Dec 14, 2017
Shell & Tassels . . #menswear #mensstyle #mensshoes #Styleforum #ivystyle #shellcordovan #aldenarmy #aldenshoes #aldenpeople #kqh #ivyswagger #preppy #preppystyle #tradstyle #fairisle (at Lexington, Kentucky)
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Shell & Tassels . . #menswear #mensstyle #mensshoes #Styleforum #ivystyle #shellcordovan #aldenarmy #aldenshoes #aldenpeople #kqh #ivyswagger #preppy #preppystyle #tradstyle #fairisle (at Lexington, Kentucky)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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I found a perfect old school Ralph paisley tie in a wool/silk Viyella-esque blend today. What time period is this tie from, oh Lo-Heads? . . #ralphlauren #poloralphlauren #vintage #lohead #Styleforum #thrifting #tieoftheday #necktie #kqh #preppy #preppystyle #ivystyle #ivyswagger #tradstyle #menswear #mensstyle (at Lexington, Kentucky)
Guaranteed to Wrinkle: I rescued this old school Polo RL yesterday. It punches all the buttons. 3 to 2 roll, natural shoulders, patch, patch & flap, partially lined and taped seams. Alas, after a cleaning it will have to wait for spring. . . #menswear #mensstyle #ralphlauren #poloralphlauren #tradstyle #ivystyle #kqh #ivyswagger #preppy #preppystyle #southernstyle #styleforum #thrift #thrifting (at Lexington, Kentucky)
Another Fayette Park beauty. . . . #sharethelex #lexington #oldhouse #oldhouselove #archi_ologie #kqh #architecture #architecturelovers #kentucky (at Lexington, Kentucky)
The County Club burger and fries are 👌🏻 . . #sharethelex #eatkentucky #lexington #cheeseburger #hamburger #burger #🍔 #foodpic #kqh #foodblogger #foodblog (at County Club)
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Nếu thời gian có quay trở lại.. #thi #university #examination #july #kqh #mta #vietnam #road #Rivưlét (tại Học Viện Kĩ Thuật Quân Sự)
Portrait: Panorama
I can’t remember why, but I thought of you. With some sweeping cinematic tune behind, slow, steady, building, and your hands were making the air around them flare up. I had my sword. But I still don’t know why I carry it. What is it I’m waiting to fight? Crawling, shredding out through the layers of the painted sarcophagus a thousand years of women laid over. I’m gripping the handle like a stuffed animal. White-knuckling in anger and archaic fear. You said that I’m many things, I felt like ice but we couldn’t agree upon what I really am, I mean really am, and you congratulated me because not ice nor wind nor earth would fit me. You showed me this air creature and I saw her deep within the coffin’s undercoat, nearly latched within. The sword turned toward her at first in self-defense but then as if to scratch away the gloss and gesso; and you’ve stood behind me all the way, kissing my head, watching me struggle and sob because the blade isn’t gentle enough for all this.
It was on a cliff — Friedrich’s, over the Fog — and picturesque. You were that sorcerer from my dream. You know? The one where she came to me. No, instead you were the heart of my story. You know? The one where we’re all afraid to grow up. Yes. Your hands were refracting the light with their heat, threatening Fire. You stood with me, and we traded Stoic and Scared with our brows. My sword was out a little ahead of me. Still, no one asks why I carry it; certainly I don’t.
The funny thing is that Archer Sullivan and that House on Fire might well be the same thing. I wrote them with the same apprehension, the same anger and excitement. On the cliff I was waiting for your hand to light. And the House was yours. But it’s all around me, and it’s the kiln for that sarcophagus — they’ll tell you don’t touch it, it’s brittle and GOD is it brittle but don’t listen to them in all your life, even if you’re frightened by what I can’t do with that sword. I thought of you when I heard that music again, I think. The slow chords that burst in rebirth. Your palms out and my sword pointing somewhere. No, it is not an extension of my Self. And no, I don’t think I’m ice, either. You ran out of the House on Fire and I’m going to do it again with you, fuck this blade. Even if I am no element at all. It’s not the rising pull of the orchestra I thought I heard over the Fog. It’s the song that makes our hands do what they do — love me when I’m ugly.
A Love Poem.
I once wrote about your wrists. Lovesick then, or a loveless-sick Listening to the specters of love in their Dainty movements, Guiding your hands, flat-palm, muscled, Miniature Vitruvian men Those hands, softly, lost and gliding Over my skin. The wrists you seem surprised by. But they, slim And gentle And still firm Are microcosms of your self, Beautiful and defined in bone but without Comparison or cradle in category, Forgiving. I once wrote about your wrists with The passion I would your eyes, Not because their grasp is like your stare’s, But because in them I see your soul.