Posted 17 hours ago

mymodernmet:

20-year-old German photographer Katharina Jung uses her camera and masterful photo manipulation to create otherworldly scenes of strange beauty. Although she’s only been pursuing photography since 2012, Jung has already amassed a portfolio full of dramatic portraits and spectacular conceptual photos that blend surreal and fantasy elements to create compelling visual narratives.

Posted 17 hours ago

(Source: 500px.com)

Posted 17 hours ago
nudded:

woowww this is so nice

nudded:

woowww this is so nice

(Source: trans-par-en-t)

Posted 18 hours ago

(Source: hydrotoxicity)

Posted 18 hours ago
Posted 6 days ago

Maybe everyone talks about loving because it’s the most incredible, inexplicable thing that can happen to a human being.

Posted 1 week ago

ghost kisses

Posted 1 week ago

facundopires:

Facundo Pires 55x42 Cm Archival pigment print. 2012. http://facundopires.tumblr.com

Posted 1 week ago

You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I’ll tell you all the news.

I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.

From there you could look out
over Castille’s dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
Everything
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings —
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children’s blood.

Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!

Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!

Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull’s eye of your hearts.

And you’ll ask: why doesn’t his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!

Pablo Neruda, 'I'm Explaining a Few Things' (via soracities)
Posted 1 week ago

tumblropenarts:

Artist Name: Rebecca Clark

Tumblr: dharmabum61