gorimbaud:

gorimbaud:

https://www.etsy.com/shop/gorimbaud

now that my girlfriend and i are struggling with money, it’s even better time to check out our etsy shop, selling vintage and her amazing handmade jewelry!

thank you so much everybody who shared this, we got one order after posting it and it may not sound much, but it means a lot to us. we have been working on new jewelry since then so i’ll blatantly re-post this, once more with feeling.

I purchased a Joan of Arc necklace and I wear it daily. Check it out!

Where the Upper Crust Crumbled Politely

Waking in the Blue

The night attendant, a B.U. sophomore,
rouses from the mare’s-nest of his drowsy head
propped on The Meaning of Meaning.
He catwalks down our corridor.
Azure day
makes my agonized blue window bleaker.
Crows maunder on the petrified fairway.
Absence! My heart grows tense
as though a harpoon were sparring for the kill.
(This is the house for the “mentally ill.”)

What use is my sense of humor?
I grin at Stanley, now sunk in his sixties,
once a Harvard all-American fullback,
(if such were possible!)
still hoarding the build of a boy in his twenties,
as he soaks, a ramrod
with a muscle of a seal
in his long tub,
vaguely urinous from the Victorian plumbing.
A kingly granite profile in a crimson gold-cap,
worn all day, all night, 
he thinks only of his figure,
of slimming on sherbet and ginger ale--
more cut off from words than a seal.
This is the way day breaks in Bowditch Hall at McLean’s;
the hooded night lights bring out “Bobbie,"
Porcellian ‘29,
a replica of Louis XVI
without the wig--
redolent and roly-poly as a sperm whale,
as he swashbuckles about in his birthday suit
and horses at chairs.

These victorious figures of bravado ossified young.

In between the limits of day,
hours and hours go by under the crew haircuts
and slightly too little nonsensical bachelor twinkle
of the Roman Catholic attendants.
(There are no Mayflower
screwballs in the Catholic Church.)

After a hearty New England breakfast,
I weigh two hundred pounds
this morning.  Cock of the walk,
I strut in my turtle-necked French sailor’s jersey
before the metal shaving mirrors,
and see the shaky future grow familiar
in the pinched, indigenous faces
of these thoroughbred mental cases,
twice my age and half my weight.
We are all old-timers,
each of us holds a locked razor.

When You Are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
 
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
 
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

I frequent 2 kinds of establishments: dive bars & public libraries. I end up accumulating the illnesses circulating at both at the same time & feel mutant.

smirkingsmut:


Debbie Harry photographed by Chris Stein.


i need his book asap

smirkingsmut:

Debbie Harry photographed by Chris Stein.

i need his book asap


Stiv Bators at Max’s Kansas City photographed by Nicky L, 1977

Stiv Bators at Max’s Kansas City photographed by Nicky L, 1977

(Source: superblackmarket)

bowiebowties:

Current mood: aggressively concerned about Meg White’s general well being