~ Ada's got a scheme a flying machine constructing wings of paper, oilsilk, wires, and feathers faster than light in all kinds of weather Ada's going to fly ~
For Augusta Ada King, Countess of Lovelace (née Byron; 10 December 1815 – 27 November 1852), daughter of poet Lord Byron and renowned mathematician. She valued metaphysics as much as mathematics, viewing both as tools for exploring "the unseen worlds around us."
Each made promises to the other but both loved journeys and valleys and limericks and turntables and spirits and skirt-raising and slowdives and lip-biting and come-hither more than their here-and-now vow
Trigger-happy begetter with an ax to grind killing captives slowly with jagged little things it's the strangest sound in spite of the plight of the ringing in his ears it never fades away
I reckon numbers and lead are arbitrary to a button man whose wheels turn circles mainly in his skull revolving/rouletting as infinite go-around
Never mind though, the time must be now for a show of hands
Motherhood waited in the ship's hold until the treasure hunt brought her to this final island a choice between gold and the aging ******
The young who suckle at her breast might one day run mum through with the sword at Payback —that unsteady little homestead where profit and loss share the same face
Never mind though, the moment must be now to ring the bell
And raise redemption like a burning flag of regret
He that trod upon subservient Europe with the imperial guards' fighting prowess, did himself and his heartthrob the empress, entrench thrones jointly owned by their hookup. He that caused guns to rage on Europe's plains and cannons to thunder on Egypt's sands, sent hussars and mamluks to distant flight. He usurped crowns for his dear siblings' gains, and enthroned loyalists to head vanquished lands. But was banished for good from France's sight after a stunning loss on Belgium's plains.
~ atop the Manhattan skyline her similitude descends as rain we see her wonderwork we see her water-standing her very abandonment of draperies unassuming and artless where the heedless moths settle with bodies of mystic warmth colored with rose and a dash of flame ~ – for Audrey Munson
Audrey Marie Munson (June 8, 1891 – February 20, 1996) was an American artist's model and film actress, today considered "America's First Supermodel." In her time, she was variously known as "Miss Manhattan", the "Panama–Pacific Girl", the "Exposition Girl" and "American Venus." She was the model or inspiration for more than twelve statues in New York City, and many others elsewhere.
a breeze scatters the ashes from my cigarette all over my legs and onto the ground now they make tiny mountains of rubble along with burning villages where it's lights out before their inhabitants could even think of worshipping the sun
parting lovers never have much to say but i think i'll write their names somewhere and forge my signature on a love letter meant for an ocean that is inexhaustibly rocking while cursing the moon for always pushing it away when it's just trying to fill her craters
the spoils of history go towards making impermanent things permanent on things impermanent like the arms of those unknown and like my backpack swallowing pens maybe it wouldn't happen if we stopped romanticizing the ink
my body falls in pieces from the heavens while you're on earth mingling with the best of them and it's not until halfway through a cosmopolitan that you realize you forgot to catch me and now the ants on the ground are getting stuck on a love that could have been
have you ever noticed the shape of hearts gives them a symmetry that makes them capable of being folded and neatly tucked away out of all the people you've met in your life how many of them would you reach in your pocket and unfold one for
if there's a reason i've melted it's because my cigarette tastes an awful lot like you
i see myself - unshaven and distraught, at peace with who i am and despaired by a world i saw coming but couldn't prepare for. i see myself - sitting in the old house, civil war ghosts whispering through the cracks in the dry red clay. sherman burned this town once and now i get to watch the sun do it again. i see myself - the hedges are overgrown and i never stopped smoking cigarettes. the shadows on the walls are mapped out, a mimicry of life in an empty heirloom. i see myself - head in my hands thinking about history. The Last Gilded Age. The Second Gilded Age. what good are comparisons if no one's left to draw them? how does the past make room in a world already strangled by its present? i choke back - the same addiction that made geraldine shoot herself. it occurs to me that i am probably the last person alive to remember geraldine ever existed. i think that's what drew me to history - i've always had the past living inside me. there's a whole family tree intertwined with my ribcage, like kudzu over tarred lungs. i fill my - flask with weedkiller. i inherit an open wound. i try to find my place in a history that no one will ever read.
so basically i've been thinking what the world's gonna be like when i'm an adult-adult. wouldn't recommend it.