“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.”
- Pablo Neruda
(Source: lacigreen)
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
Missed out on many things not being in Bombay. Cheap desi jokes, Hindi songs, Bollywood, trips to Colaba & Kala Ghoda, Mood Indigo, Literature LIVE - and so many more.
Rahman was back. And with a bang. And I didn’t know about it. Bah!
I don’t know of many Hindi songs, and that too ones without a Classical base, that touch such high notes, and are so purely original. I wish this song had come out about two years back, before Mohit Chauhan performed at MoodI. And Orianthi - what choice!
This is like a chant - something like Howl. You can feel the energy just reciting it. Its so mad - and thats whats great!
Play count: 11
“Much wine had passed, with grave discourse
Of who fucks who, and who does worse.”
Of who fucks who, and who does worse.”
— Restoration libertine poet John Wilmot, A Ramble in St. James’s Park (via kaash)
(Source: luminarium.org)
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
Alan Rickman reads Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.well, now.
The voice. THE VOICE. Aaaaaaah….
(Source: tiny-sized)
Play count: 181,611
