Tim Barrus Blog
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THESE APPALACHIAN HILLS
ginger is never here/ he tends bar in asheville, and he’s a drug dealer/ like i give a shit/ people make their own decisions/ consequences come and go/ he’s a great fuck, and we spent two weeks here a long time ago/ appalachia is about many things/ a long time…
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in these appalachian hills
in these appalachian hills groaning under not an anchor but a lack of them reading itself is like the scrap dealer bent so close to poverty one can only wonder why it is white people mainly cannot bring themselves to understand that reading is a warship that has kissed the…
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and hovering
i belong in that place with the sacks of seed spilled upon the fallow ground salted with milkweed and armed with cameras and hovering
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dazzled or enough
https://timbarrusart.tumblr.com
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The Nights At Large
where some eternal blue glistens and snarling hauls its streets with the lips of whores hey bigboy gotta cigarette and you woke up there too exhausted to sleep among the stars or slices of the sun the concrete sidewalk had been jabbed into your mouth of boots where no half-broken…
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leaving you
https://timbarrus.tumblr.com
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Tim Barrus in the New York Times
AT NIGHT, THEY PACE you were sleeping and I would sculpt your naked body with the contours of my tongue/ you were that flawless carnal bleeding from your hole/ the inside of my mouth was eros drowned in blood/ in the cold hours of the night, you were awake and…
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Tim Barrus in the New York Times
We begin this video in a graveyard. We end the writing part of this in the same graveyard. You will not get it. But then, we don’t make jack shit for you. So what IS mainstream art. The video (above) has no name. It has no stars. It has no… -
he’s feeling you up in public and you like it
his hand will be squeezing my ass often on the long road home leaving me silently incredulous because it’s such overt flirtation no one thinks of him as someone who would do this, he is held in such regard i say nothing, pretending not to notice his fingers pushing against…
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Put Your Tongue In My Mouth
his tongue was always a sort of ruins set apart from the cold or even from the rest of him his cock his eyes his hands his shit hole his hollow in the mountains where the crows live