July 19, 2014   4,680 notes
teenbitch:

Jarek Puczel

teenbitch:

Jarek Puczel

(via vhouls)

July 19, 2014   677 notes

(via the-perks-of-being-syd)

July 19, 2014   27,249 notes

(via sick0fl0ves0ngs)

July 18, 2014   6,484 notes

artchipel:

Artist on Tumblr

James Fenner | on Tumblr (USA)

James Fenner is a freelance illustrator who has studied Media Art and Animation at The Art Institute Of Portland, in Oregon. His illustration is a harmonious mix of graphite and digital techniques, distinguished by its dreamlike approach and whimsical sets. Fenner is an aspiring editorial illustrator, most of his pieces tell their own tale, and the characters he depicts are more protagonists of a larger story than simple subjects. (cf. Fresh&Bold)

© All images courtesy of the artist

[more James Fenner | artist found at septagonstudios]

July 18, 2014   823 notes

(Source: fb-lapices, via darksilenceinsuburbia)

May 24, 2014   1,438 notes
quaintrelle-style:

Photo by Andrea Hübner

quaintrelle-style:

Photo by Andrea Hübner

(via humanity-can-sing-harmony)

May 22, 2014   3 notes
National Geographic gone kitsch

National Geographic gone kitsch

May 22, 2014   13,785 notes

leslieseuffert:

Alexandra Levasseur (b. 1982, Canada) Various Works of 2013

(via sexyvase)

May 18, 2014   10 notes

How it is fickle, leaving one alone to wander

the halls of the skull with the fluorescents
softly flickering. It rests on the head

like a bird nest, woven of twigs and tinsel
and awkward as soon as one stops to look.
That pile of fallen leaves drifting from

the brain to the fingertip burned on the stove,

to the grooves in that man’s voice
as he coos to his dog, blowing into the leaves

of books with moonlit opossums
and Chevrolets easing down the roads
of one’s bones. And now it plucks a single

tulip from the pixelated blizzard: yet

itself is a swarm, a pulse with no
indigenous form, the brain’s lunar halo.

Our compacted galaxy, its constellations
trembling like flies caught in a spider web,
until we die, and then the flies

buzz away—while another accidental

coherence counts to three to pass the time
or notes the berries on the bittersweet vine

strewn in the spruces, red pebbles dropped
in the brain’s gray pool. How it folds itself
like a map to fit in a pocket, how it unfolds

a fraying map from the pocket of the day.

Joanie Mackowski, “Consciousness

(Source: pigmenting, via pigmenting)

May 17, 2014   266,254 notes
.

.

(Source: dmig, via vhouls)

May 16, 2014   201,546 notes

(Source: themountainlaurel, via nakedd-i-came-nakedd-i-must-go-)

May 15, 2014   3 notes

“ We were nothing more than a collection of infinite almosts. ”

11.09.13

May 14, 2014   104,222 notes

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May 14, 2014   6,051 notes

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May 14, 2014   1 note

“ I don’t know how it happened, but I fell—   
and I was immense, one dislocated arm   
wedged between two buildings. I felt some ribs   
had broken, perhaps a broken neck, too;   
I couldn’t speak. My dress caught bunched   
about my thighs, and where my glasses shattered   
there’d spread something like a seacoast, or maybe   
it was a port. Where my hair tangled with power lines   
I felt a hot puddle of blood.
                                                      I must have passed out,   
but when I woke, a crew of about fifty   
was building a winding stairway beside my breast   
and buttressing a platform on my sternum.   
I heard, as through cotton, the noise of hammers,   
circular saws, laughter, and some radio   
droning songs about love. Out the corner   
of one eye (I could open one eye a bit) I saw   
my pocketbook, its contents scattered, my lipstick’s   
toppled silo glinting out of reach.
And then, waving a tiny flashlight, a man   
entered my ear. I felt his boots sloshing   
the blood trickling there. He never came out.   
So some went looking, with flares, dogs, dynamite   
even: they burst my middle ear and found   
my skull, its cavern crammed with dark matter   
like a cross between a fungus and a cloud.   
They never found his body, though. And they never   
found or tried to find an explanation,   
I think, for me; they didn’t seem to need one.   
Even now my legs subdue that dangerous   
sea, the water bright enough to cut   
the skin, where a lighthouse, perched on the tip   
of my great toe, each eight seconds rolls   
another flawless pearl across the waves.   
It keeps most ships from wrecking against my feet.   
On clear days, people stand beside the light;   
they watch the waves’ blue heads slip up and down   
and scan for landmarks on the facing shore. ”

Joanie Mackowski, “The Larger”