#gs brandson
Photo
Polaroids of Las Vegas, NV. Taken in the summer of 2019 on limited edition gold border film.
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
0 notes
Photo
Color Breaks & Compositions Series 1
The shirts of M.B. By G.S. Brandson
Polaroid / Job Pro 600 / Color film
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
Buttermilk
I am the debutante’s offspring.
Streaks of marigold and straw.
My Grandmother once said to me,
“Your cadence, your tongue,
Must mimic a rosewater ellipsis.
It must linger.”
We are the modern-day courtesans.
The muses from Xanadu.
Bathing in the buttermilk,
Poured from a white porcelain pitcher.
A southern delight.
I am a figment of your imagination.
The sensation of fingertip on rose petal.
The unthreatening presence,
That lingers in your grace.
But in reality,
Or something like it,
I am just a dancer.
Living day to day,
Leotard over breast,
On the subways of New York.
I was taught quite young,
How a lady speaks,
Without saying a word.
You don’t have to tell me,
That I have broken the mold.
I already know.
The book that I learned from,
“The Language of Flowers”,
Was written by Sheila Pickles,
In 1989.
The Miss Sheila who taught me how to arabesque,
Ended her professional dance career,
In 1972.
To this day,
Nothing quite compares to the moment,
When she positioned me center stage.
My pointe shoes were colored peach,
And the rouge of my cheeks,
Matched them perfectly,
On opening day.
We performed the Tarantella,
Beginning in a V formation.
Corseted, red and green.
In the grand ballroom,
Underneath the crystal chandelier.
As we finished,
The crowds,
They threw red,
Long stem roses at our feet.
I picked one up,
And placed it between my teeth.
“Passion,”
I thought.
“They want passion.”
Months earlier,
I sat in the study,
At the estate on 108th Avenue.
“Recite to me, dear one,
The meanings,
Of the colors,
Of the rose,”
My grandmother demanded.
I began, meekly:
“Red is for passion,
Blush, for first emotions of love,
Yellow for friendship and remembrance,
And white,
For a love that is spiritual.”
Many an afternoon was dedicated,
To southern etiquette,
The symbols of beauty,
And improving my posture,
A book balanced on my blonde head.
These are the makings of a woman,
In the upper echelon.
A woman whose art,
Is found in her restraint.
The skillset of the demure woman,
Can only be taught,
By studying the most delicate of flowers.
But I had a question.
“The Marigold is oh, so sunny,
In its disposition,
And so robust,
In its form.
Why then is it a symbol for death?
Are there other symbols, Grandmother?
For death?”
Through the beginnings of my dance career,
I received two pieces of advice.
The first,
Being ‘bend so that you do not break’,
And the second,
Being ‘A hint of evil does wonders for the art form.’
I listened,
And moved from the oil money territory,
Of deep Texas,
To a salted soda cracker box,
In Brooklyn.
But my buttermilk would never go completely sour.
I would remain pure and sweet.
“A being of moonlight and cream.”
That’s what you said to me when you found me in the village.
The mink coat I wore,
I bought second hand in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.
It used to belong to someone else’s Grandmother.
The mink coat that you wore,
Belonged to yours.
We were on the naked intersection.
The two tea roses,
In the one bouquet,
Atop the front desk,
Of the Chelsea hotel.
Blooming for all the wrong reasons,
And the fairest of the seasons.
Amongst the baby’s breath,
And the folly.
We were dreaming of men tremendous in stature.
Reminiscing about the times,
When we had our own.
The marksman of the cotillion,
And the king of Buckaroo Ball.
How the Blue Waltz from their mouths,
Was on our pressure points.
And how we allowed it to decant.
But that was all before.
And so we set sail to Coney Island,
On a ship named Susie Q.
The look I gave you was telling.
Yours, in return,
Knowing.
And from your silk garter,
Underneath the petticoats of splendor,
Appeared your golden flask,
Filled with a buttermilk liqueur.
We could see the heat,
The blurred mirage on the horizon.
There was HP-5 in the film compartment,
And visions of Suavies Island on the deck.
The young bucks,
They came out of their cages.
And they asked, quite desperately,
For the directions to our hearts.
