my brother’s cat, Dexy, is a mad cool dude. part-cat, part-unicorn.
Portrait of A. Werlemann
bar, you are the worst. what even, tonight. CRYTOWN.
the Cribs - you were always the one
LET’S ALL RELIVE OUR YOUTH, AND ALSO DANCE. BE HERE IN 1HR.
Velvet Underground (and Nico) - I’ll be your mirror
heart this always.
have all the feelings.
you guys are all fucking wonderful.
I’ve been a bit of a sulk lately, and I’ve probably given some bad impressions. but—wow—I have some amazing people in my life. and I’ve decided that caring hard isn’t something I should try to hide. hold tight, get brave.
I hate Nico.
so all the moving/hysteria will quiet by the end of the week. and I’ve got words to write, stock to list and people to love. plus there’s the zine catalogue. and these dresses I have in my head. and All the Ideas. and things to glitter.
collaborate // heartbreak // yes, please
of Montreal - the events leading up to the collapse of Detective Dullight
there was Jello in the fingerprints…
I didn’t answer. I didn’t feel like it.
His bow was condescending: too low to be taken very seriously, and far lower than the situation demanded. I dreamt—a moment’s inattention—that his Rubbish Hat might tumble from his Rubbish Head. I wished—another moment—that it would. I wondered—a fleeting wonder—which of them was more detestable.
He straightened, hat and head united in conspiracy.
He repeated the question, slowly.
His consonants spat disgust.
Pointedly, I wiped disgust from my cheek.
I sneered at his sneer (or maybe it was just his face), and answered him as vaguely as I could.
I don’t know where the Little Banana Guy’s got to.
he mentioned something about filming cheese.
He was persistent, I was abstract.
who am I kidding? bananas don’t speak.
they go on breakfast in cereal commercials.
I had no reason to be difficult … but he had no reason to be wearing such a Rubbish Hat.
all of us, always, we’re voyeurs.
it’s coming to something
I don’t know what
a Grotesque Animal
like, nothing helped me keep up with you
so I struggled forward until I saw you
philosophising notions of desire.
and, with nothing, you courted me
and, by-and-by, you caught up with me
willingly, I dove into your fire.
but nothing like the dream of you
no love helped me agree with you
it made me sick to have your face near mine.
and nothing held me close to you
I couldn’t give my soul to you
a clumsy kind of nothing left at all
… like need, or whatever, that feeds itself
with its own meaning, or it’s own means.
like drowning in fire, or fire drowning in itself.
most of what occurs to me is:
being “drunker” / “more drunk”
“how do words work?”
never ever ever (enough).