New Supreme. New outfit.
I wish that I had known in that first minute we met, the unpayable debt that I owed you.
(Source: homeless-dad)
“I am … in a world … of shit.”
Love has an odour.
Passersby crinkle their noses
as two guideless doves
profess eternity to each other,
clouds and flowers,
strawberry smoothies
across the vast landscape of their pastiche,
love balanced on the tip of an eyelash
and the gas-leak trail
of their effluent romance,
babies wrinkle their faces in disgust.
Love is so foul,
the stench of youth and pride
twisting together to a cloudy sweat
and seeping through their surroundings,
not the sweet perfume of loneliness
or the musk of shamefulness,
timid bouquets that hide their eyes
and shy away from park benches,
bedrooms, cliff-sides or theatres,
but not a thought
for the revolting youth
and the reek of their rebellion.
Love is a gas-leak,
a broken pipe or ventricle
thickens the air with pungent hisses,
guilty sighs, gasping and gagging
for clean, fresh air and escape
from the burning fumes and
clumsy affections.
Hundreds of
fruitless doves plummet from the
polluted sky.
(Source: summaluhvin, via simplebeeyoutee)
(Source: fuckyeahspikejonze)