After a simultaneous drag,
From French cigarettes,
We pointed them all,
To the ocean.
You are the toast of New York.
Celebrated throughout the generations,
Via streets echoing ragtime jazz.
You were a cocktail waitress back then.
Throwing your pearls,
Not before swine,
But before the Wallstreet banshee’s,
With the most overflowing of wallets.
A fine dining hustler.
And I was the Boutonniere on your lapel,
Reminding you that traditions,
Sometimes,
Were meant to be broken.
In the back of a taxi,
On New Year’s Eve.
We carried Champagne from the wine cellar,
Underneath our mink.
We were cackling,
The witches of the Alamo,
Out of our elements.
High.
The driver asked for our destination.
We exclaimed,
“To Mercury!”
We were speaking the language,
Of the wildflowers now.
Vibrational.
Transcendent.
This really is what makes us girls.
We were suffering,
From a horrible case of root rot.
One the botanists,
Could never explain.
For you, it was,
A witnessing of the decay,
Of a love that,
Sent the Kachina’s to the rooftops,
On the night of your conception.
And for me, it was,
A witnessing of the decay,
Of the beings who had conceived me.
For I am the daughter of Rage.
He would never speak,
The language of flowers,
From his final resting place.
And neither would the perfected loveliness,
Of the Camellia’s that drove him mad.
But we knew what love was.
We were carved,
From the same block, you and I.
It is the demi plie,
The bread and butter,
The basics,
The sustenance,
Of the soul.
We fell asleep each night,
To the riverbed sirens.
The lights of Times Square,
Had replaced La Bella Luna.
We were known in the speakeasy circuit,
As a package deal.
You performed under the name Ambrosia Michaels,
And kept a bottle of Chanel No5,
On the blues piano.
It aided the alto fingering.
I kept desert poppies,
Pinned to the tulle I danced in,
And violets pinned to my furs.
We were the modern-day vaudeville,
Swimming underground.
Carrying our floral hat boxes,
Full of our accoutrements,
On the A train,
To Manhattan.
To them, we were a local favorite.
An offering that was never on the menu.
If you knew,
You just knew.
My pointe shoes were blood colored at last.
And the lacquer on my lips,
Matched them perfectly,
On our opening day.
We had become them.
Flightless in their disdain,
And their bewitching.
The quail and the kakapo,
Of the Marsh.
The lonestars were out yonder,
And I was a civilized lady,
When it was convenient.
I’m afraid I danced,
Until I turned blue.
Because I wished to embody the cornflower,
And all of her delicacy.
Through the primal act,
Of performing,
The dance of the velveteen belles,
Of New York.
And where are we now?
We’re on Eighth street.
Pounding the cobblestone,
In soft, Italian leather.
Water spotted, almost ruined.
Because freedom,
Is jumping into the puddles,
Of the holy water,
And the buttermilk,
Uncaring.
I learned that from you.
The people of our city,
Have flower mounds under tongue.
And in the blue,
Behind their eyelids.
Because we are the indigo children.
And they speak of us often.
Of our arts and our leisure.
We are forever stamped,
In the passport,
Of the history,
Of death and rebirth.
What they love about us,
Is our lingering in frivolity.
Our return to analog.
Our floral, syllabic homage,
To the divine.
Our repeating praise of Delphine.
We aren’t as crazy as sixth street,
But we’re close.
We can smell the smoke of Winter,
Before it is real.
We can feel the chest fluttering,
Soul excitement,
Of our evening show.
“Introducing,
Ambrosia Michaels,
And Violet Crawford.
But you can call her,
Buttermilk.
Please,
Ladies and Gentlemen,
Deliver them from evil.”
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
Mae Rymer in Pagosa Springs, shot by G.S. Brandson
#gs brandson#writer#photography#artist#poet#35mm#film grain#poetry#visual art#mae rymer#bff#pagosa springs#Colorado
1 note
·
View note
Text
The Sunflower Tourniquet
Polaroids by G.S. Brandson
Black and White film / Job Pro 600
#polaroid#photoset#gs brandson#writer#artist#photography#35mm#film grain#analog#poet#black and white#flowers#sunflowers#the sunflower tourniquet
1 note
·
View note
Photo
Setting the Table by G.S. Brandson
Polaroid/ JobPro 600/ Black and white film / 2019
0 notes
Photo
Polaroid for “Lolita Smokes Eagle 20s”
By G.S. Brandson
0 notes
Text
Flora
The flora of childhood differs from the cacti embellished landscape of the present. My summers in the Pacific Northwest were lavender scented and colored grey.
