Bookish-Art

I finally have a picture of the wig i created out of Porn for my Artists' Book class last semester. My lady Propecia.

tramps like you

we were a couple of turnpike head turners,
young buck hunters, spruced up springsteens,
high fiving our high heeled wild sides. hearts slow
drip skipping as we raced the rising sun on our last lip gloss runs.
we were name takers, ball breakers, cum fakers, 'til we were done.

and gave the streets back to the newest ditzy tit sinning minis,
changed the locks on our legs, and went home.

Coconut Records with Chloe Sevigny

Any Fun - Coconut Records - Music Video

we make our own monsters.

[Fingers as Extensions]
Words intended to hurt I keenly interpret professionally wisely correctly sadly. Harmful and stooping rare slips when it is recognized previously presently nowly by in oneself. meticulously crammed behind a closet door polished mirrors vel-cro wood glued behind it bunched blanketed clothing kneaded over regretfully paradoxically necessarily good simple and complicated. Crammed and empty of definitive meaning like this. Late at night an ease envelopes the room. Objects pronounce themselves against others a glass, the draped scarf, the patterns of the rug seem to recline at will in their untellable histories. Something less greedy than fatigue, intellectual than though neatly packages the body. A cartoon framework. A cobble path of moments drawn up above our heads. Slinking down, with what does the mind reattach itself? Words as enamel, no longer form uncertainty.

“And you musn’t be sad when she disappears, you wouldn’t come home either if your house were made of honey. A black-treacle building. I told you so.”

smoke on the water

the sun slumps low
drags the tide down with it
and the harbor smells hung over,
hurled up, sour, locked out on the stoop.

this april just hangs on us;
wet laundry draped from the door knob,
the morning after our long moans got drowned out in the concave of one another's mouths
and the fog steamrolled over our sound.