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“Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.”

Sylvia Plath,Fever 103°.” from Ariel: The Restored Edition (via lifeinpoetry)

twentyonescreens:

All of the stars, they don’t shine brighter than you are.

July 22 567 notesoriginal (via)

Marlon Brando photographed by Ronny Jaques for the broadway play, A Streetcar Named Desire c. 1948

selchieproductions:

nowinexile:

#GazaUnderAttack

This is the strongest and saddest thing I’ve read in a long time. 

plantaplanta:

norahcstone:

Amazing knitwear from allknitwear

the sweater on the left

i love the patterns so much

Vintage Photo Booth Pictures, c. 1930s-1960s

moonhowlerpress:

Here’s are some higher quality photos of some prints that I’m currently selling in my etsy shop. I’ve been working on this series for about a year and I’m hoping to do my own version of each loteria card there is. I also have some shirts and a couple of dolls for sell too so please check it out! 

“I was told by those old ones
that every song has a special time and place where its sang
this is our song
and this our time
they used to say ‘the only good indian is a dead indian’
I must be a no good at being indian
cause I feel alive and kicking
we are the bastard reject children of ‘manifest destiny’
the offspring of fornicating aimsters
raised by our grandparents who told us
not to confuse being warriors with gangsters
the edward curtis groupies get jazzed by anyone fitting the bill
and America gets juiced by every Bury My Heart at Walmart film
here I stand before you
this crowd of nations
this life of sanctions
an awkward patience
like five hundred BIA buildings vs. a fathers’ unfiltered hate
right next to the IHS building with a two and a half week wait.
a cinderblock battlefield where few are left standing
and the people its failing, its’ marginalized estate.
i am armed to the teeth with words from the ivory tower
and those good indians told me its borrowed power if…
if i talk loud enough
if i talk clear enough
that i would be heard
that for some talking is singing
that for some singing is praying
but i guess that depends on who is doing the talking
and i guess that depends on who is doing the listening
…so understand me in english,
you have been robbed of your tongues
the taproot of thought
in the middle of resisting
the language got caught
and she only shows her face during ceremony
like she’s ashamed of her scars
like what she has to say is never really heard. at all.
and the violence she knows is enough to never sing again
but i killed the cameraman and stripped him of his lense.
i photographed the body and asked him to forgive.
forgive me as i cut out your tongue
forgive me as i put you in this powdered wig
forgive me when i put your body in a museum
forgive me of all my sins
for not being a ‘good indian’
the balls of your forefathers will be traded for whiskey
to fuel the molotov cocktails to be tossed at your cities
and the breasts of your mothers severed and bloody
will be sold to the freak show for the revelers money
your children will witness their whole world collapse
as kidnapped siblings must erase names off maps
so forgive me of all my sins
for not being a good indian
i was taught better than that
i have more respect than that
there is no history book with my story
there is no newspaper to give me my glory
because no one has heard this language in years
cept kokopelli, dream catchers, and a trail of beers
my voice is a small pox blanket
that spreads like fire on the prairie
infecting both fist and hatchet
-in the spirit of fucking crazy.”

Ryan Red Corn (via thisis-indianland)

July 22 17 notesoriginal (via)