Wishlist (continued)

I believe this dress deserves a worthy post just for itself.
What a masterpiece of wearable Renaissance.

Anglomania Twister Print Elephant Dress

£296.00

Wilderness.

Ginger bubbles they are sweet are heady,
As maternal callings summon our discomforts.
We are our only element sunken from the roots we came from,
Birthed in Aztec drums and raw howls.

We spent the weekend not counting time but dew drops
As they kissed our synthetic cocoons.
Greeting us from our sweltered slumber,
some plum bruises some just blue.

Bathed in sticky shields our armour was our clothing
Stripping bare the nettle lips stung us numb,
As we wavered like fickle fools midst the conscious realm
And wore out our fingers and our thumbs.

My quaint stream of conscious unconsciousness

27th July - 1st August 2011 (Camp Bestival)

Flouro fuck. Stained satin. Drunken elation. Bed day bruises lick the wounds. Uneasy mist cradles the unstable ones. Giddy chimes. False doorbells. Burglar pillows. Domesticated kids play. Pots and pans/doctors and nurses. Condensation is our vapour and nausea is our poison. Heads ache and dew drops christen our breath. Drunken fatigue. Chipped knees on china girldolls. Swamped in isolation we're the modern day sergeants. Useless static and fuzz on Earth's last axis. Ricketing tip toes as we sink into the green skin. The scent of sweet sweats wets our calm brains. Elementary thoughts as counting backwards into purity. One, two, three. Leave me here, let the woods eat me.

<3

You're no god as long as you promise that you will never leave, I need only worry about you and me. We will never leave this place. We need never feel alone. We will learn to feel quite clean in this new skin that we have grown because our young and healthy bones would never lead us astray.


You're no god, Laura Marling

21st July 2011.

I'm slightly lagging behind with the current course of my blog however I blame this on my spontaneous schedule and summer lethargy so here is the first account of the last number of weeks.

Thursday night was the most romantic night of my week beginning the eighteenth. Having been partially sighted to Carmen and my girlfriend being an fan of the opera comique, I was fortunate enough to get tickets to see the ballet adaptation, which I cherish as much the superstitious marvel of a lonely eyelash glued to one's cheek. However before the English National Ballet were to give their boisterous version of Bizet's opera, my better half and I scoured the all too familiar tourist ridden streets searching for Thursday night was the most romantic night of my week. Having been partially sighted to Carmen and my girlfriend being an fan of the opera comique, I was fortunate enough to get tickets to see the ballet adaptation, which I cherish as much the superstitious marvel of a lonely eyelash glued to one's cheek. However before the English National Ballet were to give their boisterous version of Bizet's opera, my better half and I scoured the all too familiar tourist ridden streets searching for dinner. We succumbed to a nestled spot of al fresco Italian and stuffed ourselves silly. Then it was a swift exit to the theatre where our feet soared accelerando and the vertigo inducing summits of the colossal victorian mass where enough to send me spiralling into my unconscious off my velvet nurturing seat. The curtain went up and the instruments were raised to their right angles but not before a contemplative pardon for the recently deceased Roland Petit, who choreographed the night's spectacle. The sad news somewhat added solitude and depth to the performance, as the twee ballerinas skidded across the slated cold stage from cue to cue it was an ode to a maestro. My overwhelming delight upon measuring the precision and control in the dancers' stance could be compared to that of licking the leftover honey treacle in a jam jar or mummy's cooking mixture (I may be completely wrong. I'm no dance critic and I am renowned for having two left feet.)dinner. We succumbed to a nestled spot of al fresco Italian and stuffed ourselves silly. Then it was a swift exit to the theatre where our feet soared accelerando and the vertigo inducing summits of the colossal victorian mass where enough to send me spiralling into my unconscious off my velvet nurturing seat. The curtain went up and the instruments were raised to their right angles but not before a contemplative pardon for the recently deceased Roland Petit, who choreographed the night's spectacle. The sad news somewhat added solitude and depth to the performance, as the twee ballerinas skidded across the slated cold stage from cue to cue it was an ode to a maestro. My overwhelming delight upon measuring the precision and control in the dancers' stance could be compared to that of licking the leftover honey treacle in a jam jar or mummy's cooking mixture (I may be completely wrong. I'm no dance critic and I am renowned for having two left feet.)

The evening according to lazily taken digital media:

Missing in the moist.