loralora: isle of exotic phrases

genealogy: lovechild of the moon and the land of ten thousand lakes; next of kin to baroness elsa von loringhoven
occupation: kicking down sand castles with 5-year plan of working up to decaying institutions
hobbies: most recently eloped with a lap dulcimer in the appalachian mountains
favorite time of day: the last minute
partners in crime: will and momentum
muse: caffeine-induced mania
mission: rapturous rupture

April 10th

without a moment’s notice
you accepted the news
which means you never trusted tomorrow to begin with
you never believed I would stay as long as I said
so you never treated me like someone worth keeping around
except those tender moments, spokes in the wheel of fortune & violence
you saw me as I am and threaded me in between your ribs
and me, I had something to prove to a ghost I left behind
that I could stay this time
no matter how hot the blood boiled
and what would I learn
but my little life is nothing to the eternal empty hands of a ghost

so I left 
because no measurement of my being
is enough when held up against
the taffy pulled memory 
the time-chewed sting

to be flirted with by you
your would be dragqueen lashes flitting sideways
and I am lengthwise spilled open
no seamstress fit to take in the fabric of
delicious peachfuzz
ravenous pupil
throne of iris
devour me whole

DADA is our intensity: it erects inconsequential bayonets and the Sumatral head of German babies; Dada is life with neither bedroom slippers nor parallels; it is against and for unity and definitely against the future; we are wise enough to know that our brains are going to become flabby cushions, that our anti dogmatism is as exclusive as a civil servant, and that we cry liberty but are not free; a severe necessity with entire discipline nor morals and that we spit on humanity.

Tristan Tzara | Monsieur Antipyrine’s Manifesto | July, 1916 (via indigenousdialogues)


supreme root rake
the symbol tolls
belly heaves saline
does thou glean
from mine eye
a landscape?

the cacti atrophy
ridges protrude
our ribcages perfect mirrors
sister droughts

300 days of sun
through blue sunglasses
is still 300 days of sun

still the heart melts
the same slick sick
as thou disappears in topic
the snow settles soft
on the ancestor tree
disconnect & knotted irony
object of possession
again & always
belonging to no one
& then to every one
a self-aware history



The night held back but reached for it’s sword, which poured into were plagues no bureaucracy could verify. and the clouds tore open their voices in what had become a march of doomed parallel. ‘Kill them how?’ the night was not ordered but it’s opinion carried a vague, disgusting potential. ‘Kill them how!?’ the clouds had slit their own throats and the very opulence was chemical, so that would do it. The carnivorous door was open.