
broken chains and
strands of pinkish pearls.

and the two of you kissed under trees that attracted silver lightning
(metal branches scraped the sky, and you, always faithful,
tipped your coat over her head to keep her dry.)

but she never stayed that way.
in an instant, she had whirled into the rain
and danced without clothes,
without cares,

without you.

and she left you
with the pain of frostbite on your naked skin
where you trusted her to kiss you warm,
and you thought you heard her laughter
when the sun came out again the next day,

and the next.

but
she was a stormcloud, and you loved her,
and you didn't know it at the time but

stormclouds lie
(and they never
love you
back. )
...

Not revised, due to inability to focus for long periods of time. I hope this is readable. :X
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these are a series of photos i took for an art class last year. i really like the final results, and everyone should check out andy goldsworthy who these are inspired by.
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really oddly coloured leaf, it was cool, and i inhanced it a little
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-
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:cowboy:
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you asked me for a poem.

sometimes i fall in love with words
and wish that words
would fall for me.

you want a poem? how about the darkness of the morning
when the sun still rubs the night from his eyes,
the dew on the grass and how your feet jump from the itch.

how about the laughter of a creek or the roar of the ocean,
there, that's a poem.

you want a poem?
ask me about watermelon kisses
or how a blackberry whispers love to the backs of my teeth.
ask me how my lips know every curve of my knees
and my spine knows the unyielding wall,

ask me about sunsets and the giants who paint them,
who gave the frog his croak, and why,
why the ravens never seem to cackle
'nevermore'
on those dark and maddening nights.

how about the way the muse and i do things
that make her a saint and i a sinner?

how about the soft hiss of my breath when my mouth falls open,
the crust that sleeps in my eyes until i scrape it away.
this too is a poem.

you asked for a poem?
the way honey drips off a spoon,
the taste of raindrops,
long nights in the darkness mouthing words to someone,
anyone.

pain.

aching, longing,
the hurt that wedges itself behind the brain.

the way tigers' paws make you tremble,
the way her fingers make you tremble.
trembling for something,

having something worth trembling for.

a poem is just some words
worth trembling over.

and over,
and over.

(when the ravens cease to cackle
nevermore.')
And there you have it.
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