stuff your eyes with wonder

When you leave
I smiling hold
this soft furry
bouncing
tingling
tickling
I don’t know what to call it
‘thing’

it moves round me
all day
moves me round
all day

tickling tingly ‘thing’

waiting to bounce out
my eyes
my mouth
my ears
my nose
my belly
my thighs
and all those other shy soft places
waiting to be named
in subtler tones

waiting to bounce out
soft funny
bouncy cuddly
tingling tickly
ah! so touchy tender ‘thing’
waiting to bounce out at you
when you get home

could it be.


Jean ‘Binta’ Breeze, “Could it be
tangeriineeeeess asked:
¡qué maravilla de tumblr tienes! ¡lo amé! :)

Ahhhh, ¡gracias! :D Me alegra que te haya gustado. Besos x



Has visto,
verdaderamente has visto
la nieve, los astros, los pasos afelpados de la brisa…
Has tocado,
de verdad has tocado
el plato, el pan, la cara de esa mujer que tanto amás…
Has vivido
como un golpe en la frente,
el instante, el jadeo, la caída, la fuga…
Has sabido
con cada poro de la piel, sabido
que tus ojos, tus manos, tu sexo, tu blando corazón,
había que tirarlos
había que llorarlos
había que inventarlos otra vez.

Julio Cortázar, “Para leer en forma interrogativa”
Despertarás un día sabiendo cuanto te quiso y te queremos todos. Y preguntarás un día dónde puedo hallarlos. Y buscarás en el rostro de tu madre el parecido y descubrirás que te gusta la opera, la música clásica o el jazz (¡que antigüedad!) como a tus abuelos. Escucharás Sui Generis o a Almendra, o Papo, sintiéndolos en lo profundo de tu ser porque así lo sentía Laura. Despertarás, querido nieto, algún día de esa pesadilla, y nacerás para tu liberación. Te estoy buscando.
Estela de Carlotto (1996)

mallelis:

image

The last time I flew a plane, I crashed in the desert. The last time I flew a plane, I died. I am dying now.

I had three or six days of water with me, depending. Three good days or six bad days. If I had three days of water, I could work on my plane, I could walk on the sands in the heat of the sun, I would die before help found me. If I had six days of water, I could rest under the wing until the sun went down, and my hands would swell up, and the skin around my fingernails would blister, and I would see things that weren’t there, but I might live until help found me.

If help didn’t find me, I had no days of water. The boy found me on the last day of water, but he brought no help with him. He asked me to draw him a sheep.

What was a child doing in the desert, I asked him.

Everyone is a child in the desert, he told me. Draw me a sheep.

His face was smooth and unlined, like a child’s, but hands were puffed and wrinkled, like the hands of an old man. Like the hands of someone who is running out of water.

How did you get here, I asked him. Where do you find food, where do you find water.

Draw me a sheep and I will tell you, he said. I drew him a sheep and he smiled. I wish I had not drawn it. I wished he had not smiled.

Are there no sheep where you come from, I asked him.

Everything is dead where I come from, he told me. He put the drawing in his pocket.

The Little Prince

138 plays

I do my Sunday dreaming, oh yeah
And all my Sunday scheming
Every minute, every hour, every day

Etta James
, A Sunday Kind of Love

wonderlalia replied to your post with a photo: My sister is in Buenos Aires for a wor…

Indeed, my friend. Indeed.

br