Filthy Quills Poetry on Demand

Among other things, Cassandra has been referred to as whiskey in a teacup.

A third generation silver tongued witch, born in Brooklyn when it still had grit.

Before becoming a poetry whore, she cut her teeth studying seduction tactics with Arden Leigh, the alchemy of natural perfume making from Mandy Aptel, and how to swing dance from a gypsy in the park.

She currently spends her time bouncing between two out of three Tennessee Williams approved cities. New York and New Orleans.

Fun fact: She hates writing in the third person.
I. Me. My, these words are mine. Close. Heavy. Personal.

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I am possessed, utterly compelled by words. Blank pages, ink splotches.

Waking 4:00am wired and scribbling half remembered dream prose on nightstand book covers. Spoon feeding those willing my jagged lines, drenched in honey.

I've found they go down easy; sung to my lovers- under sheets, under covers, or quickly scrawled on boiling streets.

Filthy Quills started on a lark. Like many, I found myself under employed in Nola.
And while spending the day strolling Royal St. immersed in jazz was pleasant, it wasn't going to keep me in bourbon and beignets.

I curiously surveyed the group of typewriter poets huddled on the 700 block. I had no intention of joining a pack, or lugging a steel bodied Remmington around town on my bicycle.

Hawking smut to strangers seemed like a good gimmick.

In the true spirt of New Orleans, I wrapped vice in decretive excess, dressed it in feathers and sat where the curious could stumble up.

If you want to luck into finding me on the street, I'm likely to be in whatever part of town is lousy with bohemians and street musicians. You know, the best people.

You can cheat and stalk my instagram where I often post my whereabouts @filthyquillspoetry