I packed a raincoat of every color for these weeks on vacation once a year. I flew kites on the beach in navy blue. I harvested raspberries as sweet as spring in yellow.
I ran through the fields of flowers as if they would never end, and back then they never could.
There are certain memories, like these on the peninsula and ones at the ballet dressed in velvet and roses that I have saved. The others have been burned like an ex lovers letters.
I would never harvest my life from the ashes. I would never piece together the series of events that led to my permanent heartbreak. I would be amongst the flowers forever.
I remember traveling to the lavender farms in my mind in the bad times. My backyard became a place where the flower fields met the sea. I would lie with the blooms and dream of a better life.
Today, I lie upon the canyons where the fields of cactus flowers meet nothing for miles.
I am lavender scented and colored grey.
And I have given that little girl a better life.
0 notes
Text
De Clementine
You broke your fast with daybreak.
The first thing to touch your lips was me.
You had dreampt the night before,
Of tattoos on your torso:
Orange tiger lilies,
And Clementine rinds,
Stacked in neat little piles.
Orange would be the color of the year.
Or, atleast the season.
Your dream state brought churches in full Ghospel.
And visons of lover’s past.
The tattoos on their torso’s,
We’re black and white,
And of words you chose not to remember.
You were my Belle in the afternoon.
There you lie in the sun,
Dutch tulip caressing,
Surrounded by the sheet music,
They never taught you how to read,
But you still can.
You wish you had dreampt instead,
Of B-roll footage filmed on a super 8.
The ballet warmups of Paris,
The overheard rooftop Jazz,
Into the morning.
The city passing by,
On the back of a motor bike.
Yves Montand at Cafe,
1955.
Your black lace was at the request,
Of your purple snapdragon baby.
It is a love as pure,
As the tellings of innocent baby love,
And of the garden-soiled,
Summer feet of France.
Sparkling eyes underneath the moon,
And the clementine fever,
Of the Riviera.
There is nothing so precious to the ear,
And nothing so scandalous to the eye.
Now, you’re dancing,
Floating,
Full waltzing back and forth.
To the french classic pianos of yesterday,
And the wildflower blooming time.
And all I can sing now,
My love:
De Clementine,
De Clementine.
0 notes
Text
The Sunflower Tourniquet
Who has disturbed my rhythm?
I would like to hear your name aloud.
Hear you speak it in self expose.
You have made it so that my frequently visited realms,
Are my nightmares.
I used to have dreams,
Of un velo bleu clair,
And photos polaroid.
But now I am tasting the slimed spit,
Of your Virgin de Guadalupe figurine,
As I go to drink.
She is at the bottom of my bottle,
And attached to her chest is the still heart,
Of a small animal.
I say, “Show yourself to me.”
I hear “You must do what you promise.”
I awake.
I pick up my pen.
The door is closed.
I cannot leave.
I heard un petite cloche in the morning.
And turned at whiplash speed,
To greet my fairy angel visitor.
Hanging from a blossom in my snapdragon bouquet,
And suckling from her teat.
But there, she was not.
Have I received my wings?
The run in I had with Pneumonia in 1997,
Brought me visions of angels.
They danced around my grandmother in play.
I saw their reflection in her tears.
I recovered soon after,
And now, in a much humbler kitchen,
I can hear them.
What am I to be healed from this time?
Am I to be saved?
There is love in this time.
The shop keeps and the usual pedestrians,
Call me Fleur de la Reine.
As I purchase a bouquet every few days.
“Which ones are your favorite?”
They always ask me.
I reply, “We are all God’s children.”
I was born in the honey bush,
On the night of the Helichrysm Saturn.
The rarest of cosmic occurrences.
The sound of my conception was an opium overcast.
Poppies would make me sleep,
Make me dream.
And the flowers would remain loyal to me,
For every one of my days.
I was born speaking le language des fleurs.
