I really wanted to draw the survey corps trio like the shinganshina trio
the parallels are terrifying
I interrupt your regularly scheduled tumbling to bring you a
shittyJeankasa. surprise kiss bc given their circumstances, he may not have very many chances left. enjoy mofos (:
the five of you will be transferring to central with me.
i won’t take any complaints.
come with me!
when McGonagall finds out that Ginny is pregnant, and that the Weasley and Potter bloodlines will converge, she marks on her calendar the day the child will turn 11 and that is the day she retires
Artwork of Stefan Sagmeister.
Harry Potter fan art is getting really deep.
THAT FIRST SITE IS EVERY WRITER’S DREAM DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES I’VE TRIED WRITING SOMETHING AND THOUGHT GOD DAMN IS THERE A SPECIFIC WORD FOR WHAT I’M USING TWO SENTENCES TO DESCRIBE AND JUST GETTING A BUNCH OF SHIT GOOGLE RESULTS
Poem after Frieda Kahlo’s Painting The Broken Column, Eduardo C. Corral
On a bench, beneath a candle-lit window
whose sheer curtains resemble honey
sliding down a jar, Kahlo lifts her skirts.
A brown monkey chews a tobacco leaf
between her calves, tail brushing her thigh.
A skirt falls, its hem splashes on the concrete
like urine. A ruby ring on her forefinger.
No, the tip of her cigarette. Smoke rising.
The long hair of an old woman drowning.
Once a man offered me his heart like a glass of water. No, once…Here’s a joke for you. Why do Mexicans make tamales at Christmas? So they have something to unwrap. A lover told me that. I stared into his eyes believing the brown surrounding his pupils were rings, like Saturn’s. I have to sit down to say this. Once a man offered me his heart and I said no. Not because I didn’t love him. Not because he was a beast or white—I couldn’t love him. Do you understand? In bed while we slept, our bodies inches apart, the dark between our flesh a wick. It was burning down. And he couldn’t feel it.
Ask me anything.
I want to find the perfect shade of red. Say that.
A shadow drapes itself on an apple branch. Slow. Slowly. Jade moss on the trunk intensifies like applause. Wind-braid wrapped around my neck, unraveling: cold hair cascading toward my shoulders—July 23, 1997.
Ladies and Gentlemen once again I would like to begin with the wound.
An oval basket of roses on a dresser,
petals across the carpet, candle flames blown off their wicks.
Diego sleeps! Blue sheets pulled to his waist.
A fly lands on his right eyelid
and for a moment it looks like one eye is open.
Jumping onto the bed a monkey begins to lick the sweat
pooling in the hollow of his chest. Under a night stand lamp
a drawing of Stalin—the light silvering the metallic ink
of the uniform buttons.
Constellations of coins scatter copper and silver light onto the butcher paper taped above a dresser.
Crystal pitcher full of milk, arranged with lilies.
Torn sketch on the floor.
Through the window, sky like a torn sketch of the ocean.
Kahlo glaring at a self-portrait
as if her gaze were responsible for holding it to the wall.
The perfect shade of red:
the stain on an arrow pulled out of a dove.
Under the cold scaffolding of winter my love took me for a walk through the desert. My breath crumbling like bread.
Under the cold scaffolding of winter my love took me for a stroll through the desert. My breath crumbling like bread.
Under the cold scaffolding of winter my love took me through the desert. My breath crumbling like bread.
Kahlo undresses in front of a mirror.
Her spine, a pouring of sand
through an hourglass
clutching the linen
draping the lower half
of her body, her fingers lost in its pleats.
A mirror remembering water.
Louise Ingram Rayner (21 June 1832 – 8 October 1924) was a British watercolor artist. She lived in Chester in the Welsh Marches but travelled extensively, painting British scenes, during the summers in 1870s and 1880s. Her paintings are very detailed and highly picturesque populated street scenes capturing the “olde worlde” character of British towns and cities in the booming Victorian period.