Keep it easy, keep it going, nosy babies make noisy maybes. Smokey skies are the only ceiling nearby, and the grey blade of a sword is my sole shadow when I wander under the vanished sun. I hold my sins in my shivering arms, the same way others walk their soul around like their dog and smile. But that's no children's smiles, that's just white and bright, plain and empty, and I'm only looking for serendipity. We've crossed some angry oceans, escaped alive from caved in tunnels, talked bad to some mountains and kept sailing, digging, climbing, kept all easier than it seemed at first sight. We yelled to fight then fought through silence, waiting for the dirty heads to roll as they were unable to read between the lines. Fortune wings are the twin mothers of fortuitous fortitude, keep dreaming awake to avoid all the filth on these walls that aren't yours, built up your intellectual stamina and nurture your imaginations.
Sarah Moon doesn't have to reinvent her style, colors, soft atmospheres and backgrounds. The way she captures each person moving or stopping in front of her camera is worth all vain formal changes. Every new photograph is the rise of a new horizon offered to our eyes, and this time this delightfully blured infinity right in front of us is called Damaris Goddrie, and was published in Vogue Germany.
Pigeons are so heavily sexy
On the backseat of a camper van, laid a woman with vanished charms, and her lover with his neverending smile, neverending glasses, neverending behinds and betweens. I was waiting for a knock, waiting for a sign. All I've been able to witness was a merry comedy, with a bit of tear in every single eye. Grown-up gowns are a fantasy of poor-souled people, ruffles are dancing with the wind of theirs. And us, standing stones in that storms. We watched and couldn't get our mouthes closed, couldn't keep our teeth silent anymore. White cries and black holes, common fight. Daytime flight. We love drugs as we love looms, we love empty as we hate fools, we dig deep into the shallow. There's no end at the end of the day. There is no end to the end of the day. There is no rain to kiss my cheek. Only a heavenly sigh. A cough. A stuttered whisper. Load me with every flaw, every single fault you may want to get rid of. Load me with every burden you can't bear. Throw me angers, while my eyes smile. At you. Ain't nothing as sexual as pouring gasoline on a car. Said on, not in. Said all over, instead of inside. Said it, said nothing at all. Curl my heart, turn me into vodka pasta.
Post scriptum: the image shows Imaan Hammam by Sean Thomas for Interview Germany. Not much to do with the words, except the hope it spreads around, actually.
The Ball at the End of this World
Spades, you do like spades, you like them late, you carry on. Birds, and broken cages, and lonely songs, and avenues. Bubbles on the rack, inside hairy heads full of fairy snails. Human beings are lovelier with eyes closed, mouthes closed, do not touch. You do like spades when others worship hearts, and mellow breasts, and funky farts, and Kierkegaard. I am fool enough, to see some lights, to watch them shine, and make my eyes regret the first minute they were allowed to stay open. And this being said, I still believe, I still feed myself with beauty and crumbs of it. When my teeth are aching, when my blood goes cold, I keep on fighting to watch the end of the movie. To spare a day or two, before the night comes to eat me, before the curtain falls on my skin and says it's over. Now. I beg you (Catherine McNeil) to be my never (Txema Yeste who captured the delightful portraits above), because it's too hard to return. And no matter if these pictures from Vogue Russia, January 2015 are old enough to walk alone, we don't care, we're too young to die.
Wanted some Lambrusco, flows of it, rivers. Wanted some and went away to get it, buy it, steal it if needed. Went to the first supermarket, lovely as it is, when nobody's around because it's too early. A woman in uniform said there is no bottle left till the afternoon, then went away. Bye, lovely face, lovely words, lovely grin. Took another bus, another tramway, saw this world, face to face, saw the disaster and the cherry-bone babes. Control me, take my purse, take my love away and sell it on e-bay. Lambrusco was there, was smiling like a clown that has lost his girlfriend, lots of teeth kissing eyes and so on. Cheap souls for sale, and fish and chips, granted with a dark bier. Get it? Go home. Screw it? Walk alone. But the world has no time, no blood to lose. A single drop and you're out. While she's in: Afrodita (Oui Management) who turns nowhere into an everywhere. Nothing else seems to matter.
