poetry is moribund lil peep wrote better than us meat computer writes better than us poetry is a lame ass art form too worn out rimbaud would be doing something different today i promise you
i wish i made fashion 8th art or video games 9th art even better 90’s video games or hypermodern trap or post anti folk but u r stuck with me for a bit if u still want to be that is i am stuck with me, being me, for ever and ever and ever ever ever.
how to be cool after van gogh, basquiat, modigliani, rimbe, nick drake, césar aira, duchamp, alfred jarry, manuel antonio, kafka, pessoa, rosalía de castro, cervantes… and the sky and the sea and the deeply rooted trees.
The label read “Vampire” “A merlot as sweet as blood” But blood’s not sweet Just the heart’s thing to pump And if it is sucked out The heart is low and dry A tough squeeze and cry
The story: Love drinks wine Gets intoxicated Chit-chats lotsa shit Bits of bric-a-brac Cool conversation Masking the heat Beneath the clothes That want to come off And lie like a heart Body sucked out A pudding without the pud
Love toasts itself Two vampires In the bite of night Screeching like bats Growling like wolves Two moaning carcasses Without a mind
Love has drama
The “ever after” An empty bottle With just a label
Up before sunrise. Late night. Two hours of sleep. Last call then fucking at her place. She was closer. She sounded satisfied. Maybe the whiskey helped. Both of us mid-forties, lonely. Saturday night blues. She liked my Charles Vess Death t-shirt. I liked that she liked. Her cleavage and smile helped.
There’s no offer of breakfast. I wash my cock and balls in her bathroom sink. Never a boy scout, never swore the oath, but I improvise. Tooth paste on my finger.
In search of my pants, I notice her walls are decorated by images of Star Wars. Old school – Vader, Fett, Tusken Raiders, the Cantina scene. Even Bossk.
I grab her ass and kiss her with what’s left of last night’s passion, hoping she’s game for a sequel.
I like orange. But not the bright and bubbly kind. The dirty kind, like rust. The iris of rock doves, or pigeons’ eyeballs if you like.
I also like its neighbor, Dirty Yellow. Like mustard. The color of forgotten couches and curtains smelling of mildew and… dirty yellow.
I even like my pink dirty. Like intestines. Or a ballet slipper stained with sweat. And on the darker side of the spectrum, a dead rose, crusty like dried blood.
Imagine if every color were named after the dirtiest version of itself. “Burgundy” becomes “Dried Blood.” “Teal” becomes “mold.” Now mold is a versatile color. Everyone’s favorite color can be found in mold form. Mold is prismatic, polychromatic, breaking barriers, breaking…moulds. The Emperor’s New Clothes was just mold all along. Kind of ironic seeing as mold is one of the earth’s oldest life forms. The Emperor’s Old Mold. Beautiful.
For Christ’s sakes, Mary, Joseph told her. You’ve got to stop crying and staring out that fucking window. Face it, Jesus died on the cross, no matter what that crazy bitch Mary whatshername says, and that’s that. He’s just not coming back. Ever.
This was in the summer, months after the crucifixion. Mary had barely changed her clothes since then, spent her days in total silence with cigarettes and bourbon.
It’s more than that, Mary said as she walked over and sat opposite Joseph at the kitchen table. She lit up a fresh Marlboro, told him she had something to tell him. What’s that? her husband asked. You know that whole story about the virgin birth? she asked. When he nodded, she continued, Well, don’t get angry or upset, but it was all bullshit. Jesus’s father was some Roman soldier, definitely not God. We met one night at a club, we were so young back then and drinking and dancing and doing Ecstasy and he promised to pull out, but . . . Her voice trailed off into silence, she made a little palms up gesture. You mean, you weren’t really the Virgin Mary after all? Joseph demanded. Hardly, she replied, then made a sound like a snorting horse. Joseph said he felt like throwing up. Mary pushed the bottle of Jim Beam across the table, urged him to have a drink instead.
Later, when Joseph had finally stopped crying and the bottle was almost empty, Mary was back at the window. She asked him how in the hell he ever believed her ridiculous story anyway when everybody else in Galilee knew she was a party girl prone to big lies. I don’t know, he replied sounding like he was going to start crying again. I guess because life is so much easier if you believe in God and miracles and all that shit. Ha! said Mary, still waiting at the window, fucking tell me all about it.
As it says on their website, there’s a difference between a cool picture, a great photo, and a striking image. Striking Images and Not Ashamed Boudoir is made up of Josh and Jennifer, a Utah couple that lives in Saratoga Springs.
Josh says that he originally got into photography as an excuse to get outside and “hunt” wildlife. And by hunt, he means photograph. Starting out with some pointers from a friend and a desire to pursue photography, Josh became dedicated to the artform. “Whatever the genre, we are dedicated to being artists,” Josh says. “What we try to create is something that you wouldn’t see every day. We work to find the exceptional.” About 90% of photoshoots are done together. Having both of them there means that while Josh is behind the camera, looking at lighting, focus, and framing, Jen is able to see all of the details that make a photograph great.
After learning more about what boudoir photography was all about, a little later down the road, Josh and Jen spoke about how they could use boudoir as a means to help women step away from the shame that so often surrounds their self image and the ways they view their bodies – thus, Not Ashamed Boudoir was born nearly 3 years ago.
“We started Not Ashamed as a way to help me love myself,” says Jen. Having struggled with eating disorders and low self-esteem for most of her life, she was all too aware of the toxic thought patterns that women can fall into. “I wanted to learn to stop being ashamed of my own body and love who I am now.” And what began as a project geared towards self-love and acceptance, blossomed into a passion and a journey to help the clients and models they worked with take steps towards self-love and away from shame.
Rita is on the edge of town tonight the sound of the rails are coming in like rain through a hole in the roof
just one more thing you can’t keep out
when is love not more give than take the car is rolling and there’s no brakes something about the levee can’t hold back when the floodplain / the vein / just gives right in
been through the burnout / rehab stints / the decades of bad luck / bad checks / old story / you know it? then don’t look down like that on what you ain’t, for one second, been in knee deep and no way out
trash bag on her car window it’s no fucking metaphor it’s making due with whatever you have tucked underneath the driver’s seat
there must be light in all this somewhere or else why even try, right?
you open the book and not a damn word of it feels right tonight Rita’s chucking bottles at trains screaming about Ray and Daddy and when oh fucking when is it gonna end
you think the night is long? you’ve no idea how fast it goes down here