Iron Butterfly

Everything seems to come full circle. Recently I started working at a thrift shop on 14th street. The first time I’d been to that store, I drooled over the basement: a room filled with every record you’ve never listened to. I dug through a couple bins before tiring myself out. During my fleeting gander at the Letter B section of the Pop, Rock, and Folk pile, I caught sight of a beautiful record by a band of the name “Iron Butterfly”. The psychedelic 70s infused art work hypnotized me for a brief second. I was eating with my eyes, but my empty wallet told me I was full. I told myself I’d research them once I got home, something I never did. 

Two days ago I found myself walking aimlessly around the West Village, two of my girlfriends, a couple of feet in front of me. They turned into a record store to our left. I had never seen a real record store in New York City, which seemed like a strange thought to me in the moment I was having it. I knew I had to tell my dad about it when I got home (he used to be a DJ back in the day so he’s the reason I even own any records). I wasn’t planning on buying anything until I noticed the floor lined with crates labeled $1. I fancied nothing on the first floor so took the stairs to the lower level. This store is New York in my mind. The New York I’d been living in; the one no one else could see. But, I found it for real. The past, present and future all scratched into some black discs, wrapped in artwork that you could hold in your hand. Cheap and old; this was the secret New York, the one that stays hidden under the shell of 42nd street and all It’s timeless tourist traps. 

I’m At Home. I flipped through the stacks of cardboard covered music, the smell of dust filling my lungs. My wrists ached, I was ready to settle for the experience and leave empty handed. Pushing the stack back where it belonged revealed a pop of color. My fingertips knowingly paused the falling records and drew their attention to an album I knew I could not leave behind. On the front, a black and white gorilla with fluorescent wings… those of a butterfly. It was the only “Iron Butterfly” record I had seen in the whole store. 

I’m listening to the album now. I think it’s visual beauty will always make it more appealing to me. I know I’ll end up downloading some of “The Butterfly’s” music onto my device, but there’s always going to be something about this record. Maybe the tangibility of it, maybe the fact that I had to search for it, or maybe because it fell into my lap. As someone who attempted to preserve the wing of a butterfly, in my phone case, before having it shatter this summer, I realize that some things have to live outside the modern world, they’re just better that way. 

this is what makes us girls

girls shame girls.

if a girl is now able to feel comfortable loving her own skin, why is she made to feel like she’s obligated to rub it up against someone else’s? 

girls frame girls

if one makes a mistake, its now all of our burden? 

if the show must go on, would one rip open the curtain? 

she helps line your lips but does that make you certain,

that she wont open hers if it means she’d be guerdoned?

is the hatred between girls the strongest of all? 

for one to climb, another must fall?

behind the pink perfume bottles and pretty faces,

is the familiar envy they’ve all been tasting. 

no matter their smiles, they beguile with their graces.

their iniquitous thoughts slip though their braces.

girls tame girls

“well its not all about looks” one girl says to another.

does that make her feel better, or like she’s been slaughtered?

a girl denies an others beauty, to preserve her own.

though they all carry beauty, 

why does one need the throne?

girls are girls

our hair tangles and knots and falls out of our head.

we all lie and we cry, wish we were each other instead.

while we fuel off of resentment and gossip and untruth,

we are ready to burst, for we are filled with ruth.

girls will be girls.

though they’re taught to get off on each others demise,

they have more than one layer,

of love they’re comprised.

(Author & Art by Angelina Zaphyria)

At The End of an Era

Today I asked my teacher, how the end of an era is determined. She didn’t have much of an answer for me, except that, an era is over when a new one begins. but that just conjures another question: How do you determine the beginning of an era? 

Looking back, you can recall the dawn and denouement of a phase, but in the moment everything meshes together. There’s no distinct second that everything changes for the better or worse.

The thing is, I need to know when an era should end. If I’m in control, when do I end it? Is there room for change or improvement, or would that just signal the beginning of a new era? 

If there’s a sign, I’ll take it. No, scratch that. I need it.

When has an era occurred for too long? 

I want to alter the era without ending it. 

I want to linger here, 


Longing for the right termination of



whatever this is. 

At the end of an era do we fall apart, or simply get stronger?

Either help me replenish this era, or help me destroy it. 

(Author & Photography by Angelina Zaphyria)

Poems About My Missed Connections


When I think about everything I could have done differently 

I realize I haven’t lost you

because i never had you to begin 

Maybe one day ill have the chance to really lose you.

or maybe you’ll lose me.

or maybe you already have.

it’s a thought,

but not a reality.

You’ll always have me somewhat.


He made us iced coffee.

I poured his cream and he poured mine.

We went Dutch at the diner.

“You two think alike” said the waitress in white

We smiled.

Or maybe it was only me who smiled


we all lay in the meadow.

we listen to The Beatles,

And talk about Lennon’s lows.

He’s a jealous guy.

Well I’m a jealous girl.

“I wanna hold your hand”

“I’ve just seen a face”

“Baby it’s you”

we sing the sha-la-la’s together.

you whisper to me that he doesn’t love you.

I tell you to indulge in the unattainable 

Im in love with the fact that I don’t fully have him, I think I always have been.

And even when I do find myself wanting him entirely

I remember: I am trying not to hurt anyone.

This marks the start of summer. 


What is it with April?

It seems to be a staple 

my maple turns to syrup

Sappy and unstable

I pinched myself 

In park slope

I wasn’t dreaming 

I think there’s hope

(Author & Photography by Angelina Zaphyria)