Thank you for the Chiclets
The phone was too heavy so we didn't dare to reply, didn't care to answer, no matter who rings the bell. We threw the plug away and let the beast have its love story with the couch, then we drank a cup of gasoline and went back to work. The world has never been a place, it is a daily nightmare and we have to walk and shut up, everything left is our ability to see, to watch, to catch. Details are what drives us when all lights are red, when the moon shines black, when the pavement's wet. We babble and we bubble, chum and choke, and when bums go to bed, it means our eyes get closed. When the lids get heavy, we dream of pools, we dream of blue sparkling water filling empty glasses. We see waves, we do see them, do feel them. Like children, our mouth wide open, our sight stuck, we look at stones gone wild. Stones of today: Mica Arganaraz by Mario Testino, in a Vogue Paris that finally enjoys back its own flavour.
We're just a rule, just a mirror, we're your blitz, we eat your skins, your tatoos and your latest smile. We're all, out of a sudden nothing, we blame all these guys that aren't us, that aren't free, that do not kiss each you and each me. We lie a lot, and die on mondays, we try some mornings, when we're unhappy to play. We keep our cockroaches, we eat them fried, we'll open a restaurant where all is dry, and painful, and delights will be for another blind eye. Only, if you dare or feel misunderstood, you'll be the only one. The golden hand, the ignorant goddess, the one who slept into the pinky waters. And all the gloves, waving goodbye to mistaken eyes, to blind viewers, to helpless fingers. They do not care, for a single minute, they play their role and just ignore it, smiling at you, smiling at the void they wanted to unbuild. It's a night to give up, a moon that smiles at you and teaches you how to leave your cosy clouds. Cottonland, big bye and true kisses. With loads of loaves of fancy foam. Abbey, come on, Lee, make us totally Kershaw, thrown in the story by the one and only-lonely glasses-holder Terry, son of an unknown Richard as his name seems to say.
Some of you, you or others, are you among these other crowds or walking all alone, say either it hurts or it aches. Are you a part of these hearts, or an uknown knight, living for tasty blood, living for red flows teasing your wooden tongue. Are you hungry or just fed up, big belly beauties are hanging around. Are displaying visuals eyes are unused to. Champagne, good words, good love gone bad at the time words keep drooling out of souls that haven't asked for such a trip to sands, to snakes, to coughing cars on highway nightmares. A fast eye can follow the white marks on the ground, a slow, sleepy one can only lick the paintings on dark asphalt, on stones, on artificial bones. Give up, other mouthes will tell you stories, keep on and call us worrisome, drown us in anger when the beer is done. Days soon will be nights and there is no way to take the train back. Stupid as it sounds, and words are terribly missing, and words got their tickets while we travel, a hand stuck on our empty purses. I'm in love with a brunette turned candy-like redhead gone blonde and she, not the same she, the she who's my partner in crime, she's diving deep for a black leopard. If we aren't out of this game, we are the game. Period, big butt baby. Here above is Saskia de Brauw, published in Self Service, by Mert who hasn't eaten Marcus yet. Or the other way around.
Playgoats, they don't milk this way
We know, we know, we know, we know. Our ears aren't blind if ears can have an eye for a single minute. All voices yelling, all the stories the tories are telling, all the guts on the ground and the loud whispers of those who didn't want to go here, the here, the unknown here, the elsewhere. All the blind clothes walking like ghosts to an unknown heaven, to a destiny we've been kicked out from. A lovely world where all smiles are great, where all grins are granted. Then we came, dirty, filthy as the door of hell itself, ashamed to be sad yet proud to survive. Rotten english of ours, true scars still bleeding, your eyes looking at. Your devotion is ours, your loveful feelings are chocolate candies for saltless tongues, ours live for another shore, we do, we do, we live for another who's who. We do reign, we do own a suspicious country and don't give a fuck. Let the kids play, let the music french-kiss the sand, let them all be. And we, in the middle, in the wet part, in the lovely nowhere we cherish, will till the end. Kiss the Arizona wind, kiss the Muse, kid me and kiss my ass and I'll never die on love. I'll stand, I'll stay, I'll be up the day next to your tomorrow. I'm so cheap, I'm so sold to Arizona Muse in Harper's Bazaar Russia, for the best and by Jesse John Jenkins, three J in a row might lead to a visual green fruit we all want to taste. Bite, bite, baby, yeah!
