where the wild roses grow

me seeing a mutual's happy post: "hell yeah buddy :)" *hits like*

me seeing a mutual's sad/vent post: "aww no buddy :(" *hits like*

The like button is heart shaped for a reason and the reason is that it means I love you

you will live and you will say the wrong things and make mistakes and people will love you anyways.

Isn’t this a Hamilton lyric or something

On a completely different note I have been reading some guy’s dissertation on homosexuality in ancient greece and. he has completely re-translated Plato’s Symposion to ‘do the homoerotic elements justice’. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed an academic text as much as this one. Pure, dry facts. On anal sex, art about anal sex, love between men, sex and love between men, art of sex and love between men, statistics of sex and love between men. I’ve been checking his sources and it is extremely satisfying. Literal hundreds of ancient dic pics are shown and/or referenced. The Power Of Eros, by Charles Hupperts. I warmly recommend it. 

Link it OP, don’t be a coward

I legit picked it up in some secondhand shop and when I went looking for it online, it turns out it only has one print edition and that wasn't a large one, so I accidentally recommended something nobody can actually get.

I'm really sorry, but on the other hand, I recommended a super obscure academic text so this was to be expected, really. I'll email the writer though, who knows, maybe he has an epub somewhere he wants to share.

On the second day he came with a single red rose, he said "Will you give me your loss and your sorrow?"

I nodded my head, as I lay on the bed, "If I show you the roses, will you follow?"

i'm a simple girl: i see sunlight on the water, i find god

i hear the laugh of someone i love, i find god. the setting sun fills my room, i find god. i eat fresh strawberries off the vine, i find god. someone rests their head on my shoulder, i find god.

Tiny growing fungi on this pinecone.

In the first poetry workshop I ever took my professor said we could write about anything we wanted except for two things: our grandparents and our dogs. She said she had never read a good poem about a dog. I could only remember ever reading one poem about a dog before that point—a poem by Pablo Neruda, from which I only remembered the lines “We walked together on the shores of the sea/ In the lonely winter of Isla Negra.” Four years later I wrote a poem about how when I was a little girl I secretly baptized my dog in the bathtub because I was afraid she wouldn’t get into heaven. “Is this a good poem?” I wondered. The second poetry workshop, our professor made us put a bird in each one of our poems. I thought this was unbelievably stupid. This professor also hated when we wrote about hearts, she said no poet had ever written a good poem in which they mentioned a heart. I started collecting poems about hearts, first to spite her, but then because it became a habit I couldn’t break. The workshop after that, our professor would tell us the same story over and over about how his son had died during a blizzard. He would cry in front of us. He never told us we couldn’t write about anything, but I wrote a lot of poems about snow. At the end of the year he called me into his office and said, “looking at you, one wouldn’t think you’d be a very good writer” and I could feel all the pity inside of me curdling like milk. The fourth poetry workshop I ever took my professor made it clear that poets should not try to engage with popular culture. I noticed that the only poets he assigned were men. I wrote a poem about that scene in Grease 2 where a boy takes his girlfriend to a fallout shelter and tries to get her to have sex with him by tricking her into believing that nuclear war had begun. It was the first poem I ever published. The fifth poetry workshop I ever took our professor railed against the word blood. She thought that no poem should ever have the word “blood” in it, they were bloody enough already. She returned a draft of my poem with the word blood crossed out so hard the paper had torn. When I started teaching poetry workshops I promised myself I would never give my students any rules about what could or couldn’t be in their poems. They all wrote about basketball. I used to tally these poems when I’d go through the stack I had collected at the end of each class. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 poems about basketball. This was Indiana. Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore. I told the class, “for the next assignment no one can write about basketball, please for the love of god choose another topic. Challenge yourselves.” Next time I collected their poems there was one student who had turned in another poem about basketball. I don’t know if he had been absent on the day I told them to choose another topic or if he had just done it to spite me. It’s the only student poem I can still really remember. At the time I wrote down the last lines of that poem in a notebook. “He threw the basketball and it came towards me like the sun”

can i get uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh held

i just wanna cuddle bro this isnt fair

Deux Nymphes embrassant, 1892.

Berthe Morisot (French, 1841–1895)

Oil on canvas

starry night