LOL so posted the shit out of that



*hands over a fresh roll of toilet paper*

No worries.

Now, take my hand... and lets tear this world apart!

*removes Zippo from pocket. gives a slight, sardonic smile. flicks it*

NIN- Burn




Quote

Celeste Buckingham - RUN RUN RUN







Cool, jazzy vibe. Celeste gots da skillz.


*ties laces on new running shoes. takes a gulp of gatorade. runs off faster than Forrest*



Quote

...

Now, take my hand... and lets tear this world apart!

*removes Zippo from pocket. gives a slight, sardonic smile. flicks it*



HA! and gimmie back my foking Zippo *lights the rag and tosses the bottle*



yeahhh and then there's meeeeeeee

http://youtu.be/P6rMdMkvVaY Quote

Celeste gots da skillz.


*ties laces on new running shoes. takes a gulp of gatorade. runs off faster than Forrest*




BHAHAHAHAAAA dude is that a pastel sweatband you are wearing?

Quote

LOL so posted the shit out of that


*hands over a fresh roll of toilet paper*


* reminds Amanda Fucking Palmer that with care it's possible to use both sides of the toilet paper * Quote

*eyes the requirement in the VS regs * "Section 241, subsection 12a, para 23. 'Each room, without exception, shall have a MINIMUM of ONE (1) citizen of the Australian Commonwealth, EXCLUDING the principal Contractor their employees or representatives, present at all hours of the room's operation ...'"

*bares the underside of my newly inked forearm exposing the 72 point Brush Script MT in arterial red letters*


Hoe hou jy my nou teef?




So my beloved Ozite, and you mah green eyed wilde man Mountie ... is the fire yet large enough? Is your flesh yet chill? Will ya breath remain clean of ruin? It's getting closer to that time. Quote

She sits slumped in the crumbling wreckage of the abandoned bombed Stuttgart train station. The evening has finally fled and the city around this entry point monument to the disaster of her history is filled with the gathering noise of industrial night life. Rising, she is a fluid smooth motion. She hastens to her next appointment. The concert will be underway quite soon and she will be in that dressing room waiting.





That central player in her past had an adoration of a certain musician and this is but the third morae in her haiku of retribution. Androgyny and a metaled grill won't save her target; if Marilyn had wanted tits he should have grown them, like the Joker from a chemical spill. Slashes of light from the wrecked building's exposed steel skeleton reveal the beautifully detailed embroidery of wilted lilies on her kimono's shell. Her world is black upon white, with internal splashes of crust dried red.

_____ . _____

Woven story here - http://fav.me/d57l50c

I tell stories in words and music and pictures; I am a cinematographer for those who read.
- Amanda Graham -
Quote

I got a throw back for ya!


Candy By Cameo!
LOL!
I wish it could be my theme song when I walk into a room! LOL!

Quote

Front 242...Headhunter
Delibes....Lakme (The Hunger soundtrack)
Velvet Underground....Venus in Furs Quote

sexxy candy and my dear dark one (hugs) both of you 4 songs that i love and (viens.malika) (deneuve.shrug) a favorite for so long Quote

I got a throw back for ya!


Candy By Cameo! ...
theme song ,,,




oh there's this one as well, though Iggy's definition of the costs of love is vastly different than this surrounding place supports. I'm afraid that these lyrics, here in this morass, only apply to financial subs and dommes eh?




*launches another cocktail into the inferno* Quote

A Pause Between Breaths

In the predawn soft grey light that casts blurred shadows as soft as kitten's fur across the piles of brick and crushed lumber of the ruins of that Stuttgart train station, she kneels. Once again we see only a petite woman in some far off site of ancient devastation, but in this moment she is dressed in torn blue jeans, black engineer boots, and unadorned black leather jacket. Even this small figure's hair is so pale that it melts seamlessly into the vignette. The sounds the world makes are hushed in the way of predawn cities the world around; a brief passing of long wave vibrating air through cotton. The only objects of note in this black and white photograph, the only colors to make a clutching grasp at our hungered desire for hues that suggest passion in a flattened plane of wasteland grey-scale are those objects which she now handles carefully with grace and an almost ritual formality.