You tell me beauty is sacrificial,
And about that, you are right.
You say, “We end the life of a flower,
For our own selfish display.”
I love your fights for floral justice,
And your rose red behind them.
But beauty and magic are coexisting.
Cohabitating,
Like the woman and her flowers.
We borrow from Earth to send messages to heaven,
In her image.
Venus is a metaphor.
The blackbirds sing throughout the evening,
And the grandfather clock chimes louder by the hour.
These nightmares are not an apneatic terror,
Due to lack of oxygen.
They are dandelion seeds blown from your lips,
Into my realm,
From yours.
What skill you have.
Breaking the barriers of time.
Declaring war upon me.
But I have stopped you,
Before your germination and your spread.
You may try your hand,
At this garden haunting,
But I doubt you will succeed.
For one must not challenge the blue delphinium.
She identifies as the night crawler,
Of the Imperial Garden.
And she only answers to me.
I can hear the flowers speaking.
This is my gift, and it is expertly coveted.
I joke that it feels as if it were stolen.
There will be no referee,
To speak “En garde” in incantation.
This battle is informal,
And I have learned to embrace you.
Greet you like an old friend when you growl at me.
What are my uses in these times of war?
I cannot kill the beast,
Skin it and wear its pelts as my prize.
I must convert it,
Tell it the bedtime story of the moonflower,
And put it to sleep.
So, I am standing at rest,
Arms wide open.
And my army is behind me.
My kingdom of trillions.
Her majesty, Queen Flower,
Has been slashed by a blade.
And now, the flowers fight for me.
You are a blind beast.
You have mistaken the blackberry wine on my hands,
For blood.
I have meant you no harm.
But now, I do.
Tell me,
What is it that you wear when you are conjuring?
Do you make it obvious,
That you are not from this world?
Do you let stones speak for you?
Do you win your battles with your hair in curls?
I’m afraid I will wear you,
Spin you into a black silk gown.
Don you,
And watch as you billow in silence.
The sunflowers have become my tourniquet,
And I am fully embraced in the vine.
My wounds do not last long here.
I have become a live performance of Tarot.
Wands of cotton flower bound in a grasping hand.
Golden rods held high above my buttermilk crown.
And your sacrament has transformed you,
Into a night blooming Cereus.
You grow to form an archway,
And you bloom above my head.
The sugar cane has grown beneath me,
The nightfall is golden.
My tongue was once a syllable encroaching,
But not quite reaching.
Once again, I am on my throne,
My staff, a crown imperial.
My mouth is open,
And through me,
My kingdom speaks your name,
In self expose.
0 notes
Text
Lolita smokes Eagle 20′s
Lolita street was a dead end.
Her pack of Eagle 20’s lies in the street.
They were beginning to pollute,
Her cashmere,
And her freshly washed hair.
And so,
She got rid of them.
And she thought of you,
When she did so.
Because she was beginning to pollute,
Your cashmere,
And your freshly washed hair.
And so,
You got rid of her.
She laughed and said,
“Fuck it.”
Lolita street was a dead end.
Her pack of EEagle agle 20’s,
No longer lies,
In the street.
0 notes
Text
Thoughts from Las Vegas
I romanticize,
Quite often,
The idea of Las Vegas, Nevada.
I view it as my backup plan,
My midnight cowboy,
Runaway destination,
For when I’m heartbroken.
I view it,
As perhaps what it once was;
A neon roller disco,
Or something similar to Studio 54.
Even though, it is not.
It is perfumed today,
With the essence of the smoking section,
Of the diner that,
My mother worked in when I was young.
And the women,
So many women.
In their patent stilettos,
And in their cheekbone combination,
Of Orgasm and Albatross.
Never drinking dirty martini’s,
For an air of mystique,
Or glamour.
But for the sheer purpose,
Of forgetting,
About the men,
So many men.
0 notes
Text
0 notes
Text
0 notes
Text
0 notes
Last Seen Blogs
alaerya-sunvein-blog
Alaerya Sunvein
microsoft-modeles-office-blog
Microsoft Modèles Office
yaspup9000
For the love of creativity And Video games
redwhitered
escritos de media noche
mahamatra-cyno
General Mahamatra Cyno