Our Travel Plans Got Dark

your dreams lurked about the woods risking barbed wire fences that tore our shirts and once my right tit/ i still have that scar/ i do not know why i thought of it as your tree but i did/ mainly because you put a claim on it in much the…

What the Selfie Really Is

The selfie is just another tool in the repertoir of mating behavior that reminds the person who is the subject of the selfie that they are real. A selfie is a take on verisimilitude in that the subject understands that this image is of him and yet there’s more where…

Your Hand is Speaking to the Sun

https://timbarrus.tumblr.com

what subservience demands

asylum/ we seek asylum/ this strange life keeps peeling from our sin/ our fall from grace, our searching for asylum as an act of war/ the sea and suffering/ our only poetry speaks of resistance to whatever subservience demands/ https://timbarrus.tumblr.com

where nothing moves to chase the sea

the only noise from him is an almost breathing/ an almost punishing sunlight swarming/ where nothing moves to chase the sea/ https://timbarrus.tumblr.com

a quiet emptiness

the rut of emptiness up to the broken hills/ ravages without variety amid the timid spilling of the stars at night/ clicking with the crickets all the sad way to a parking lot/ https://timbarrus.tumblr.com

And There Was the Turning of the Earth

the various cures that evade us — temporarily — are always seen as impermanent as his tongue inside my mouth and the tower was your eyes gone wrong/ what is evident is that we are dust as well/ the sun from another state was the way you turned in bed/…

Tim Barrus Photography

Appalachia Town

The county fairs in Appalachia are important events. Mainly because they are often the only time during the year that everyone is having fun (and food). So much fun, in fact, it’s spontaneous, and people are apt to put old grudges, feuds, disagreements, arguments, and politics away. For a time.

Appalachian General

the appalchian sky made cheap as if standstill was attracted to a fading sun and the miles of parking lots scattered once again like the dead chain of emptying pilgrim souls who have arrived in the lower reaches of the hollows from the civilized east burning wood for warmth https://twitter.com/timbarrus

Some Monsters Are Real

Rogue Photographer

Timothée Barrus Photography timotheebarrus#gmail.com

gas and groceries

this is where we used to go to buy groceries like beef jerky on the gas credit card https://twitter.com/timbarrus

ferris wheel of rust

we were insomniacs who played on an abandoned ferris wheel whose pendulum in appalachian rain was one blind eye and sullen just like you and weary where your skin leaked raw and your bones in the dark were soup inside your nerves to be so high such as we were…

Memory’s Machine

lost afternoons justly placed each mirror could be manifest beyond sex work is still work and sweat and humiliation just like any other form of work an arrangement of perspective sheets, walls, scrubbing floors in unison our lips in full abundance we brought along our gods from the pawn shops

Except Sometimes

except sometimes your whispers tell us what you think it is we want to know and you are as always right about a lot of things/ like how pain and loneliness are often the same thing and your books of wandering arms outstretched have brought you here/ https://timbarrusart.tumblr.com

Your Photographs

beneath what photographic darkness does your panic ride and makes no promises to return, in fact, i have never heard you promise shit/ like some kind of human contract with anyone on the planet might elude your perpetual despair/ an exile in the innocence of graves/ how many tombs have…

Fuck World AIDS Day

https://twitter.com/timbarrus

And He Would Fly Away

his heart is rubbish/ he has always lived in his own world/ he knows the outside world is there/ he has simply chosen not to participate/ but such decisions have consequences/ you try changing his wet and shitty diaper/ i double dog dare you/ any romanticism you once held for…

they have all arrived

waving words and wands what terrible days nostalgia makes for loverboys who ask you to hurt them and when you refuse you tell them (as patiently as you can) that it’s the other way around and you will not hurt this one or this one or this one because by…

behind U

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

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…

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

I Never Sweep My Steps of Leaves

i never sweep my steps of leaves don’t trip leaning lightly on the memory that time we dodged the rain i held your wrists and and tasted your sybaritic mouth wet as a morning drowning in the lure of the sleep of tongues whose unspent hollow minutes walk down steps…