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Art and Books
A place for short fiction and poetry while your coffee brews or your tea steeps
New content every Sunday
EBULLIENT DECAY...
Exploring the human experience, one cup of coffee at a time.
...in my Mind's Eye
composed late at night, from amongst chaos and coffee
Writer
Tigers not daughters
"I tramp the perpetual journey."- Walt Whitman
Word-Experimentalist
Just another WordPress.com site
I'm no writer, just an outgoing introvert with a thing or two to say about some things. I type like I talk. Brace yourselves!
My sarcastic travels through life while trying to remain true to myself and not kill others.
Sou um pouco de poeta e de atriz na frente do meu compoetador
“Between us and heaven or hell is only life, which is the frailest thing in the world.”.
a resource for moving poetry
Experiments in the Art of Mastering None
A Continuing Revolution
Nefesime,hayatıma,aklıma esen her şeye dair.
THE DRIVELLINGS OF TWATTERSLEY FROMAGE
An open letter to bearded hipsters
Dear Bearded Hipsters,
YOU GUYS ARE RUINING MY BEARD FETISH. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve loved a man with a beard. To me, they meant strength, power, MANLINESS. Someone who could protect me. Unfortunately, you guys have turned it into a fashion statement. The beard has turned into the padded bra of masculinity. Sure it looks sexy, but whatcha got under there? There’s a whole generation running around looking like lumberjacks, and most of you can’t change a fucking tire.
Look, I get it. I really do. I understand the motivation behind your beardedness. In fact, I even pity you. Thousands of years of evolution priming you guys to kill stuff, and chase stuff, and fuck stuff….and now what? You’re stuck at a desk all day. No battles to fight. No wars to wage. So you assert your masculinity the only way you know how. You brew beer. You…
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https://hemmingplay.wordpress.com/about/ More at the link. I remember him. He was sitting in the heat on the dock waiting for the ferry to Okracoke, Island in the Outer Banks, NC. It was probably sometime in '72 or '73. He'd driven nearly 12 hours straight and was so tired he couldn't understand the accents of the natives there. I wonder whatever happened to him? I heard a rumor that he married a skinny Irish girl and they settled down somewhere, had a couple of boys, got old. He put on a few pounds. She's still got the girlish shape that caught his eye all those years ago. He probably still has that shirt, though, and still wishes he looked like this. The idiot.
General Complaints, Men, Quotes from better writers, Reblogged, Satire, Social Commentary