when we were very young

when i was young i stayed home
collected stamps
and made up people named after fonts.

photo + bleach = <3

what to do with the nonsensical prints?
pour bleach on them
scratch at them
thank you to seth for yet another fantastical idea

they are not only photographs but objects

stick together with the tape, the tape of love [sticky stuff]

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accidnt

the first time i dropped furthur [i did it again with the film that's still in there, only this one is going to be worse, all thanks to the assholes on the bus who don't get out of the waaaaaay]






and another
and out



tonight i am assembling more ilhu flags. if i really am the queen of these alleys, tomorrow is the day i claim them.

flesh and light

i am alright with pain. i am alright with absence.
not so much with obsess or abscess.

love is no light

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Miranda, That Ghost Just Isn't Holy Anymore: B. Pour Another Icepick // The Mars Volta

I think I’ve become one of the others.

There was a frail syrup dripping off his lap danced lapel.
Punctuated by her becrepit prowl she, washed down the hatching gizzard.
Soft as a mane of needles, his orifice icicles hemorrhaged by combing her torso to a pile.
Perspired, the trophy shelves made room for his collapse, she was a mink handjob in sarcophagus heels.

Bring me to my knees, tead the sharpened lines.
All my arms, bled me blind.
Faucet leaks in shadows,spilling from, morgue lancet caressed your fontanelle.
I’ve sworn to kill, every last one, every last one.
Panic in the shakes of the wounded, Panic in the worms.
Onto the floor And out of your mouth and Out of your eyelids.

No there’s no light, in the darkest of your furthest reaches.
No there’s no light, in the darkest of your furthest reaches.

All your dreams, splintered off.
Leech by leech, on this catafalque.
Anyone will tell you, yes anyone.
Chance had me setting the trip wire alarm.
Your mother flirted, with disease, when she skinned that costume by it’s navel strings.
Panic in the shakes of the wounded, panic in the worms, onto the floor, and out of your mouth out of your eyelids.

No there’s no light, in the darkest of your furthest reaches

Shock lest shackles free you, Volt face cons.
Abandon you again, I won’t feel, not this time.

Let Freedom Ring

I am not too impressed with these violent works of art going on - that is abortion art
and the mighty dog mockery
it still happens though - which makes it an interesting topic to want to document - to remember that it is real. It's just too bad it requires destruction - making it [in my eyes] unethical to do that to your body. I know it's just flesh but it happens to hold the pieces of your mind self together. There should then be care for the body - nor can it live without the mind.
And why would you hypothetically instill that onto another [lesser, in a loose sense] creature. We as artists should not perpetuate the destruction by the human race. I should want to rise above the horror!

also i have a small shop here