Art, fashion, design, history, music.

Who needs birth control when you have outfits like this?!

I’ve posted this before, but these are my current thoughts and memories. 

Yes, yes…

Poetry is for narcissists. But, who on this earth is not a narcissist? We are all obsessed with ourselves in one form or another, whether it be self-love or self-hatred. We are the one thing we will always hold the most knowledge of. 

Souls For Sale

In the depths of the bowels of the city sewers, they wrote on the walls with their dung the secrets of the universe, unlocking the questions of the human race, but whom were passed on the street by thousands of black briefcases and shined leather shoes, 

who clawed at the door to get their fix of gin and tonics and poetry and debauchery, but found the demise of their humanity, swallowed up by drunkenness and insanity in a dark pit, left forgotten in their vomit in a ditch by the side of the road,

who wore bedazzled masks to disguise their mangled faces of agony to tap dance on the stages of Ivy League schools, prostituting their souls in the black market of skyrise buildings of glass and steel and follow the Pied Piper of sex and glory. 


Run in my tights. My tea is cold. 

Cigarette in my hand. 

Every time my heart beats, my whole body moves. 

I sit on the edge of my bed in my bra and underwear. 

I take a drag from my cigarette and watch the ambers crawl up the spear that pierces my lungs. 

Heart palpitates and leaves me dizzy. 

I look across the room and see his hat. 

He always leaves a trail back to me. 


Black world. 

Black all-seeing eye haunts. 

Can’t escape. 

Human will only works when you have will left. 

My phone buzzes and I see it’s him. I turn off my phone. 

Heart palpitates again. 

Cigarette falls out of my hand and burns my foot. 

I take a sip of whiskey. It’s hot poison soothes my aching heart. 


Black universe. 

Black sky. 

Black road. 

Nevermore cries the raven. 

I shriek and throw my whiskey at the wall and watch it slide down to the shimmering shattered glass. 


Black hand.

Black neck. 

Black hole. 

The black has wooed me, married me, used me and abandoned me. 

I reach and claw for sanctuary out of the abyss that swallows me like my whiskey. 

The 7th Floor Doesn’t Exist

A white gown, stained on the first day

6 floors up

the jawbone of an ass and a stolen bird’s nest

yellow dandelions and purple thistle blooms and red-orange lucifer

hypnotized by the Nag Champa’s dance

dog hair on my coat

dog hair on my sweater

dog hair on the Persian rug

loose change from the couch buys dinner

orange velvet

Town With No Cheer


shadows in the dark


dark night

the night is calling 

the cold bed 


hanging out of the window


rain falls on my face as cold as fear


teeth grinding

the dark figure hides under the bridge

dead one

dark one







the sound of a Mercedes Turbo-Diesel

the sound of a Mercedes Turbo-Diesel

the sound of an ‘85 BMW 

6 floors up the ancient elevator

the 7th floor doesn’t exist

the werewolf repents of his murder

sex forgiving, bathing, weeping

life stolen, leaving behind the corpse

I’m on an Ethio-jazz kick this week. 

(Source: foxmouth, via mischkebusiness)



It’s balmy. It’s solemn. Palm trees promenade. Sand and concrete. Blue sky, no clouds. That early morning hue, faded from the dark night. A hand-held radio playing music approaches on roller blades. Waves repeatedly beating down on the beach. The whole world as we know it exists here. Nothing can go wrong. Nothing can go right. The rich orange sun breaks the horizon, turning the sky into a raspberry, orange and lemon – so beautiful you want to eat a spoonful. Cigarette butts and a flattened, faded beer can are buried halfway in the sand. The smell of old fryer grease and the salty sea fill the air. Good Morning America. 

I’m reading a book at a walk-up beach bar somewhere in the South Pacific. It’s hot and quiet but there is a cool, ocean breeze. I look up from under my floppy beach hat and a tall, dark, handsome stranger buys me a drink with an umbrella in it. We sit and talk about art movements of the 20th century until the sky turns pink.

Dreaming of rum and beaches and bikinis today. 


#girls by @santigold

Love this.

(via joedoe)

"I had to dance your part of the tango to keep us together." 

My Pinterest

I’ve been using Pinterest a lot more lately because I get annoyed with Tumblr. It’s brought my two loves together: Food and Vintage. I have a couple really fun boards on there, if you care to follow.