kateoplis:

Spilled Blood

(via neuromorphogenesis)

comedycentral:

Good news, everyone! New episodes of Futurama return tomorrow night at 10/9c with the one-hour season premiere!

In the meantime, click here for some preview clips and here to sneak a peek behind-the-scenes in our Countdown to Futurama.

pulpfanfiction:

(Wake me up) Wake me up inside

(I can’t wake up) Wake me up inside

(Save me) Call my name and save me from the dark

(Source: motherfuckingfineasspussymobile, via metaphorsbewithoutyou)

1: “Softly on the ground like carbonated rose buds,
your breaths
floated and fizzled,
canary arias
and rusted the wooden spikes in my ears.
I can’t remember the words I used at the time,
just tonal quarters.
(How easily they passed for dollar bills)
hands stuffed in a stripper’s pocket/pockets of dad’s jeans,
sparklers, heating my mother’s spine.
In memory she’s hot like17—
Not yet burnt out like fireworks over bridge-edge
and flat bird song.

2: Fireworks over bridge-edge
floated and fizzled, canary arias,
not yet burnt out like
hands stuffed in a stripper’s belt/pockets of dad’s jeans, sparklers.
(How easily they passed for dollar bills)
and rusted the wooden spikes in my ears.
I can’t remember the words I used at the time,
heating my mother’s spine,
in memory she’s hot like 17—
softly on the ground like carbonated rosebuds.
Your breaths and flat bird song,
just tonal quarters.

3: In memory she’s hot like 17—
floated and fizzled, canary arias,
Just tonal quarters.
Soflty on the ground like carbonated
rosebuds,
your breaths,
(How easily they passed for dollar bills)
and flat bird song,
and rusted the wooden spikes in my ears.
Fireworks over bridge-edge:
I can’t remember the words I used at the time,
not yet burnt out like
hands stuffed in a stripper’s belt/pockets of dad’s jeans,
sparklers,
heating my mother’s spine.

4: Hands stuffed in a stripper’s belt/pockets of dad’s jeans, sparklers
floated and fizzled, canary arias.
In memory she’s hot like 17—
softly on the ground carbonated rosebuds. Your breaths
fireworks over bridge-edge
(How easily they passed for dollar bills)
I can’t remember the words I used at the time,
and rusted the wooden spikes in my ears.
Just tonal quarters and flat bird song.
Not yet burnt out like
heating my mother’s spine.

5: Heating my mother’s spine;
in memory she’s hot like 17—
and rusted the wooden spikes in my ears.
I can’t remember the words I used at the time,
floated and fizzled,
canary arias
softly on the ground like carbonated
rosebuds, and
flat bird song.
Hands stuffed in a stripper’s belt/pockets of dad’s jeans,
sparklers.
Just tonal quarters.
(How easily they passed
for dollar bills)
Not yet burnt out like
fireworks
over bridge-edge.