you took our knobs.

Came were moths and owls of the nights sky,
in colored light the cage bird cried.
Her heart was tired of ignoring the fact,
mine, yours... our house cards ...crash... (high pitch) flat.
Shelled lips of an amber lash,
i'll take one and a whiskey,
Russian red to be exact.
Gypsy tears in crystal blue demise,
I'll lick them like tushy
whats that thought that crossed your mind.
I need you now, how was i supposed to know
because i need you now, it was never our emote.
New age, new religion.
Fuck your mother, you dirty as pigeons.
I fiend your smoke, my breath the ignition,
holy as your ramet,
my tongue on you with precision.
Im done god damnit.
Green dewy red eyes,
I'm here to rest,
 in your informed contaminated life.
You lost yourself,
im better off solo flight.
Bounty night,
Bounty hunter, mother fucking shank your pride,
you know im right, machete life.
your bets are off,
hear my tone,
get used to it...
it's that last thing you'll ever know.

page 22

america.
i have given you all and now i am nothing.
i'm trying to come to your point but i refuse to give up my obsession.
i sit in my house for days and stare at roses in my closet.
i have mystical visions, cosmic vibrations.
im obsessed by time magazine, it tells me about responsibility.
everybody is serious but me...
it occurs to  me i am america.
thank you ginsburg.

ready for empty spaces and the end of the world.

muse.
prescribed for the faith of idealism.
left in the shadows of an artist's heart.
where no good may come but the weight of a brush and the corruption of a soul.
i am but a memory.
i sit not in the room where good tidings may come,
but in a room silenced with the company of a ticking clock and running fridge.
where do we get out?
a memory none the less.
i see, hear, feel you.
the day at the beach skips my mind back and forth between the walls of my head,
like stones skipping through an ocean's wave without an end,
stuck like the sand between the sheets that this book will forever be read.
it'd be selfish to think this is about you.
so here it goes again, one page, to the next, i count 16 dead.

I smell of whiskey, patruly, and roses.

 

(Don't worry about finding out who made any of these items. Too poor for new clothes, too bad ass to care.)

 

Identity: My name is Meg, 22 (soon to be 23). This is yet another attempt into making it in the world of frequencies and cyborgs. Unfortunately, I don't have a working camera... yet. A past friend crashed onto my what would be camera in a night of heart break and slurred words.  Come to realize, I don't even have a working computer. The one I am using was given to me by a boyfriend I had for two days. Yes two days... and here I am trying to hold the screen in weird ways so it doesn't freeze and turn white... while trying to spell check the whole time. That actually sums up a regular night we had in the short time period of knowing each other. He gave me that shirt too, I cut the sleeves off. You could say, "I'm that wild one." Not hippy, gypsy, or punk rock.



Escape into a reality.

So excited today is the day we've been working so hard for. Dreams do become physical!

A day in Balboa.

A paint parade at Balboa Park with the bestie... where you may frolic, create, and stare at anyone at any given moment. Half way to being little yogis.

Sweet Little Nothings in My Room.

Rain Check.

Photos taken by my dear friend Walter Schochenmaier
Follow his work and find out more Here and Tumblr

I look like my dad.

 

My yesterday.

My yesterday concluded to an accident, bangs, and a great night.

Masochist for breakfast.

The moon held back it's light

A jog was needed

Frozen in place she saw as he stepped out from the car only to reveal a new place of stay, made up of course.

His sister arrived and they left only to go buy a tire

They didn't talk and yet she still knew their destination

Upon a glimpse of eye contact her phone rang

Himalayan with the parents, sure... oh bring three friends. His closest.

They were mute, lost their voices.

Felt like unheard cries from The Falkland War

A moth's wings flickering at the end of death.

She couldn't gaze at them

and they couldn't even slurp soup.

She sent them wishes of a night on the beach once held in a memory.

The jog continued.

A search for narcotics, instead an offered smoke.

The hill was steep.

At last sight she saw everyone remove themselves from beneath his roof.

They didn't wave goodbye, and she couldn't recognize any of them.

He came out and stood as though he was gazing into a mirror.

Only the sky made her cry.

Breakfast; breaking the fast of the night.

Savage.

Visiting isn't getting strategical encouragement

We saw, shouted, attempt to suffer

Exhaustion you acknowledged

Risk comes reward

Disappointment down to the shortest

We started and were rewarded

Early dawn splashed against formations

Shadows melt away color

Dirty young, sprinting over danger

to question the animal

Gentle meandering curves replaced near the river

Desolate

except fellow mules hauling from the depths of the cooled darkness

It is gentle, beautiful.

The phantom ranch.

And there was no where to go.

This is probably my favortie top I own, it was thrifted a while back and I recently forgot I had it.  Iv'e had a lot of time to do absolutely nothing, so I treated myself into some crafts and made the head piece and finished some yarn bracelets I was working on. I really had no place to be.

Prelude.

I'll be at home.

This project is pretty self explanatory. Only two people on the whole entire world, me being one, would understand.

It was only a fall.

The face of the devil’s water

Insomnia, anxiety, solitude, heartache

The rage from the fool’s cup

Night slowly becomes deprivation of somberness

He feeds courage from the lips of your friends, leaving you behind, at the willows knees

People scatter your mind and pollute your thoughts with empty bottles
While the only one you can think of for the past three years won’t show up

Taillights from the driver’s seat is the closest reminiscence to what he wants to allow

Upon awakening the energy spills from my closed fist as rage would from a bull

You can’t be beaten

Death

and killing, seep from the crevices of five fingers

Stay far, stay hidden for

A lack of love, sleep, and confidence will leave a girl at her knees crying and shaking

Creating a being that no longer cares

With hallucinations of a human taxidermy production

Do not cross me; May God watch over us all

-May 2, 2011

Lack of eyelids

This week has definitely been a series of very interesting affairs. For one I finally got this snake ear cuff in the mail. I think I love it! An Awlf bike troop episode took place in the middle of downtown at midnight this month's full moon, this is after a 16 mile bike journey to get there. At the end of it all our car keys ended up dropping out somewhere in the city, we waited forever for a tow truck, and ate some del taco. Then because we just can't get enough, yesterday we attempted and succeeded yet another 16 mile bike journey. Obsessed?

(via: AWLF)

Invasion.

(Just some American Vintage Hoodie)

Messenger of the desert, cloaked in lace; guidance from the west.

A spirit from within

shall stow upon thee

bringing bushels of nectar

from the Arabians young.

Ambush of night's rise,

Elusively clinging to the sides of

tall metal triangular forms.

She is terror, power, beauty.

Invasions tide of a camel's hide

lay at rest in a current stuck in November's lust.

Many moons shall come to be

rain's time of poison

crumble to the earth

her limbs will cringe.

-March 25, 2011 

To say the least...

I realize I have been slacking tremendously in the area of posting anything at all really. So I finally took a day off from hair, work, cleaning, and sitting to enjoy a lovely day with the fam bam.

She was never beautiful enough

Blood ran from her irises

while skinned rabbit hung

from the bones of her collar

caged like a bull

left in a car of shame

while love drove to a new

destination.

Rain followed

and the battery drained from the

literal hand device.

She had been abandoned to shakes

and thoughts of a samurai's morning.

-February 19, 2011

Sugar.

(Everything is thrifted aside from the Dolce Vita flats)

Im trying to conserveeee. So in times like this one must only thrift. HAHA, poor miss.

Oh please, her wasted words are spilt across the bar as your eyes stray.