pyramids of dots

face melts as vortex

erupts from mandible

torn, quick, to pieces

(Source: rudzioslava)

Transcendent slip of silk
Shimmers in cosmic glow
As undetected rays on spectrum
Writhe to stay in moon’s breath-path

(Source: wipepattern, via shutter03)

alexandramackenzie:

fun with collage + photobooth :)

Gnaw through the vortex’s walls

Til teeth chew spacetime raw

Felt-tipped fingers feel seams 

To tickle rough edges out of colour-lossed blots

(via )

isthisanart:

Fingernails glisten
Clutched close in breath

A mask comprised
Of the joints that bend
To give arc to your grip
, to youe fist. Bangs slipped

Back into shadow’s sway
As tides guide your breath
Around the moonbeams’ reach

stillness in mind crafts bending edges

as light reflects from the skin of bookshelves,

as floorboards rise and fall with squeaks of breath

motion hides behind slippery lines; the books

bending spines, reach dustflap fingers to fluorescent

ceilingsky. stoic breath collects cosmic stillness

in pools that syphon moments of memory

from the luminous cave of the brain.

(via illillill)

brain whirs hunger thoughts

calculates toppings: six sorts

of mushrooms to stifle salivation;

cheese in mounds akin to stalagmites

scattered to disperse molten flavour

across the population bases

of each bitten-off island of flavour

[from massmirage]

[Wrought Iron Hoof Heaver]

Ol’ Calculatorface swiveled in his arbitration 

chair, forehead glistening with the rift in slaughter

logistics plain as the beads on his abacus: 

 them pigs

got no hooves. How in bloody blazes’re they goinkta

waddle through them twisty halls on inta the slaughter

chamber? Little Whisp, bless him, wantsta just drag

the tazers an’ blades on through the messuva warehouse

an’ get the bloody oinkers where they’re just floppin

down an’ writhin’. Farfetched, yeh, fartetched. but what

else d'we got? Ain’t a whole slew’ve bester suggestions

cloggin’ up the thoughtubes. 

                            frig. it’ll for sure fright

the tiny oinklets into coarse meatmuscled slabs of scabby

pusschops that Loblaw’ll scoff at. 

 Lost in thoughts of renting

out a conveyorbelt route, Calculatorface licked a dribble

trolling past his lips, felt his frustration chameleon 

into a thoughtlocked sloth-haze. Jowels navigating gravity,

Calculatorface’s chin stumbled, abacus-bound, into 

his alabaster-beaded stress-wrought daydream. 

[image: youmakemefeel]

[the ACTA tapdance]

(for Tony Clement)

Suddenly showing concern for kids’

smutty flickrs and iTunes'sales figures,

Truthy-Tony swipes at the rights

of pesky urchins to bend digital data into any e-envelope.

Caught with his WIPO pulled down, Truthy-Tony

squirrels away, face safe in his camera-free

sanctuary. Here he’ll draft an act that lets

his ministry

sift its sticky fingers

through each packet sent across Bell’s monopolied

copper lines. In wait of ACTA’s backdoor pass

Truthy-Tony salivates: his pals get to pick

which bits of internet get to stick and which

infringe against NBC and CTV’s interest to maintain

information’s status unflux.

If Tony’s ACTA lasts

ratification, those caught with fingers-ful

of illicit 1s and 0s will have their hands lopped

off at their ethernet’s wrists.

(image via computervision)

[ghostbusters]

what was that number

again?

image: wordofcommand

[proscuitto or tuna?]

ever since I went

for groceries this morning,

my stomach responds

with blankness,

unknowing what to eat

in the face

of choice

kwassakwassa:

wizzawd:(via hendura)