oh my god this is adorable let me die can I have one. Thanks.
The truth is, I was bored.
My mother blissing ahead of me, rosebuds rising in her footsteps,
And I skulking behind, thinking,
Oh look. She walks in beauty.
Her power could boil rivers, if she chose.
She doesn’t choose. She scatters
Heliotrope behind her.
And me, I’ve no powers. I think she’d like
A decorative daughter. A link to the humans
She feeds with her scattered wheat.
A daughter wed to a swineherd’s just the thing
To show that Demeter’s a down-to-earth
Kind of goddess.
Do you know what swineherds talk about?
Diseases of, ways to cook;
"That ‘un’s got no milk for ‘er shoats;
Him, there, he’s got boggy trotters.”
And when he leaned in, smiling,
While we sat in a bower sagged with Mother’s honeysuckle,
When he said, “Now,
My herd’s growing and I’m thinking I could feed a wife—”
That’s when I snapped, I howled, I ran.
And when a hole opened up, a beautiful black, in all the pastels of my mother’s sowing.
Let me fix the lie: Nobody grabbed, nobody pulled.
I thought it was a tiny earthquake,
Thought I was killing myself,
Starting a long journey to Hades.
It was a more direct trip
Then I’d imagined—
I landed in his lap.
He just looked at me, said “Well,”
And kept driving his chariot down,
Flicked his leather reins near my face.
He did not give me flowers.
He never spoke of pigs.
Didn’t speak much at all. Just took me down in darkness
And did dark things.
I liked them.
I stumbled through his grey gardens, after,
Sore and smiling.
And the gardener said, “Little girl,
Little sunlit flower,
You belong in the world above.
Trust that they’ll come for nyou,
But while you wait
Don’t eat the food of the dead, for it will trap you here.”
And I said give me the fucking fruit.
But when I ate I could hear her howling,
See her spreading winter on the world.
My poor mother, who missed me after all;
My poor swineherd, starving.
Huddled up for warmth with the few he hadn’t eaten.
I spat out half the seeds.
So now I suffer through the summers,
Smile at the swineherd who tells me
Which shoat is off its feed.
Smile at my mother and walk behind her.
My powers have come to me now, and in her candy-colored wake I scatter
Sundew and flytrap, nettles and belladonna.
I smile and wait for November,
For when I come back to you.
Your clever cold hands and your hard black boots.
I don’t ask what the leather is made from.
I don’t think I want to know.
what happens if u put a werewolf on the moon is a great question probably the best question ever asked
less romantic love more Romantic love, come grave robbing with me in a thunderstorm.
John Berryman (via howtotalktogirlsdialectically)
#…yeah this is new? #spoiler alert #shakespeare was dating a hot blond dude and the owner of a brothel #his bff got killed in a spy rendezvous/bar fight combination #he himself died by choking on fish after partying too hard #like #shakespeare liked dick jokes #(and probably also dick) #your attempts to attach modern standards of ‘classiness’ to him are wrong #(and also gross as hell bc he LITERALLY DIDN’T HAVE CLASS #HE WAS A GLOVEMAKER’S SON #IT WAS AWESOME) #shouts ‘stop trying to appropriate shakespeare for the rich academic elite’ into the void #i never writ; nor no man ever loved @swanjolras
Someone finally articulated what I couldn’t
#it both amuses me to no end and pisses me the hell off #that there’s still this ever pervasive fucking myth #that good art can only come from some kind of prestigious wealthy or academic background #no #and that’s why art is wonderful #it mocks those stereotypes #you can posture all you want #but talent doesn’t care #and you can’t fucking buy it
"I am afraid we must face the likelihood" oh I bet you’re afraid
be afraid of shakespeare’s infinite sex puns