"One day I will find the right words,
and they will be simple."
Her Twisted Mouth On Guard (poem with pic)
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Outside, there’s fashion frivolity.
Inside, can what’s on her mind
find it’s way out,
past her mouth
which guards her gut?
.
No twist of ring
or eyelash blinked
will change a thing.
What she doesn’t say
will stay with her throughout her day.
The last story she’ll tell
is the one she kept inside.
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Her Twisted Mouth On Guard, a poem by Paul DolinskyTo View Poem and Pic in Single Frame
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♥ by Hajin Bae
"In the universe, there are things that are known, and things that are unknown, and in between, there are doors."
![fotojournalismus:
A Rohingya Muslim child wearing traditional make-up passes the time outside a tent at a camp for people displaced by violence, near Sittwe on April 28, 2013. Before last year’s violence, Sittwe’s Muslims numbered about 73,000, nearly half its population. Today, there are fewer than 5,000 left. (Read More)
[Credit : Damir Sagolj/Reuters]](http://24.media.tumblr.com/b3185959bc8f7de38b485dc79492b936/tumblr_mmuh1mD6JL1r44q44o1_500.jpg)
A Rohingya Muslim child wearing traditional make-up passes the time outside a tent at a camp for people displaced by violence, near Sittwe on April 28, 2013. Before last year’s violence, Sittwe’s Muslims numbered about 73,000, nearly half its population. Today, there are fewer than 5,000 left. (Read More)
[Credit : Damir Sagolj/Reuters]
FSSSSSSSS!
- A deflated Rubber Duck by Dutch conceptual artist Florentijn Hofman floats on Hong Kong’s Victoria Harbour. The 16.5-meter-high inflatable sculpture will be shown at the Ocean Terminal for a month. The Rubber Duck was deflated after some of its parts broke. Picture: Tyrone Siu/Reuters
- Dutch conceptual artist Florentijn Hofman’s ‘Rubber Duck’ floats, deflated, in Victoria Harbour, Hong Kong, this morning. It is not immediately known why the duck, scheduled to float outside Ocean Terminal inTsim Sha Tsui until 9 June deflated. Photograph: Jerome Favre/EPA
(via reuters)
Where were you, nymphs,
when I was learning to apply
the proper plaster of Paris and papier-mâché
to fledgling cheekbones?
Where a Nereid when I needed
advice on unguents?
A dryad to calm my riotous nerves
and dye my dulling locks?
An oread to teach the ablutions of adoration?
Sylph, you never paid the parson of insecurity—
where were you when these petty hips
toppled the girlhood world?Put on your face, little goddess.
You’ll need it.
Whittle yourself into shape
before Pygmalion gets here
and raises high the pedestal. He’s not the kind we need.
No thanks to you, it all turned out quite well.
No more violin buying.
My cardsharping days are through.
I exfoliated all layers of despair
and replaced them with voluble dew.
At this age, I rely on my looks, exclusively.
Don’t think I’ll send you my daughter.—Patty Seyburn, “Where Were You, Nymphs?”
Art Credit Iñigo Aragón
In My Backyard: A Zoologico
First, this series reminded me of my earliest life memories in Hells Canyon. I still have a tiny rock I found in the chicken yard when I was five. Then my memory leaped to my week on Rapa Nui [Easter Island] where chickens walked in and out of my room.
"Why won’t anyone have an adult conversation with me about what war is about? It’s their war. They asked us to fight it, and we did it as well as we could. Why are they pretending it’s our war? We were just there."
"I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps."
