clishmaclaver Outer Space



Tilda Swinton recites ‘Like This’ by 13th century Sufi poet Rumi

oh my god

i swear if tilda swinton isnt a centuries old harpy in disguise my entire life is a meaningless lie

(Source: sirtildaswinton / nathalien, via minifyingglass)


I fixed it.(Original: click, found on DILKE’s blog.)


I fixed it.
(Original: click, found on DILKE’s blog.)

Just something I wrote while watching spoken word poetry on youtube.

My eyes are blind but my ears can see
can see you next to me
your hand behind the pillow as it crinkles in submission and you reach out to touch my cheek and I shudder before you
so warm was your finger that it caught me off guard and my face relished every prickly sensation of your touch and all those years of nonreligion fell down like the berlin wall and I was praying for more than just your finger on my cheek
my brain felt heavy in my head as I lifted it just far enough to touch my temple to the home that houses your lungs
and I pictured molecules in my head as I heard your breathing, flickers of the oxygen and carbon dancing in my head like vague memories of old films I watched as a kid
and I touched my cold fingers to your throat, your pulse validating every daydream I’d ever had that you were here with me
my body felt more that first night than my brain ever imagined possible
and when you placed your hand on my waist I fell into a black hole and every atom in my body was spagettified and the bits of my hand I could feel ran through your hair like fish through water, the chipped silver nail polish on my fingers sparkled but there wasn’t a drop of light left in the room, it must be the glow of your eyes, my love
I gasped and hummed as the darkness lit fire to my imagination, we were on a raft far off at sea, stars in the sky and dolphins below our feet, and you took my hand in yours and dipped it into the water and kissed the salt away
but sharks started nipping at the raft and my heart beat fast as I grasped at your hand through the cotton of the sheets and when one jumped out of the water my eyes sprang open and there you were
and you whispered stories of the heavens where the greek gods lived and traced portraits of dead leaders on my shoulder blades 
the house creaked as the wind blew and I morsed on your hip “I love you”
you morsed back “xflaimgb”
I kissed you anyway.

by Andrea


The intricacies of your tendons as they travel between knuckles

or those fingertips draped in lace

each follicle of your hair or impurity

in the first seven layers of your skin

I dream of white blood cells


spring takes center stage early this year

Chicago wakes prematurely, impatient but unprepared

the flora mimics the fauna

and anticipation permeates the thin membrane surrounding the city


I hope those seven layers are the only thing keeping me intact


your lips fold at the creases

your shoulders sink, slow as syrup

I trace the curvature of your spine

pausing with each vertebra

captivated by every new dimple



But the subtle spring paves the way for the saccharine summer

My bruised ribs need to heal,

My delicate chest rubbed red and raw will, with time, reanimate



Wait for the cloud cover to dissipate

Wait for the waxing moon

The cautious crescent

will rise some night and

fall another


a wavering conscience will steady with time

and wandering thoughts will settle


the whites of your eyes

the white of your bones

your fragile blue veins

your fleshy pink cheeks

(by polyesteriot)

We are Clishmaclaver, a group of people from all over the world coming together to share ideas on this blog.