She folds the kimono with all of the proper gestural precision that she was taught long ago. It's long embroidered beautiful image of wilted lilies is now presented proudly and could easily be mistaken for a master's hand created ancient watercolor found only in the museums of the world or the castle of a warlord in a Japan that exists now only in fogged memories, poetry written on rotted fabric, or cinema-graphic heroic screen fed imaginations. This passing moment of time is witnessed only by this small woman and you and me.

The wilted lilies of a love failed once stood beautiful, detailed in silken thread as a message of that flame that burned hotly only short years before; they now display the splashed passion of that broken promise in harsh red reliefs of the slaughter recently completed. The world outside these collapsed walls with these bared steel frames that churning city and its electronic overload are dancing with the story of the Kabuki Ki'ller who brought a musical symbol to a messy end the night before. Her haiku has many syllables of destruction yet to pass in the winds of sorrow that fill her lungs. The tiny figure in grey relief closes the FedEx box, slings the long narrow grey canvas bag she carries always now across her left shoulder, balances the shipping box and walks away through the debris.




-----------------------

Woven story here - http://fav.me/d57ofcf

I tell stories in words and music and pictures; I am a cinematographer for those who read.
- Amanda Graham -
Quote

Child in time -- Deep Purple

Quote

A Gift

In a city more than a third of a planet away from the cairn and carnage of Stuttgart it is late-morning. This city is wealthy, though pockets of the less affluent in this society are always present. This country provides well for the lesser off, there is no widespread starvation, no thin chi'ldren in dust that has not been kissed by rain for decades. The food is plentiful and the markets air-conditioned and without the swarms of flies found elsewhere, almost everywhere that meat is eaten and presented publicly. Even the modern scourge of Mankind is controlled well and expensively in this land.

What this huge expanse of wealth lacks, as so many of the developed peoples do, is a sense of history and honor. It�s huge areas of population concentration have many temples; its people claim to cling to ancient belief systems, but only those that forgive what they have done with themselves for decades by the simple press of air across moist mouth tissues. They live in the gleam of tall towers that shine day and night consuming everything in sight; consuming themselves in their fear of the dark. This city is among those who have surrendered themselves to their desires with abandon. All about them, the lovely mountains, the forests, the ocean, is merely considered another opportunity for entertainment. They are fit and strong, not to accomplish works, but to remain youthful and beautiful. Their lives are longer than most on this floating orb in the universe; but their ends are pitiful.

____________________________________ . __________________________________

The morning sun shines on the small painted grey wooden porch. This older house is composed of wood, the material most plentiful in this small part of the world. The yard is overgrown but heavily flowered in a wild display of beauty and color. The spring is mature now and there is growth in abundance. Near beside the porch a family pack of raccoons has set up residence in overgrown shrubs and untended rose vines. The grey and black furred creatures have become familiar with the entire neighborhood from decades of neglect and currying favor with the humans and even the dogs bred to guard and keep safe the residents have learned to give them sway. Birds are plentiful and fill the area with their light echoing songs as they mill about in yards or swoop through the air snapping and tearing at the large variety of butterflies, dragonflies, and other graceful insects they feed upon.

The purple and orange logo on the side of the white step van glows in the bright clear light. A man in a blue short-panted uniform holding a shipping box leaps from the open passenger side door way and jogs to the front porch of the weathered wood-frame house; he is hurried but takes the time to carefully lean the box against the exterior wall beside the front door. Only a moment�s respite as he checks an entry on his hand held electronic device and he returns hastily to his truck. The gears engage and the truck mutters off down the street to his next listed delivery. There are birds that with his disappearance settle to the lawns of the neighborhood, in the distance are the sounds of the busy city, a constant hushed rushing noise of traffic, somewhere in the distance in the other direction is the sound of a large ship�s horn signaling an approach, or a departure.

