The Bread

Salvador Dalí and Amanda lear at Le Bal Oriental, hosted by Baron Alexis de Redé, Hôtel Lambert, Paris, 1969. Photo by Jean-Claude Deutsch

Salvador Dalí and Amanda lear at Le Bal Oriental, hosted by Baron Alexis de Redé, Hôtel Lambert, Paris, 1969. Photo by Jean-Claude Deutsch

(Source: mabellonghetti, via tolookatyou)

Morning in Prague by Markus Grunau

so excited to visit arica… 

(via slothbagel)

I’m not surprised that you don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, I just don’t think that very many people, especially your age, would be able to keep up with you. You know you are and you know what you want to do. Your eyes light up when you talk about your passions, and you’re not afraid to defy social norms and be who you are. And all this, this scares people.

- The best compliment I’ve ever received.  (via thatkindofwoman)

(Source: lifebykyla, via thatkindofwoman)


some v. important selfies feat. NO SLEEP & this rad pizza shirt

golden girl 


some v. important selfies feat. NO SLEEP & this rad pizza shirt

golden girl 

(Source: tolookatyou)

(Source: badbloody, via jamfeely)

my response:

The city takes its finger

runs it across the inside of my arm

slowly, from my wrist to my neck

it sticks its tongue in my ear and murmurs

“you are the ocean,

you are my ocean,

you are so dry”

lukewarm flesh breeds with lukewarm flesh

the bastard child of a religious mother

(the teeth of the city break when it is kissed)

the center of the earth is melting

it wants to be used as wax

to strip the surface

goodbye broken teeth

goodbye democracy

the world shaves its pussy too

the leaded foot of the parliament runs its toes through my hair

sleeping with catastrophe

-a romantic decomposing-

if I hold you in my mind long enough

you will turn to concrete

and drop out of my pupils when I see you

sliding from my eyelashes

your statue will breathe in slowly before it hits the grass

for even the earth will hold you—

until you feel dirty.

not like I will, not like anyone can

-a romantic decomposing-

spilling the contents of its liver,

the child monster feels empty again.

don’t you realize that I look like a statue when bare

you do not know me

and I know you worship the nation-state

of ridiculous nakedness

puke in my mouth if you want,

you have already puked your soul into the pores of my mind

-a romanticized decomposing… art is fucking plagiarism and I am a fortress too-


a poem that a man wrote me:

Thousand swallows in the day’s fleeting light
crows-black cawing.
Brain rolls up the street - leaving behind
orphaned stop signs.
Enough paint on your face to fill a canvas.
Words-ideologies - have taken away our colors
taken control of them.
I walked through a mirror - I never found the exit.
« art is plagiarism» & I
want to sing like your screaming violin.
knowing the secret meaning of red- violet
in the night - this mirror
is a perfect circle - even in its’ frame.
Nose, so high in the sky - doing somersaults
the clock hand chops another hour -
the violinist always has an unlit cigarette
in his mouth
my passion, is a leash or bow.
Splattering names onto sounds!
Applying name to sound!
Memories - not photographic
he uses a match to light his cigarette
when all he needs is a bow string.
I saw your black & white portrait
I knew you were a poet
but look!
no words remain
of all those calloused hours
callouses pens, pencils
wilted paper.
Callous hours - all white
without shadows
all black
without light.
cheeks of a ghost, not a whisker
dead snowy shadow poet - whisper
your name.
« I am a fortress»
so are you - in a frame.
Whiskey, oh how you’ve been missed
burning-tongue, oh how I know
each name, each hour spent
staring at empty bottles.
Imagination, drink it all -
drink all your pockets empty
drink the stage and all the actors
in one gulp. Don’t play for the crowd -
that leaves you empty and faceless -
play for the blood that still
roars in waves.
In the hidden caverns of your heart!
Tame, master - your blood.
« I am a fortress »
You can’t capture my kisses
& I cannot command them.
what I can do is drink
a field of rotting wheat
in a foamy glass.
maybe tomorrow is just another
simple set of tasks.
you have no tears
left inside of you - just shrieking strokes
you wear all black
screeching at the back of the stage
& you smile after the show -
but you have no smiles
left inside of you -
they’ve all floated to the surface.
The streets are alive.
with fermented cat shit-
if you breathe it in long enough
you’ll go crazy.
if you breathe it all out
you’ll die.
You wanted me inside of you -
i didn’t want to puke in your mouth.
Half the people in this city don’t sleep
the other half are always sleeping-
is it cats, dogs or humans
fucking on the rooftop?
inside one of these windows
someone is strumming a guitar
tomorrow morning, someone
will be dying.
Vines, that have scaled the third floor,
a half-moon.
Crazy half-dead world
mocking half-moon.
Urban Warfare
Shivering Barefoot, the marble
the concrete - it’s cold
« I am a fortress»
Tomorrow, the battle continues
Crazy half-dead world
Crazy half-dead world.


Yesterday a new friend paused in deep though mid conversation, when I asked him what was up he said he was trying to figure out “who are your people?” I thought about it for a minute and said, “I don’t really have people, or a people, I’m pretty transient among a few…


Kirsten Dunst in her bedroom, 1997


Kirsten Dunst in her bedroom, 1997

(via themadmod)

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