And I still call your name In my dreams Like if I had an ounce of lucidity I’d waste it on you I’d call up our first dance Again and again Each time different This time give me a rose This time you love me more I wake up to a heart the size of four bleeding mangos Smelling sweet and sticky and rancid when left unkempt I want you to eat me up I am still waiting
“All art is exorcism.
I paint dreams and visions, too; the dreams and visions of my time. Painting is the effort to produce order; order in yourself. There is much chaos in me, much chaos in our time.”—OTTO DIX (via hiranohannah)
“I am not good. I am not virtuous. I am not sympathetic. I am not generous. I am merely and above all a creature of intense passionate feeling. I feel—everything. It is my genius. It burns me like fire.”—Mary MacLane, I Await the Devil’s Coming (via larmoyante)