Oldsaints - Monsters.

old woman josie out near the car lot says the angels revealed themselves to her she said they helped her with various household chores one of them changed a lightbulb for her, the porch light

you know I couldn’t be a cowboy because I’d be stuck with my partner in the dead cold prairie night and our horses would be tied up and we’d be huddlin around a crudely made fire because it was too far to go back to the ranch and he’d play the sweetest song on his harmonica, the kind that you felt in your bones and your heart and that the hymns had nothin on, and then he’d finish and we’d both lean in a little too close and my hand would be on his bandanna and his whiskey-breath would be hot on my lips and I’d realize that maybe it wasn’t the touch of a woman i’d been hankerin for

“He’s been watching too many horror movies. Aidonsvalley is just a tourist trap for weirdos who believe in all that nonsense.”

AIDONSVALLEY (XXXX)

honestly the main thing I got from your last reply is that we should start a campaign to get maggie to write a spin off book with henry cheng as the main character

just imagine following the adventures of henry cheng as he overthrows the corrupt power structure of aglonby, increases the stock value of starbucks via lackeys, does modeling shoots with horses, and freaks out every time his car gets a slight scratch on it

meanwhile in the background you have hints of dick gansey’s gay welsh cult running around being weird and otherworldly and henry wanting to make out with gansey but ultimately not pining or being too worried by it not happening

“that’s the spirit” i say as i gesture to the spirit that’s been haunting my home for years. when will they leave or start contributing to the household by doing something like helping with laundry. when will they pay rent

»we change each other« by shilpa gupta (+)

Hot Dog: Regular Fellows Monthly, November 1922

holy, holy, holy. these are the words he murmurs into your skin, language of prayer, language of divinity, language of worship. holy, holy, holy. he whispers it into your crook of your neck, rolls the words into the hollow of your throat, into your bones, into your sharp edges. holy, holy, holy. a mantra. a litany. a prayer. holy, holy, holy. the way he looks at you, it’s like he wants to take you apart and study each piece of you, and then maybe he’ll put you back together when he’s done. maybe. holy, holy, holy. he stares at you, so hard you can feel it burning your skin, and you think maybe he’ll kiss you, or maybe he’ll eat you alive. you haven’t decided yet. holy, holy, holy. in the end, it’s a kiss, real as a punch and twice as hard, and it hurts like a bullet pearling into flesh, hurts like his eyes on the back of your neck, on your collarbones, on your lips. holy. holy, holy, holy.

on loving a god | m.c.p (via ara-ne-um)

THE TRAGEDY OF LOVING A SOLDIER:                            the battlefield never really leaves them.              (you see his hands still shake, finger glued to the trigger) THE TRAGEDY OF LOVING A GENERAL:                     the battle may be won, but the war never ends.           (you watch sleep continue to elude her, eyes dull with grief) they both look at each other as though begging the other to be selfish.                     (the bloodshed ends, but they never find peace)

THE WAR & OTHER METAPHORS ( a.c. )