clintirwin:

NEW YORK — Last year, while digging at the cross-streets of 21st and Park Avenue South to install a new flying-car depot, a massive underground facility was found, which was suspected of being an ancient archive of the Middle Internet Age website, known as Tamblér. That conclusion seems to have been confirmed by the discovery of a massive archive of millions of platinum, archival disks, which were created to be read with a device with a simple needle. Dr. Cömberbutch, head of the excavation project for the University of Yeesus, said, “We have created a device just to read these things, and we have read at least 60,000 of them, which contain at least a quarter-of-a-million love poems fetishizing the collarbones. Who knows how many more of them there are?”
Love poems referring to the collarbones were a ubiquitous pursuit of the Middle Internet Age, circa 2010 — much like Chaste Love in Medieval Europe — and most peculiar to a website popularly known as Tamblér (Though Dr. Cömberbutch is quick to point out that the original spelling was “Tumblr.”)

Little is known about the founder of Tamblér, Devvét Kelp, but as Dr. Cömberbutch notes: “We know little about the Middle Internet Age, or the entire Internet Age, which begins in the 1990s. It was only in the so-called Singularity Era, beginning in the 2050s that historians and archivists began to seriously deal with the archival limitations of digital information at the time. Without stone etchings or good paper, there was little an archaeologist had left to refer to. Information came in so fast and was lost just as quickly over time by thousands of updates, and technological changes came in and wiped it out over the decades.”

Dr. Cömberbutch speculated that, Devvét Kelp, known to the ancients as, David Karp, may well have anticipated this change and began a secret project to thoroughly preserve at least his contribution to the Middle Internet Age. As Dr. Cömberbutch notes: “He is known as a visionary, if nothing else. Only he could do it. It’s very exciting to me personally, too. More than collarbones, we find constant references to what could be the origin of my name, which was originally pronounced, Cumberbatch, and other mentions of the name, Kanye, which may have been an early name for Yeesus.”

clintirwin:

Father’s Day is like a club. Everyone belongs to Mother’s Day, but some hate their dads, and some don’t; some have no dads and some do. Half of English literature is one way or another about how Father was a cold asshole. Luke Skywalker was not a member of the Father’s Day Club. Jesus’ dad had him put to death. On TV, dads are stupid, lazy and redundant, kept around because the big-hearted mother is just too good to let him go. I saw a list today of “Worst Dads,” but never saw that on a Mother’s Day. Dads are a go-to for child abuse dramas. Mother’s Day was a no-brainer in 1914, but it took until 1966 to make a Father’s Day. Mother’s Day is Christmas and Father’s Day is like some other weak-ass holiday that not many really give a shit about, like Easter; it is the difference between getting presents, and looking for fucking eggs. In a real patriarchy, the mother is a saint and the father? Patriarchies are full of boys who hate their fathers because dad is there to teach them how mean the world is, to be feared rather than loved. A bad father stands out, makes great drama; a good father goes easily unnoticed, finds the attention awkward. I’m pretty sure the latter is the majority of fathers, though I can’t speak personally.

thegreatestactor:

He’ll be swimming through you
for five days

you tell yourself

as you wade through the
whitewash of Sunday morning,

the paint chips on the ceiling
just as pronounced as

the lull of your heart
waiting for him to call,

twisting your neck to the
sound of the phone, though

it’s only your mother
wondering where you’ve been

for five days.

sarahlucillemarchant:

my dear nameless love,

when you wrote, you neglected to sign your name, thinking you’d remain a mystery, but I know better: I would know you anywhere. you are the sort that doesn’t need a name. your endless eyes plaster the walls, and echoes of your voice litter the floor, so much that I have to be careful not to trip. this house is haunted by you. 

I know you’re expecting a tirade as venomous as the last time we were together, and I wouldn’t be lying if I said you deserved it. diligence is not a crime. our feelings were undoubtedly mutual, so why did you retreat in the heat of the battle? I know you weren’t exhausted; I know you hadn’t given it your all. I thought you thought I was worth the best fight you could put up. at that moment, when you left behind your white flag and let the rain cloak you, I realized I must have been wrong. never again will I assume the best about you.

but at the same time, I’m still clutching your ghost.

I’m wishing your fog-fingers would thread through mine,

I’m wishing for afternoon walks and knowing we see each other perfectly even with our eyes closed. 

you may have failed my test, but I would give anything to stand before you again, and just as your mouth would form the syllables of an apology, I would cut you off. 

I would say that I understand why you walked away, because just before you yelled your surrender, I was contemplating doing the same. I confess that I am not strong enough in uncertainty; I need concrete glances, not those flitting between sunbeams or hiding under starlight. I didn’t want my insecurity to be my downfall, choking under the fear that if I let you completely inside, you’d be the one to begin the inevitable avalanche.

please, return to me, so that I can see if your hands would be willing to take mine and if your eyes are full enough to drench me but barren enough to give me a home.

sincerely yours,

the words scratched into panels of your walls

cotardtheliving:

In Venice I dreamt
that you pulled a sheet over
our heads in the night
and poked a thousand holes inside
with a bloody fountain pen.

Your lips were like parentheses
around the word “silence,”
which posed a question mark
at the end of my name.

It all sounded the same
when we were coming
up for air, the dark stringing
holiday lights over
our shorn bodies, like a couple
of drunken convicts.

Look, you said, and pointed
into the void with fingers
thin as skeleton keys.

When I peered through
the white ceiling looked
like a paper galaxy, the holes
expanding and then trembling
like a person who has
very little left which they could lose.

They swung back and forth
like a spiral pendant
at the end of a hypnotist’s chain.

They were the eyes
of all the ones who have
ever loved me; they were
the eyes of all the ones
who have ever gone away.

For the first time in a long time
they made me feel safe.

sarahlucillemarchant:

Burning embraces
fall from the illusion
of glamorous romance
and pink taffy perfection.

Your arms are
a melted chocolate wonderland;
too bad I’m not your Alice.

Grey sky
only helps to
make her eyes
all-the-more vivid
and tantalizing.

It’s an apocalypse
of everything you called “love”
and guess who didn’t survive:

I was too preoccupied,
set on self-destruct.

Buy me a pretty rouge ribbon
and pale periwinkle lace;
tie them with a knot
around this cracked heart,

and try to give it
the appearance of
some-sort-of beauty.

“Hello, how are you?”
“Couldn’t be better. And you?”
Silence. 

Expose what you thought was
a sugar-coated apology.

Darling, it’s nothing more
than the confession
of a broken girl.

Romeo, I drank the poison.
Too bad I’m not your Juliet.
Oh, don’t worry about me.
Just carry-on in your fantasy
as if I never existed. 

My memory is a plague;
you can’t escape without
a scar to remind you
of what could’ve been