The room is darkened but gleams of sunlight escape the heavy drapes drawn across the only window, the long lean figure on the bed is clearly female, and her dark hair with some lightened strands that hint at her longing for sunnier climes lies in waves across her pillow. Her bed coverings are loosely kicked and only a small section of sheet cuts across her body as a warmth collecting hijib protecting only her lower back area. The young woman lays flat on her stomach, her head burrowed into the black cotton covered pillows. She is awake, and with her head turned to the left side we see her eyes narrowly blink and reveal the deep blue of the corona irises surrounding her deep black pupils. The noise of the truck has woken her, and the footsteps of someone on the porch. Grunting she pushes upright and turns herself; her legs drop to the floor and she raises her arms stretching. Her mouth is wide in a yawn; her back emits a series of sharp cracking noises and she turns her head, popping it to release the tension in her neck. She rises on her long legs and shuffles into the bright living room to open the door.

She sits in late afternoon sun; the light comes more directly into the room at this time of day, though it is filtered by the trees outside with its deeper tones of gold and orange signaling her that she has spent hours seated here now. The FedEx box is open before her on the floor, the packing tissues which had surrounded and concealed for moments the contents lay unfolded diagonally across the bay and lid of the box. She has not dressed, she has not attended to her hair and it is entwined and haphazard from crown to mid-shoulder.

The still lovely yet horridly stained silk kimono lies across her strong thighs. Her hands lay open and at rest with long fingers relaxed on the kimono�s white surface. The scent of a perfume she is familiar with touched with that of wet iron fills her senses. The bloody crusted embroidered lilies are displayed in a bright spot of yellow light between her forearms. The hardened surface of the dried blood reflects ruby glimmers of dark red in the sun glow. Her back is hunched and the shock of her gift has not kept the tears she sheds from wetting some of the brittle blood; there it has regained its bright red color and begun to spread through the silk�s soft threads.

�Oh God� she has repeated aloud as a chant in this empty room since lifting the garment from the box; she knows even without the words of a note, �She�s coming home� circles in her mind. Her mantra stops; the only sound in this tidy room is that of her ragged breathing.




_______________________________________________________
I tell stories in words and music and pictures; I am a cinematographer for those who read.
- Amanda Graham -

Woven story here - http://fav.me/d57tbvp
Quote

A Gift

In a city more than a third of a planet away from the cairn and carnage of Stuttgart it is late-morning. This city is wealthy, though pockets of the less affluent in this society are always present. This country provides well for the lesser off, there is no widespread starvation, no thin chi'ldren in dust that has not been kissed by rain for decades. The food is plentiful and the markets air-conditioned and without the swarms of flies found elsewhere, almost everywhere that meat is eaten and presented publicly. Even the modern scourge of Mankind is controlled well and expensively in this land.

What this huge expanse of wealth lacks, as so many of the developed peoples do, is a sense of history and honor. It�s huge areas of population concentration have many temples; its people claim to cling to ancient belief systems, but only those that forgive what they have done with themselves for decades by the simple press of air across moist mouth tissues. They live in the gleam of tall towers that shine day and night consuming everything in sight; consuming themselves in their fear of the dark. This city is among those who have surrendered themselves to their desires with abandon. All about them, the lovely mountains, the forests, the ocean, is merely considered another opportunity for entertainment. They are fit and strong, not to accomplish works, but to remain youthful and beautiful. Their lives are longer than most on this floating orb in the universe; but their ends are pitiful.

____________________________________ . __________________________________

The morning sun shines on the small painted grey wooden porch. This older house is composed of wood, the material most plentiful in this small part of the world. The yard is overgrown but heavily flowered in a wild display of beauty and color. The spring is mature now and there is growth in abundance. Near beside the porch a family pack of raccoons has set up residence in overgrown shrubs and untended rose vines. The grey and black furred creatures have become familiar with the entire neighborhood from decades of neglect and currying favor with the humans and even the dogs bred to guard and keep safe the residents have learned to give them sway. Birds are plentiful and fill the area with their light echoing songs as they mill about in yards or swoop through the air snapping and tearing at the large variety of butterflies, dragonflies, and other graceful insects they feed upon.

