Don’t ask me about his lips. The way they ruby and burn. Stretch full over white teeth. Soft with desire, taut like a drum. I want him to make music of me.
Don’t ask me about his hands. The way they are scarred with stories he won’t tell. How they slide thick down his legs as I stare. Mouth cotton; eyes hungry.
Don’t ask me about my hunger. The way my stomach drops tight when he looks at me. The way my palms itch for his bones. His tongue. Don’t ask me about my fear. The way he comes to me.
How I open my mouth to say “Yes” and it comes out “I’m sorry.”
— His Lips, Clementine von Radics (via clementinevonradics)
Anonymous asked: what does your name mean to you?
It means even though my dad left, and even though I only see him every now and then, his blood and his heritage is still in me. It means that their is still culture in me. It means that there is always a ground, a stepping stone. Mariana, roll the R. Ma-d-ee-ah-nuh. Star of the sea.
Jay DeFeo - The Rose (1958-69)
“The story of Jay DeFeo and The Rose is both a cautionary tale of obsession and an inspiring tale of determination and belief. She began working on The Rose in 1958. She was 29 years old and for the next eight years, she did little else but sit on a stool in her studio, smoking cigarettes, drinking Christian bothers brandy while she painted and scraped away at her vision.
First titled The Deathrose, then The White Rose and finally just The Rose, DeFeo only stopped working on the painting when an increase in rent forced her from her studio. By then it was 1966, her marriage was ending, she was in fragile physical and mental health, and The Rose had become too large to fit out the door.
At nearly 12 feet high and in places eight inches thick, The Rose was constructed from layer upon layer of built up and scraped away black and white paint. DeFeo added mica chips to the paint and so The Rose has its own interior light.”
This. Is fucking awesome.