fashion HOW I LOVE
steve jobs dies but black turtleneck sales spike. the apple driven economy designed by spending. everything for sale and everything sleek. lady gag’s hair fell out and bald begot the new black, and black, the new nouveauriche. somebody dared to eat a peach but it was half plum. they failed the cleanse designed by their 100$ an hour nutrition coach and life designer who originally made a living doing interiors. genetic alterations a bitch. chic was not the word, the word was magic, and magic was uncertain In This Economy.
The calm after the shit storm box marked “the stranger” with an orange sticker chained to a lamp post on the corner. The black clouds glowing in the bloodless fluff of sunset. suckling a bourbon spiked americano like a teet or grecian geyser of golden poetry.
La llorena in the stairwell on my first day of work, locked in the concrete hollow zigzagging fist bruised like a pounded peach with 5 knotted pits. a cunt up a peach tree, the kind of silence that is overwhelmed by itself.
She said she was so not interested in his Americana and clawing practicality. She was drawn in by the craftsmanship, the nautical gloss, of his wooden house– which he built himself. in the 80s. Then there was the unexpected whimsy. A stuffed pheasant taking flight from an exposed rafter. a telephone booth beneath the stairwell. His shifty eyes. and she learned to love like a tide pool. Calm and dark and shivering.
With freedom, books, flowers and the moon, who could not be happy?