The purple and orange logo on the side of the white step van glows in the bright clear light. A man in a blue short-panted uniform holding a shipping box leaps from the open passenger side door way and jogs to the front porch of the weathered wood-frame house; he is hurried but takes the time to carefully lean the box against the exterior wall beside the front door. Only a moment�s respite as he checks an entry on his hand held electronic device and he returns hastily to his truck. The gears engage and the truck mutters off down the street to his next listed delivery. There are birds that with his disappearance settle to the lawns of the neighborhood, in the distance are the sounds of the busy city, a constant hushed rushing noise of traffic, somewhere in the distance in the other direction is the sound of a large ship�s horn signaling an approach, or a departure.

The room is darkened but gleams of sunlight escape the heavy drapes drawn across the only window, the long lean figure on the bed is clearly female, and her dark hair with some lightened strands that hint at her longing for sunnier climes lies in waves across her pillow. Her bed coverings are loosely kicked and only a small section of sheet cuts across her body as a warmth collecting hijib protecting only her lower back area. The young woman lays flat on her stomach, her head burrowed into the black cotton covered pillows. She is awake, and with her head turned to the left side we see her eyes narrowly blink and reveal the deep blue of the corona irises surrounding her deep black pupils. The noise of the truck has woken her, and the footsteps of someone on the porch. Grunting she pushes upright and turns herself; her legs drop to the floor and she raises her arms stretching. Her mouth is wide in a yawn; her back emits a series of sharp cracking noises and she turns her head, popping it to release the tension in her neck. She rises on her long legs and shuffles into the bright living room to open the door.

She sits in late afternoon sun; the light comes more directly into the room at this time of day, though it is filtered by the trees outside with its deeper tones of gold and orange signaling her that she has spent hours seated here now. The FedEx box is open before her on the floor, the packing tissues which had surrounded and concealed for moments the contents lay unfolded diagonally across the bay and lid of the box. She has not dressed, she has not attended to her hair and it is entwined and haphazard from crown to mid-shoulder.

The still lovely yet horridly stained silk kimono lies across her strong thighs. Her hands lay open and at rest with long fingers relaxed on the kimono�s white surface. The scent of a perfume she is familiar with touched with that of wet iron fills her senses. The bloody crusted embroidered lilies are displayed in a bright spot of yellow light between her forearms. The hardened surface of the dried blood reflects ruby glimmers of dark red in the sun glow. Her back is hunched and the shock of her gift has not kept the tears she sheds from wetting some of the brittle blood; there it has regained its bright red color and begun to spread through the silk�s soft threads.

�Oh God� she has repeated aloud as a chant in this empty room since lifting the garment from the box; she knows even without the words of a note, �She�s coming home� circles in her mind. Her mantra stops; the only sound in this tidy room is that of her ragged breathing.




_______________________________________________________
I tell stories in words and music and pictures; I am a cinematographer for those who read.
- Amanda Graham -

Woven story here - http://fav.me/d57tbvp



Bauhaus...The Passion of Lovers
Quote

My Chemical Romance- Black Parade Quote

Bauhaus...The Passion of Lovers



nice pick for accompaniment

Quote

nice pick for accompaniment





Thank you.It's what your story made me feel.Reflective and coming to terms with life's, sometimes, gentle lessons.Sometimes violent. Quote

"Winter is Coming" by Radical Face




'We push through trees now,
our house is covered in ice
our breath falls
from our mouths
like tiny rainclouds
We tug on Summer,
he melts the snow at our feet,
She's on our heels,
there's never time
to stop and sleep.

I feel you breathing,
I hear you curse my name
I hope that you'll forgive
me one of these days...

The sky is bleeding
This fog is thicker than walls,
She's wrapped up in it
like cloth on a wrecking ball.

Everything we stole
Everything we broke
Everything we bought is gone
A couple dumb mistakes
bigger than we thought
Nothing left to do but run.
If I could put it back
Fill in all the cracks
Nothing there I wouldn't change
But wishing never helps
Wishing never helps
Wishing never solved a thing.'
Quote

"Winter is Coming" by Radical Face



'...

Wishing never helps
Wishing never solved a thing.'



ouuu i love it amicu (kiss) ... mine a little later to avoid stepping on yours.
Quote