by heytherewildflower

you certainly didn’t ask for them.

1. BCBG is certainly a factory for shoddy Anna Dello Russo Mexican lace, sparkle power rhinestone extravagance, on the cheap, bespeckled bandage dresses.

Did you know if you don’t spend 3 hours a day doing yoga and 1 hour a day doing pilates and 4 hours a day staring into a mirror and 5 hours a day traveling between Japan and Italy and 8 hours a day plotting, YOU CAN’T AND SHOULDN’T wear a see-thru orange lace bandage belly top with a swishy knit skirt through which one may, and one does, if one reads fashion blogs, if one has no life blood and existence, as one who reads fashionblogs does, glimpse the wearers bottocks, ONE SHOULD NOT PARTAKETH in the wearing of?

I didn’t get the memo until I entered the BCBG hell hole on boxing day, the day after Christmas, TO YOU non-European-plebian types, post morn christmas?

Unless you are Italian and you have a dog who is your only love, and you are a maniac, fashionably, but somehow poor-ish, you should just avoid BCBG.

(A side note) you should probably just avoid most fashion backwash stores if you want to avoid ADR rehash and gallavanting fashion bloggers wearing litas (see: Alison Abraham, 4th year college student. yesteryear.)

2. DID YOU KNOW, you should avoid department stores the day after Christmas… if you wish, if it is your christmas wish, NOT to smell like a foot?

3. Did you know that boot shopping should be an internet mercenary experience unless you bring spare socks, spare pepperspray, spare sanity, spare eardrums, spare patience and an intricate game plan to boots shopping meccas the day after christmas: boxing day, the day for boxing up food, and dust, and cleaning dust and the spilled guts of your family members, and D AS IN DUH, boot boxes crowd surfing the backs of retail slaves? and other shoe type apparti such as velvet slippers which are THE NEW ballet flat?

4. Did you know green and red is not just for christmas if you get muted about it? seashell and coral. dusty rose and emerald. that kind of nonsense.

if you wear red and green and you don’t intend to look like an elf, you are both a rebel and a goddess in one stroke of anti-westernism laws of land and clothing (and the rocking of clothing items, therein.)

if you wish, if it is your christmas wish, to DEFY all norms, wear white. and a lot of blush. and tell people you are a channeling-CLARA-FROM-THE-NUTCRACKER, nut! but! you are ANTI-angel sexualization;  a devoutly different being than a feminist entirely.

when new years rolls around, wear chartreuse and spring tones, and flowers, and proclaim your allegiance to the hipster nymph tribe, become a being RESOLUTELY different than a feminist, but not a lipstick wearer.

don’t wear red lipstick. it’s too winter-chic, and therefore, not contrarian. don’t wear sparkles, it’s too taylor swift, and therefore, totally american.

if you want to get french about things, drink champagne from champagne, and wear a sticks worth of eyeliner, not a stitch more….

and teach people how to live.

Heres my Not-Christmas outfit of red cashmere bathrobe-like coat, hippie dress, too-obvious red lipstick lips, new maroon patent-leather kitten heels bought at department store land, christmas black tights given to me because my family members detest the ripped look (ITS A LOOK. its called london its called 5 seasons ago its called play hard and on purpose artfully destroy thyself thy tights) but the best thing going on here is the SEASHELL botticelli wallpaper which is my best accesory. like a scarlet venus, I pose in my bathroom, legs akimbo. QUIVER within the tesselating visual  that is my back drop and chic red iphone stance and adorning claw capture of this midnight winter moment lit by tasteful non-overhead lighting, and not the moon.

just because a poet does it, doesn’t mean you should jump off a bridge too.

just because i called myself a poet by the law of hats, doesn’t mean if a poet wears a hat, and i steal it, it is my hat. unless  stick a feather in it and call it….what is the word…


should just shut up. but you didn’t ask. and these are my thoughts.

I am not cool. I am not chill. I didn’t take a trip to hemp clothing disco-exo-teque and hike a 16,000 foot crag of stupidity for my holiday vaycay, I didn’t invent toaster strudel or post-it notes. I didn’t smoke weed in college. I didn’t look appropriately disheveled, rather, I aimed higher, for inappropriately low maintenance derangement. I am not a pipe.  I didn’t even finish This is not a Pipe but I sure as heck bought it and stared at the first 10 pages real hard before giving up and going back to Keats. I sure as hell thought about reading it again after seeing the self tattooed hipster with his This is not a Pipe tattoo. didn’t do it though.

Can’t say swag without sounding like a fool.

Can’t say fool without wanting to address somone as such without a

love to say “for which” and “upon which” and “rather” and “then said” for the sheer high glamor heavy handed improper use of pretense OF IT ALL..

hate people who push people on escalators and people who push to reach their new shoe of choice which is better than the pump they just dropped on my toe.

Any further utterance beyond WHAT THE FUCK AMERICA DURING THE HOLIDAY SEASON?  is redundant.

Silent Night makes me cry.

More visuals? YES MA’AM I take my sugar with coffee.


There once was a swan named Sophia. 
She loved a man. 
but it didn’t work
both ways, so she danced into the arms of his brother, the monster
called zeus. Zeus was a king of men, but not a man,
himself, at the feet of whom, humans were told to burn
their meat stuff for, offering it up, to smoke.

Maroonbells blossomed the okeefe flower.
The scent was overwhelming. Jade blossoms.
Ginger virginitus. Fumes
He could not resist. Her blood poured

like wine.
 like water, but thicker,
a flume bled for him
 like a red carpet.
He walked upon it, and it becameth jello,
quince, crushed boson berries, rubies,
menstrual soup. hemlock’s crimson fever. He slipped
spluttered upon it, he drank deep. He sank. He died.

and She loved him forevermore. Until she didn’t,
tricked into her own sonnet. 
A poet who loved her enough to fix her
into verse. a God who loved a woman as a swan and then let her die.
but first, living long enough to cause the birth of Helen (and that other one.)

The real story and not the better story is this,

the swan, Sophia,
she liked his big golden halo-fro that floated upon his head.
and his eyes just sat there beneath it dull as coal. Electric curls, His hairs were little puppet strings for the cloud above that kept
raining like Noah had recollected the bard
full of howling, moaning animals.

kept raining, like if Noah took two women. One for her, and one for him.
refusing to co-procreate a race, they made pain instead. And in the name
of God, drowned it. As if,
it dawned upon them to build again, but the ruin was so wet, it never lit.
Babbling Humans have sat themselves on top
soggy rubble ever since.

Immaculate concept, sprung forth from a single origin,
the spark,


god was dead but never,
the word