I’m sorry but I cannot accept your Jesus.
Your Jesus is eternally afraid of things
like movies and sex and naked questions.
You’ve wrapped him in a perpetual robe of
white scripture that’s clearly too tight, and
you never let him walk without chaperones
(commonly referred to as followers).
Your Jesus is an everlastingly entitled,
pedigreed general of class warfare.
Over the years splinter groups have tried to
crucify your Jesus, yet you just keep working
your resurrection magic on that shell.
But know this – the hope is still alive, that one
of these tries the impostor will die, for good.
Then the world can watch in wonder at the one
who spins the leaves like a million chimes,
and sings a much quieter song.

Your Jesus // The Beautiful Due (via godinthebrokenness)

(via fullyarticulatedgoldskeleton)

At the Supermarket for the Bereaved

there is an open box of Kleenex
at the end of every aisle.

No one questions why you weep inconsolably
before the Cinnamon Toast Crunch,

why you stand still and silent,
staring at the little Jell-O cups,

At the Supermarket for the Bereaved

there are blank journals
attached to each cart.

On the pages, black and blue
with ink and tears,
you can write
“he loved salted butter”
“I made him Ovaltine shakes when his jaw was broken”
“i miss i miss i miss him
with all my heart”

just underneath where someone else wrote
“I always brought her Oreos for a treat”
“Every normal act is not normal

In the Supermarket for the Bereaved

there are angels at the check-out.

They add everything up,
golden light
radiating from their brows,
promising some kind of grace

‘Fear Not,’ they murmur.

They handle your food
as if it is sacred.

When they give you change,
their cool fingers
brush your palm,

and for a blessed instant
hold your grief as their own.

At the exit, there are candles to light
and places to leave things:
a can of mini-raviolis,
a strawberry,
blue corn

- At the Supermarket of the Bereaved

by Zann Carter  

(via taxonomist)

(via fullyarticulatedgoldskeleton)

The Gods called your name
and the seas turned dark;
the earth quaked with power.

You looked up at Olympus
screaming at the gates;
“What will I become?”

The Gods fell silent, then-
with a thunderous roar replied;
"Who are you now?"

Achilles (via meduesa)

(via thecrampedwitch)

Moon -

I’m in a moon mood -

I fade, I shrink, I shy,
But in time with a night full of stars
called friends,
I am happy,
I am enormous
and people gaze.
I swell, I wink, I rise,
they become crazy,
they tell me I am timeless,
they come out just to see me.
Every night
in the same sky
to greet me
"Your highness."

Green Park (version I) -

In a city with sea gulls rorking -

And fat thrumming bumblebees –

And a swollen green river –

The sun smoothes over its upturned belly,

Running over every roll and ripple and wave and slimy rock

With golden fingers.

It bounces off of car hoods and crisps packets,

It stops and beams on the painted gates of the park

Before reaching down to play in the prickled grass

And the pages of books.

It slinks behind the shoulder of the bank and touches the shiny skin of teenagers -

Their bottles and guitars.

The sun admires everything –

It jumps on the backs of dogs and flakes off benches –

It buries into eyes

and slides lazily over watches.

Everything in the park is smothered in sunshine –

Humming with light -

All happy and content as that fat river.

One about you -

he’s not even gone away!
he’s there!
he’s in the same room, on a screen.his distance is 4 weeks, or a holiday or he’s shopping -

My body misses him quite literally -
when’s he’s there it is as if a charming imp or devil has come to waltz,
in the flesh he speaks volumes about the tired philosophies of duty old men in dusty debates -
and he wants to waltz?!

I hold him close as those wretched philosophies -
but when he’s gone the old men and the books come back -
all is real -
He’ll be back,
but I’m always a sucker.


My smile often reaches past my feet 

dragging behind my like a great, clumsy, 

well meaning dog.

I would dance -
well, I would wriggle a sort of wriggle,
my walk is a certain kind of walk,
so my wriggles are certain, too.
Everywhere I would go I would move

Everything would pop,
trees, lights, my music,
colours and words would jump to greet me at the door
like I’d been away all day long.

I remember so clearly the overwhelming sensation of laughter - pure laughter -
of breathing and beating and moving without intention -
being without effort!