downriver from the kalamazoo prison graveyard


Idolatry of the body (celibate soul), of sex, no real love!

sometimes the lights go out 

Hopeless romanticism is the last vestige of love in the world. for a young man to single himself out as a believer in beauty and love, to earnestly wish for a family, this is genuinely radical. 

love me for a year this week 

and i will love you for every week in the year 

your bourgeois feminism 

won’t save you now 

you’re mine

and don’t you like it 

i wish i was vincent gallo 

he would know what to do 

he would call me a faggot 

beer, wine, coffee, tea, whiskey, milk

honey, bread, meat, fish, fruit, eggs

tobacco, sunlight, 3

these are some of my favorite things

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