No, él ama como camaleón

Bear.

Thu, 16 May 2013 01:55:49 -0400

Bear.

nevver: Couple embracing, Egon Schiele

Mon, 13 May 2013 00:21:11 -0400

nevver:

Couple embracing, Egon Schiele

Photo

Mon, 13 May 2013 00:17:45 -0400

Photo

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 08:50:07 -0400

<3

Wed, 17 Apr 2013 21:19:25 -0400

Photo

Tue, 09 Apr 2013 09:08:02 -0400

"There are two ways to reach me -by way of kisses, or by way of the imagination. But there is a..."

Tue, 09 Apr 2013 09:07:28 -0400

“There are two ways to reach me -by way of kisses, or by way of the imagination. But there is a hierarchy: kisses alone don’t work.”

- Anaïs Nin (via ichelzu)

Abstract reacts.

Wed, 03 Apr 2013 20:22:06 -0400

Abstract reacts.

brassier: electric-wish: imperfectio: a study of the human...

Sat, 30 Mar 2013 02:03:39 -0400

brassier:

electric-wish:

imperfectio:

a study of the human body by Lauren Plevy on Flickr.

“My thoughts are stars I can’t fathom into constellations”

love pictures like these

August 14, 1932

Wed, 27 Mar 2013 22:09:26 -0400

Anais,

Don’t expect me to be sane anymore. Don’t let’s be sensible. […]

You became a woman with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old—you are a thousand years old.

Here I am back and still smoldering with passion, like wine smoking. Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger. I read the paper about suicides and murders and I understand it all thoroughly. I feel murderous, suicidal. I feel somehow that it is a disgrace to do nothing, to just bide one’s time, to take it philosophically, to be sensible. Where has gone the time when men fought, killed, died for a glove, a glance, etc? (A victrola is playing that terrible aria from Madama Butterfly—”Some day he’ll come!”)

I still hear you singing in the kitchen—a sort of inharmonic, monotonous Cuban wail. I know you’re happy in the kitchen and the meal you’re cooking is the best meal we ever ate together. I know you would scald yourself and not complain. I feel the greatest peace and joy sitting in the dining room listening to you rustling about, your dress like the goddess Indra studded with a thousand eyes.

Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that’s in me now. Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen? Were we acting for each other, to each other? Was I less I, or more I, and you less or more you? Is it madness to believe that this could go on? When and where would the drab moments begin? I study you so much to discover the possible flaws, the weak points, the danger zones. I don’t find them—not any. That means I am in love, blind, blind. To be blind forever! (Now they’re singing “Heaven and Ocean” from La Gioconda.) […]

I say this is a wild dream—but it is this dream I want to realize. Life and literature combined, love the dynamo, you with your chameleon’s soul giving me a thousand loves, being anchored always in no matter what storm, home wherever we are. In the mornings, continuing where we left off. Resurrection after resurrection. You asserting yourself, getting the rich varied life you desire; and the more you assert yourself the more you want me, need me. Your voice getting hoarser, deeper, your eyes blacker, your blood thicker, your body fuller. A voluptuous servility and tyrannical necessity. More cruel now than before—consciously, wilfully cruel. The insatiable delight of experience.

Henry Miller

Sketch.

Wed, 27 Mar 2013 02:13:57 -0400

Sketch.

Remate.

Wed, 27 Mar 2013 00:26:46 -0400

Remate.

Respuesta II.

Tue, 26 Mar 2013 21:25:57 -0400

Respuesta II.

Photo

Tue, 26 Mar 2013 20:24:33 -0400

Amor.

Mon, 25 Mar 2013 19:55:07 -0400

AMOR CONDUSSE NOI AD UNA MORTE

Amar es una angustia, una pregunta,
una suspensa y luminosa duda;
es un querer saber todo lo tuyo
y a la vez un temor de al fin saberlo.

Amar es reconstruir, cuando te alejas,
tus pasos, tus silencios, tus palabras,
y pretender seguir tu pensamiento
cuando a mi lado, al fin inmóvil, callas.

Amar es una cólera secreta,
una helada y diabólica soberbia.

Amar es no dormir cuando en mi lecho
sueñas entre mis brazos que te ciñen,
y odiar el sueño en que, bajo tu frente,
acaso en otros brazos te abandonas.

Amar es escuchar sobre tu pecho,
hasta colmar la oreja codiciosa,
el rumor de tu sangre y la marea
de tu respiración acompasada.

Amar es absorber tu joven savia
y juntar nuestras bocas en un cauce
hasta que de la brisa de tu aliento
se impregnen para siempre mis entrañas.

Amar es una envidia verde y muda,
una sutil y lúcida avaricia.

Amar es provocar el dulce instante
en que tu piel busca mi piel despierta;
saciar a un tiempo la avidez nocturna
y morir otra vez la misma muerte
provisional, desgarradora, oscura.

Amar es una sed, la de la llaga
que arde sin consumirse ni cerrarse,
y el hambre de una boca atormentada
que pide más y más y no se sacia.

Amar es una insólita lujuria
y una gula voraz, siempre desierta.

Pero amar es también cerrar los ojos,
dejar que el sueño invada nuestro cuerpo
como un río de olvido y de tinieblas,
y navegar sin rumbo, a la deriva:
porque amar es, al fin, una indolencia.

- Xavier Villaurrutia.

"To be joyous is to be a madman in a world of sad ghosts."

Mon, 25 Mar 2013 03:50:33 -0400

“To be joyous is to be a madman in a world of sad ghosts.”

- Henry Miller

Via: me.
(via kateoplis)

Photo

Thu, 07 Mar 2013 09:32:28 -0500

Dedos mutilados 2.

Thu, 21 Feb 2013 00:45:08 -0500

Dedos mutilados 2.

Dedos mutilados 1.

Thu, 21 Feb 2013 00:43:04 -0500

Dedos mutilados 1.

Sketch.

Thu, 21 Feb 2013 00:40:57 -0500

Sketch.