Nobody will ever know it (but there is no empty path)
I saw a white bar, one red round mouth and they all told me to step away, I didn't move, I was a petrified angel saying hello to green firelights, I said thanks for its color, for the bright message, for the unexpected sun, for all the ones I left behind. Hey babes, I'll smoke inside your lungs. But it's not up to me, I am not alone, there is another soul looking at me, and my breakfast will smell better than your entire life. Mert should rather eat Marcus, meat for cheap is such a threat, at six in the morning, at least. We forgot all the fish and chips memories above, we went to grab a soda. We went to replace another slice of I, we turn around and let it go. We're the just and we're the above, we don't want to be more than the view that offers us another eye. As blind as it is. Blue. Mert and Marcus, blood and water drops, smiles and wax grins.And we are gums, and we chew till the end of times.
Open that other door
Babies like salad and they never turn back, unlike this guy we'll foil, we'll check his back door and, then, turn our heads, looking at another grey sea, looking at another bright moon fucking the sun, hard, yelling the yellow one is just another fool looking for cheap sensations. We do not care, we do not swear, we are free souls lost in a desert ocean. Fulfil it, pour water on our dirty dreams, leak, drip, slow storms that make no noise around are among the favorites of ours, do, then. Pour. Don't you see the open hands, lurking at another sky, lost behind the shadows of some restless trees that have met an eye, a real black dot. Our heads feel like the basket is comfortable, Hoother will live forever and our day. Thaina (dream high and never look back) at IMG (dream big and hit deep, so deep).
Helicopter Tango-Mango Girly Babies
Years are like drops, some acid ones, some bitter ones, some sweeter little ones, but all of them, they make your hair curlier than the minute before. They are water, they are illusions made liquid, they are jelly, they are love turned down. Rain is impossible, clouds are illusive foams having fun above while we take a waltz for a granted trip. We fly, we flow, we die in a row, we keep on, we land and consider mud just as another joke, and we go again, we run too fast and far from the initial pun. There is, there was, past time give love a sweet perfume of gas. We too, we neither, we are the legless kangaroos. And the sun, an ex-friend of ours, has given it up, and said, our souls belonged to clouds that stream above. Hail. Creamy heaven, we come, we count until six or seven, comes, undone, nevermade. VAMP (magazine, baby whoo) and lycanthropes, girls and their hairy dog-shaped friends, the ones with filthy dark hair, the repetitive everyday we try to fly away from. Emily Didonato and our cherished Jamie Bochert, those who knew where the golden exit is, before guns start to sing, and shout their opera.
The grass looked greener on the other side, the twin river. Another island we're afraid of, another name we can't whisper, another couple letters we're not able to stutter. And we'll keep on babbling, and we'll keep on swinging, singing the songs that cross our minds, our roasted brains keep on liking what they bring to us, daily, endlessly. The wheel may turn, we may be out of tune, out of path, out of project. Who, who's the only who that gets all the love and gifts for himself, or herself, or itself, to indulge with, to dive deep, and say the green water of the ocean tastes as good as a plate of sushis? Who is real and who keeps on whipping under masks, as pretty as can be, we're just uneducated toys who get the story behind the stories. We love fireworks, and we dig. And the Earth gets deeper as we dig. Dig out, dig up. And the Earth looks brighter than all Moons. And we would be mad dogs to ignore Edie Campbell and Mica Arganaraz by Inez van Lamsweerde and Vinoodh Matadin for Vogue Paris.