( via / via )

End of the day in Pompeii.

"Place is layers of story. When walk those pale chalk lines, we scuff up not only temporary dust phantoms, but a thousand tales of those who went before us. Whether wraith way or not, all our hodology is haunted. – #DAKilroy 1982 #LandscapePunk" --@hookland.bsky.social

Crazy.

"Poppies in July

Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?

You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.

And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.

A mouth just bloodied.
Little bloody skirts!
There are fumes that I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?

If I could bleed, or sleep!
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!

Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.

But colorless. Colorless."

--Sylvia Plath via @rabihalameddine.bsky.social

"The body matters. But it doesn't matter the way reactionary camp says it does."