corbin dewitt

(made up by fletchingarrows. reblogged from proudheron.)

1. how do you take your coffee? no sugar, lots of cream –– though not very often, lately.

2. what is your favorite seasoning to use in cooking? fresh rosemary.

3. what is your new favorite article of clothing? an exquisitely simple wheat-colored linen sundress, knee-length with skinny straps. eight dollars at the secondhand store downtown.

4. what is an old faithful article of clothing for you? the dark grey trenchcoat i bought in montreal when i was fifteen.

5. what’s your favorite quote (under ten words)? “les temps sont dûrs pour les rêveurs.” -eva, le fabuleux destin d’amélie poulin

6. what do you do in the first ten minutes after waking up? roll around under the comforter, look at the light coming through the window, wonder what time it is, wonder if i should go back to sleep, kiss the boy.

7. what are you reading right now? depressingly, nothing except a lot of articles about physicist hugh everett III and some critical essays on agnès varda. fuck you, finals week.

8. it’s a hot day. what’s your refreshing drink of choice? water, probably.

9. what’s always on your grocery list? butter. everything else fluctuates according to season and taste. but always, always butter.

10. if you could change your name, what would you change it to? this one, i suppose.

callmekitto:

bearonstilts:

thranduilscreed:

roaminromans:

gatsby plays baseball
the great batsby

Gatsby wears hats
The Great Hatsby

gatsby works at an animal shelter

the great catsby

Gatsby makes onomatopoetic sounds imitating instruments to jazz music

the great scatsby 

gatsby is responsible for distributing bubonic plague across europe

the great ratsby

(via thenightingaleable)

coffee and flowers.

up early for work today. can’t focus. when it gets hot outside i always think of the word buzz, the noise of bees or cicadas, or of napping, those two z’s the cartoonish indication of sleep –– a drowsy trailing-off sound. buzz: being roused from the nap by the sound of a distant lawnmower. or buzzed, like high. in the summer i always want caffeine and nicotine and alcohol, sunshine with a side of eyelash rainbows and hazy edges, the whole world a bright mesmerizing sensual blur. today’s my last class of the semester. four finals, then i’m cut loose.

30.

like the walking dead,
you said, a sad
ophelia, a shell. well
let me tell you––

i can’t tell you. form
over function, but
my big eyes are blind
and i’m basically useless. 

wake to whiteness,
clean sheets, a bed
of crushed petals, head
a blank slate.

tomorrow a new month.
tomorrow i’ll say it
out loud. tomorrow, 
may. m’aidez?

the hilarious irony of scrolling idly past pictures of galaxies on tumblr while trying to ignore a physics lecture that is 100 percent pictures of galaxies

29.

i do not like poems
about beautiful eggs.
incandescent yolk, 
fragile shell,
shut up. today

i found a robin’s egg
(or maybe a starling’s,
sky-colored, round)
on the ground.

aesthetically appealing.
surely dead already.
i put it in my pocket.

five minutes later, a spot
on the front of my coat. 
damp. a little sticky.
i slipped my hand down
to touch it and found
only shards, smeared embryo.

in a public bathroom
i took my coat off,
waved my hands
at the automatic spigot,
washed it out.

the yolk was bright yellow.
the broken bits were blue.
it was not beautiful.

it was a messy thing. it was
an ugly thing. it was a terrible
sad thing, a destruction of spring.
at least there was no bird inside.