Impulsive Pandora

Life is a bowl of lemons for your own recreational use.

I talk and expound upon the ideas that are most vulgar to me, and I want to think about them no longer. This means cats knocking down lamps in the room.
Can I bite, yet? Nope, Nope, I’m not biting, yet. 
I’m not ready to be mawkish and self-delusional. 
Consciousness, let me keep juxtaposing, angles and more angles …
frying in the sun, can I please stay pale and articulately self-effacing?

sinatraswooners:

Carole Lombard , 1920s

sinatraswooners:

Carole Lombard , 1920s

(via labelleotero)

Sonia Delaunay sketches 

Sonia Delaunay sketches 

The pronunciation of Italian words are recently starting to sound more, to me, like the syncopation of bebop jazz.

I, as I try to pronounce the names of Italian Futurist artists

I would hate for anyone I know to see me in my sanctuary. I would never forgive myself, for taking away the naturality for my self to even sniff a flower. 


lllustration by LeRoy Neiman 

lllustration by LeRoy Neiman 

The Three Sisters by Fischli and Weiss, 1984. 

The Three Sisters by Fischli and Weiss, 1984. 

"In so far as poetry, or any of the arts, can be said to have an ulterior purpose, it is, by telling the truth, to disenchant and disintoxicate." - W.H. Auden 

Really? To “disenchant” and “disintoxicate”? How droll. I believe poetry should make one want to believe in an illusion, and love one’s painted veil. 


I feel like abandoning you, because I’ve been loyal too long. Something new and blank, brings the promise of less responsibility. Am I as clever as a raccoon, yet? 

Subversive passions, subversive passions…

Costume for Dream of Venus by Salvador Dali, Photo by Horst P. Horst, (1939). 

Costume for Dream of Venus by Salvador Dali, Photo by Horst P. Horst, (1939). 

The Last Night at Ally’s Apartment

Everything I scrawled when I was drunk and emotional, just as it was:

Ally has a habit of not cleaning up
after herself. It is intriguing.
She falls asleep, careless. You
can infer all frivolities conducted
in a night, an evening of improvised
dinner over wine, by what she
has not erased. All her tracks, there.
She is guiltless. A wine glass half-full
sits idly on the kitchen table, next to an uncapped Nutella jar,
tablespoon still stabbed in… an
open box of Madeleines next to it. 

The dishes are cleaned…and that’s
from my guilt, for she did all the cooking…
but all else remains still, filled with
remnants of the activities and thoughts
concocted when those items and objects
were un-did, their placements rewritten
by the… “tempest” of
tipsy human
intentions and desires;

One of those summer nights
where you feel cursed and blessed
to fall into the some sack — the
same step, the same feeling…
of conducting, stirring, changing
and then…sliding back to where
you came from, that un-capped jar of Nutella with a tablespoon stabbed in, hoping, praying, that this sameness of inescapable chaos in the decipherable atmosphere leads you back to unsolved curiosity. 

Those nights of tangled intentions…to fulfill and perfect virtues we don’t yet recognize as the un-virtuous senses. 

Morals chasing you, the wine glass staying with you…

She never washes the dishes before going to bed and still she sleeps soundly. 

Boxes are strewn everywhere and though it is for a reasonable cause where one uproots themselves utterly and decides to embark upon a new disjointed plateau——

It all seems an improvisation of Ally’s uncharted manipulations and menage-a-troises with the properly placed, un-used pieces of civilized organization. 

It is all chatter about physical metaphors, but it is the best I can do, of an essence I chose not to understand or “interpret/know” better, with a mechanism I have only bravado and no belief in, 
to reach out and grab wisps, 
and carelessly spit them out, 
to preserve the un-didactic nature she has visualized to me. 

(Interrupts with sketch of her cat, “G’now, g’g’g’-now” scrawled next to it. 
And under: “I am five, I draw boob-indents on myself, imagining what it’s like, to grow up.”)

I will miss this apartment in Bay Ridge. Nostalgia grows fervently in me like mold on five-day-old peaches, but this is an object I am trying sincerely not to remember, because the missing-ness would be real. 
I will not think twice, 
of the sights I learned to remember
and constantly discover, and realize
I don’t dream it, but
feel comfort in it…
because there was careless security here, and sound
sleep…among
the tie-dye shirts and
Matisse-esque 
sculpture, the
Walt Whitman left unread on a 
shelf, and all the 
art, of each family
member… careless and
left near a vase chosen 
without much care
with an assortment 
of dried floras. How does
insouciance make 
itself sleep soundly here?

A haven for many
wanting sound sleep without
envisioning “order.”

The crafts-made humping
elephants, somber on a shelf, 
& the formless lovers of Matisse
still in embrace…(me) all guilt 
with a crumpled tissue on
the couch…all messy &
not fighting.

The navy walls. I miss this
place. But I only miss it 
when I am here. When I am here. 
Maybe this is nostalgia? Or perhaps
not, — because I chose to appreciate
it?

But the kitty (“Kics-ya”) meows
& she will meow, at wherever
she will stay alive next. 
Much pot was intended to be smoked
here, but this night came & we were
just the same without it.

Wearing Lipstick, Indoors & Out.

I like my smoke & veils. 
image