#RoomingHouse

[sunsetquotes]

I want so much that is not here and do not know where to go.

Charles Bukowski; The Roominghouse Madrigals

[pastnotfuture]

"He wants golfballs and glass walls. I want quiet thunder. Our disappointment sits between us"

The Roominghouse Madrigals. Charles Bukowski

[flowerytale]

Margaret Atwood, from "Roominghouse, Winter", Selected Poems: 1965-1975

[bebs-art-gallery]

Death and the Soldier (1917) by Hans Larwin | Margaret Atwood, from “Roominghouse, Winter” The Animals in That Country

[yourbuckies]

― Charles Bukowski, The Roominghouse Madrigals: Early Selected Poems, 1946-1966

[armoralor]

Shin Hati from Ahsoka ✰ Please Refrain by Robert Polito (x) The Roominghouse Madrigals by Charles Bukowski (x) ✰ reminder that T*RFs can fuck off, only interact if you love trans & nb women ♡

[joytri]

We must resist. We must refuse to disappear.

Death and the Soldier (1917) by Hans Larwin | Margaret Atwood, from “Roominghouse, Winter” The Animals in That Country

[mysterieuxclairdelune]

-Ned Vizzini, It's Kind of a Funny Story

-Charles Bukowski, The Roominghouse Madrigals: Early Selected Poems

-Heather Davis, The Clearing

[cowboylikesubai]

i finished watching all of us are dead and it killed me so...here's a web weave on it <3

Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out by Richard Siken / John Fowles / Edward Young / unknown / unknown / Roominghouse, Winter by Margaret Atwood / All of Us are Dead, 2023 / Matilda by Harry Styles / epiphany by Taylor Swift

[allthegothihopgirls]

the walking dead (2010)

little gidding, t.s eliot / i was made for sunny days, the weepies / unknown, sue zhao / unknown, david foster wallace / roominghouse winter, margaret atwood / unknown / for emma, bon iver / 1Q84, haruki murakami / waltz #2 (xo), elliott smith / unknown / love letters or suicide notes, doc luben

[toavoidtherush]

THERE'S NO JUSTICE, THERE'S JUST ME

frances molina, o' death / michael creese, grim reaper / silas denver melvin, poem in which the vulture flees / dorianne laux, death comes to me again, a girl / hugo simberg, the garden of death / haruki murkami, hard boiled wonderland and the end of the world / markus zusak, the book thief / ethel cain, ptolemaea / emile jean-horace vernet, the angel of death / emily dickinson, because i could not stop for death / margaret atwood, roominghouse winter / albert pinkham ryder, the race track (death on a pale horse) / ken chen, you may visit the cosmos but you may not speak of it / charlie kaufman and iain reid, i'm thinking of ending things / neil gaiman, the sandman / a. hering, death and the maiden / neil gaiman and terry pratchett, good omens / phoebe bridgers, i know the end / michel voogt, reaper / terry pratchett, reaper man.

[waiting-eyez]

I got up and walked back to my roominghouse. The moonlight was bright. My footsteps echoed in the empty street and it sounded as if somebody was following me, I looked around. I was mistaken. I was quite alone.

(Charles Bukowski)

[razorsadness]

People think of the green pastoral when they think of lovers in nature. Those English poets used the vales and streams to douse their lusts into verse. But the desert offers something that no forest brook or valley ever can: distance. A cloudless roominghouse for couples. Skies that will host any visitors' dreams with the bald hospitality of pure space. In terms of an ecology that can support two lovers in hot pursuit of each other, this is the place; everywhere you look, you'll find monuments to fevered longing. Craters beg for rain all year long. Moths haunt the succulents, winging sticky pollen from flower to flower.

—Karen Russell, from “The Bad Graft”

[dwellsinparadise]

People are strange: They are constantly angered by trivial things, but on a major matter like totally wasting their lives, they hardly seem to notice.

—Charles Bukowski, The Roominghouse Madrigals

[kiki-de-la-petite-flaque]

The dirty dogs of Egypt stride down my bones

The cat goes home in the morning

And I think of agony when there's little else to do

And there's usually little else to do

Except think the agony might kill us---

But, perhaps, what really saves us from it

Is our being able to luxuriate in it---

Like an old lady putting on a red hat.

Yet my walls are stained where broken glass has pissed its liquor.

I see agony in a box of kitchen soap

And the walls want their flatness to be my flatness

O the dirty dogs of Egypt,

I see flatirons hanging from hooks

The eagle is a canary in the breakfastnook

Eating dry seed and cramped by the dream.

I want so much that is not here and do not know where to go.”

– Charles Bukowski, "The Dogs of Egypt" from The Roominghouse Madrigals, 1988.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

People are strange: They are constantly angered by trivial things, but on a major matter like totally wasting their lives, they hardly seem to notice.

—Charles Bukowski, The Roominghouse Madrigals: Early Selected Poems 1946-1966. I never could get much into Bukowski, but when I lived in Germany in the seventies, I kept running into Bukowski's works—in German—and discovered then that this proud Angeleno was actually a German, born in the wine country around Andernach. And when you think about it, there's a great deal of that German solipsism in him.

[Robert Scott Horton]