gottfried helnwein

Disasters of War 54

mikayla whitmore

sunset strip


Do i like this bar because it's healthy?
Or do i like this bar because it genuinely tastes like a Bakewell Tart in condensed form?
Hello, the latter, you taste awesome.
And of frangipane, the fancy marzipan.
If you'd asked me to eat either of these things a few years ago i would have made this face at you:
Taste buds are weird.


emerald city

Oh, i'm sorry, i forgot to breathe for 2 minutes and 32 seconds.
Excuse my delirium-induced suffocation.

a series of unfortunate events

First of all: come to me, my pretty.
Second of all: MR TRICK!


Normally, not a drop of Christmas would touch this here blog of mine until at least half way through December... but for Wes, i'll make an exception.

reading challenge 2016


ron glass

Inara: So, would you like to lecture me on the wickedness of my ways?
Book: I brought you some supper. But, if you'd *prefer* a lecture, I've a few very catchy ones prepped. Sin and hellfire. One has lepers.

They took our Shepherd from us and it's not okay.
My heart is in pieces.
See ya, space cowboy.
Stay shiny.



paillé // hayes

Benoit Paillé
Jours du déménagement

'after Gwendolyn Brooks

I. 1981

When I am so small Da’s sock covers my arm, we
cruise at twilight until we find the place the real

men lean, bloodshot and translucent with cool.
His smile is a gold-plated incantation as we

drift by women on bar stools, with nothing left
in them but approachlessness. This is a school

I do not know yet. But the cue sticks mean we
are rubbed by light, smooth as wood, the lurk

of smoke thinned to song. We won’t be out late.
Standing in the middle of the street last night we

watched the moonlit lawns and a neighbor strike
his son in the face. A shadow knocked straight

Da promised to leave me everything: the shovel we
used to bury the dog, the words he loved to sing

his rusted pistol, his squeaky Bible, his sin.
The boy’s sneakers were light on the road. We

watched him run to us looking wounded and thin.
He’d been caught lying or drinking his father’s gin.

He’d been defending his ma, trying to be a man. We
stood in the road, and my father talked about jazz,

how sometimes a tune is born of outrage. By June
the boy would be locked upstate. That night we

got down on our knees in my room. If I should die
before I wake. Da said to me, it will be too soon.

II. 1991

Into the tented city we go, we-
akened by the fire’s ethereal

afterglow. Born lost and cool-
er than heartache. What we

know is what we know. The left
hand severed and school-

ed by cleverness. A plate of we-
ekdays cooking. The hour lurk-

ing in the afterglow. A late-
night chant. Into the city we

go. Close your eyes and strike
a blow. Light can be straight-

ened by its shadow. What we
break is what we hold. A sing-

ular blue note. An outcry sin-
ged exiting the throat. We

push until we thin, thin-
king we won’t creep back again.

While God licks his kin, we
sing until our blood is jazz,

we swing from June to June.
We sweat to keep from we-

eping. Groomed on a die-
t of hunger, we end too soon.'

The Golden Shovel