last nights fool

What a good time but now
I have to find a bed
that can take this weight

 Geewhiz.

I’ve always loved you, Jeff Daniels.

yes. YES. Anna Paquin from Fly Away Home is my new icon. Okay, not as obsessed as with Patti Smith, but inspired. Huge Floral sunhats. Little Brown boots with chunky socks. Getting to hug Jeff Daniels whenever I want.

yes. YES. Anna Paquin from Fly Away Home is my new icon. Okay, not as obsessed as with Patti Smith, but inspired. Huge Floral sunhats. Little Brown boots with chunky socks. Getting to hug Jeff Daniels whenever I want.

OMG I found it.
All I had to do was type in Orlan Trousseau into google, obviously.

OMG I found it.

All I had to do was type in Orlan Trousseau into google, obviously.

A modern day eyesore. The internet has been, as we’ve always been told, the source of all information - the ability to access everything with the click of a mouse.

This is wrongg/

Where are the pictures of Orlan giving birth to her loved self? I can’t find any pictures of it anywhere! My god, this series of photos were, from memory, Orlans first groundbreaking work that absolutely catapulted her into the art world in the late sixties in Europe and the ret of the world. And google? NOTHING? FUCK YOU.

SO.anggry.

AND what makes matters so much worse is that when I do type ‘Orlan gives birth to her loved self’ into google, all that comes up is a fucking pregnant Miranda Kerr.

I know I’m not nearly learned enough in the art world to be excused a pretentious tumbl on this, but fuck it. I wanted to see it again. I haven’t veiwed it since high school, and it’s beautiful, goddammit.

Sixteen years…

Sixteen banners united over the field

Where the good shepherd grieves.

Desperate men, desperate women divided,

Spreading their wings ‘neath the falling leaves.



Fortune calls.

I stepped forth from the shadows, to the marketplace,

Merchants and thieves, hungry for power, my last deal gone down.

She’s smelling sweet like the meadows where she was born,

On midsummer’s eve, near the tower.



The cold-blooded moon.

The captain waits above the celebration

Sending his thoughts to a beloved maid

Whose ebony face is beyond communication.

The captain is down but still believing that his love will be repaid.



They shaved her head.

She was torn between Jupiter and Apollo.

A messenger arrived with a black nightingale.

I seen her on the stairs and I couldn’t help but follow,

Follow her down past the fountain where they lifted her veil.



I stumbled to my feet.

I rode past destruction in the ditches

With the stitches still mending ‘neath a heart-shaped tattoo.

Renegade priests and treacherous young witches

Were handing out the flowers that I’d given to you.



The palace of mirrors

Where dog soldiers are reflected,

The endless road and the wailing of chimes,

The empty rooms where her memory is protected,

Where the angels’ voices whisper to the souls of previous times.



She wakes him up

Forty-eight hours later, the sun is breaking

Near broken chains, mountain laurel and rolling rocks.

She’s begging to know what measures he now will be taking.

He’s pulling her down and she’s clutching on to his long golden locks.



Gentlemen, he said,

I don’t need your organization, I’ve shined your shoes,

I’ve moved your mountains and marked your cards

But Eden is burning, either brace yourself for elimination

Or else your hearts must have the courage for the changing of the guards.



Peace will come

With tranquility and splendor on the wheels of fire

But will bring us no reward when her false idols fall

And cruel death surrenders with its pale ghost retreating

Between the King and the Queen of Swords.

 -Robert Zimmerman. Changing of the Gaurds.

Can’t decided which line to have tattooed on me. They are. All. Moving.