Photo
ignorantfashion14:

whatisajanis:

Yohji Yamamoto FW09

I-F

ignorantfashion14:

whatisajanis:

Yohji Yamamoto FW09

I-F

(via uberhommes)

Photo
Photoset

"…then go to Mendl’s and get me a Courtesan au Chocolat."

(Source: nortonings, via oldfilmsflicker)

Photo
the-suit-man:

Suits, men & men’s fashion http://the-suit-man.tumblr.com/
Quote
"I’ll stop wearing black when they make a darker color."

— Wednesday Addams (via iamcharliesangel)

(Source: redfoxroux, via nathaliina-deactivated20140923)

Text

Eclectic Industrial-Modern Loft in California

designed-for-life:

image With an eclectic, industrial, modern design style, the home features charming details with high ceilings and a bold colour palette. With my love of polished concrete the flooring throughout the main living spaces is spot on!

Read More

(Source: designed-for-life)

Photo
nonconcept:

Contemporary chic house ~ living room in Russia by Olga Freyman.

nonconcept:

Contemporary chic house ~ living room in Russia by Olga Freyman.

(Source: afflante.com, via theinteriordesign)

Photo
imgfave:

Posted by Jurnal de design interior
Quote
"I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person I’d never seen before in my life."

— Esther Greenwood, the bell jar (via bougiehippy)

(via englishmajorinrepair)

Photo
thisgarconsays:

Zara Spring 2014
I’ve stayed away from buying Zara for so long but this shirt is tempting

thisgarconsays:

Zara Spring 2014

I’ve stayed away from buying Zara for so long but this shirt is tempting

(Source: driesvanhoten)

Photo
Text

Meditations in an Emergency

BY FRANK O’HARA

          Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious as if I were French? 

          Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous (and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable list!), but one of these days there’ll be nothing left with which to venture forth. 

          Why should I share you? Why don’t you get rid of someone else for a change? 

          I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love. 

          Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don’t I? I’m just like a pile of leaves. 

          However, I have never clogged myself with the praises of pastoral life, nor with nostalgia for an innocent past of perverted acts in pastures. No. One need never leave the confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes—I can’t even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there’s a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally regret life. It is more important to affirm the least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and even they continue to pass. Do they know what they’re missing? Uh huh. 

          My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time; they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away. Or again at something after it has given me up. It makes me restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them still. If only I had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I would stay at home and do something. It’s not that I am curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it’s my duty to be attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the earth. And lately, so great has theiranxiety become, I can spare myself little sleep. 

          Now there is only one man I love to kiss when he is unshaven. Heterosexuality! you are inexorably approaching. (How discourage her?) 

          St. Serapion, I wrap myself in the robes of your whiteness which is like midnight in Dostoevsky. How am I to become a legend, my dear? I’ve tried love, but that hides you in the bosom of another and I am always springing forth from it like the lotus—the ecstasy of always bursting forth! (but one must not be distracted by it!) or like a hyacinth, “to keep the filth of life away,” yes, there, even in the heart, where the filth is pumped in and courses and slanders and pollutes and determines. I will my will, though I may become famous for a mysterious vacancy in that department, that greenhouse. 

          Destroy yourself, if you don’t know! 

          It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I admire you, beloved, for the trap you’ve set. It’s like a final chapter no one reads because the plot is over. 

          “Fanny Brown is run away—scampered off with a Cornet of Horse; I do love that little Minx, & hope She may be happy, tho’ She has vexed me by this Exploit a little too. —Poor silly Cecchina! or F:B: as we used to call her. —I wish She had a good Whipping and 10,000 pounds.” —Mrs. Thrale. 

       I’ve got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my dirtiest suntans. I’ll be back, I’ll re-emerge, defeated, from the valley; you don’t want me to go where you go, so I go where you don’t want me to. It’s only afternoon, there’s a lot ahead. There won’t be any mail downstairs. Turning, I spit in the lock and the knob turns.
Tags: frank+o+hara
Text

Mayakovsky, Frank O Hara
 

1

My heart’s aflutter!

I am standing in the bath tub

crying. Mother, mother

who am I? If he

will just come back once

and kiss me on the face

his coarse hair brush

my temple, it’s throbbing!

then I can put on my clothes

I guess, and walk the streets.

2

I love you. I love you,

but I’m turning to my verses

and my heart is closing

like a fist.

Words! be

sick as I am sick, swoon,

roll back your eyes, a pool,

and I’ll stare down

at my wounded beauty

which at best is only a talent

for poetry.

Cannot please, cannot charm or win

what a poet!

and the clear water is thick

with bloody blows on its head.

I embrace a cloud,

but when I soared

it rained.

3

That’s funny! there’s blood on my chest

oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks

what a funny place to rupture!

and now it is raining on the ailanthus

as I step out onto the window ledge

the tracks below me are smoky and

glistening with a passion for running

I leap into the leaves, green like the sea

4

Now I am quietly waiting for

the catastrophe of my personality

to seem beautiful again,

and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and

brown and white in trees,

snows and skies of laughter

always diminishing, less funny

not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of

the year, what does he think of

that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,

perhaps I am myself again

Tags: frank+o+hara
Text

Living Thing

internetlucy:

for Frank ‘O Hara

I don’t know why I held my hand up like a cloth

when I should have peeled out its odd purple veins

and left them outside in a bouquet
for the sun to spill onto

Sorry
I am ridiculous

Come back

I know you are dead
but I will drive you home
and pull out my hair to make you laugh

I will not talk about my own body
or cloak myself in the smell
of a feeble cucumber flower or a boat

I am so good at being alone
with this terrible wheezing sincerity

Quote
"

Morning

I’ve got to tell you
how I love you always
I think of it on grey
mornings with death

in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette
dry the maroon robe

chills me I need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow

At night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and I am lonely
thinking of flutes

I miss you always
when I go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine

although I never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real
humor you’d be proud of

the parking lot is
crowded and I stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone

Last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card I’ll not be cordial

there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is

when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
I beg you do not go

"

Frank O Hara (via i-am-mine-a-queen)