Install this theme
wife. patio.

wife. patio.

wife. masturbating.

wife. masturbating.

peteryumi:

Where do Babies come from ? by Peter Yumi

peteryumi:

Where do Babies come from ? by Peter Yumi

peteryumi:

Hanging out with one of my friends in our new studio Ph9 Studio 

happy happy

peteryumi:

Hanging out with one of my friends in our new studio Ph9 Studio 

happy happy

ME. I’M - “I Wouldn’t Fuck You Over”

crave

this coffee. when eyes close…

all that i should see 

[is gone] and i

only see magnificent and scary

[always] just out of reach

it’s warm and alive. 

this is craving, i know..

once an addict 

always an addict.

always an addict.

i will shake 

i will shake

i will shake you awake

at last you are awake 

[oh that promise]

when she asked about my work

of course i did he says…. emabrassingly… see.. all i do now is think of it. of it. of what ever IT is…. the rest of it matters less lesser? least….but he knows he needs to focus. faux cus. greater than / less than / carry the two cause these figures and facts must be important but all he wants is a tree and some shade and something cool to drink and eyes to watch watching him and to hold court and what was it….

coffee and all of its meanings

coffee on paper / scanned altered

coffee and all of its meanings

coffee on paper / scanned altered

spoken [without accompaniment]

mama thinks it’s best if i tell her everything cause it won’t be long
and she knows it better than most 
and she knows me better than any. 
wonder out loud how she knew and watch her smile 
[i’m losing my mind, son… but my heart is still finely tuned] 
and mama thinks your pretty and wants whats best for me 
and knows you’ll feed me well 
[she worries, you know] 
and she worries about regret cause she’s near the end 
and she knows…. 
mama wants me to live on my terms.

man reading [maybe god is real]

man reading [maybe god is real]

hypercenters:

Twists and turns. Fingers and minds.

hypercenters:

Twists and turns. Fingers and minds.

peteryumi:

The Sun by Peter Yumi
The sun no longer stood in the middle of the sky. Its light slanted, falling obliquely. Here it caught on the edge of a cloud and burnt it into a slice of light, a blazing island on which no foot could rest. Then another cloud was caught in the light and another and another, so that the waves beneath were arrow-struck with fiery feathered darts that shot erratically across the quivering blue.

peteryumi:

The Sun by Peter Yumi

The sun no longer stood in the middle of the sky. Its light slanted, falling obliquely. Here it caught on the edge of a cloud and burnt it into a slice of light, a blazing island on which no foot could rest. Then another cloud was caught in the light and another and another, so that the waves beneath were arrow-struck with fiery feathered darts that shot erratically across the quivering blue.

love this.

love this.

It was autumn, you’d lost your sense of colour. We were passing through the park after the exhibition. You picked up a leaf and described its hue in terms of the life of Saint Beatrice. In the middle was the colour of her beauty; at the edge the colour of her heart. And at those half bug-eaten tips you could just make out her death if you gave it your closest attention. And if it wasn’t Beatrice, it was Saint Clare. And if it wasn’t Saint Clare it was the leaves of Saint Dorothea of Caesarea: hers were the virgin leaves untouched by seed or mildew.

To a passing stranger you spoke with an ashen voice. ‘Bride of Christ, send me some fruits from your bridegroom’s garden.’ You tried to give her a handful of leaves. I dug into my pockets you dug your finger into my side. ‘Let’s give all these leaves to strangers … you can write your stories later.’