1. Eyes Framed by Heavy Curls

    Hot water
    That never feels so hot.
    Histories and memories
    That never feel quite right.
    Kiss the air
    And the self portrait
    That stands between you
    And your ambition.

    Pitch black iris
    Hoping to cop a feel
    Or at least some weed.
    Standing still
    To some good music production.
    The gasps.
    Like you’re running out of air.
    And we’re running out of time.

    It’s yours.
    This pain they feel.
    This fire that burns them.
    One or many.
    Cause you’re one of many.

    Heels sinking into the ground.
    The red ground.
    Wet and ready
    With your sweat
    Maybe some tears.
    Heels sunk deep.
    Grazing bodies
    That once burned
    as much as you burn
    Now.

    This weekend.
    You look gorgeous.
    You look fearless
    You look powerful.
    Eyes sunk into a vaccum
    One that doesn’t look back.

    Rhetoric of heaviness.
    The gasps.
    Like you’re running out of beauty.
    And we’re running out of time.
    On it.
    As usual.
    With your heavy curls
    And the sweet scent of possibility.
    On it.
    Forever.

    Sunk into yourself.
    On your maiden voyage.
    On your favorite sunset.
    On that magical time.
    On that imaginary horizon.
    On that sea of bodies.
    That burn.
    As much as you burn.
    Now.

  2. The Girls

    There’s capitalism and altruism
    There’s good boys and there’s bad boys.
    Great times and horrible times.
    White people being too much and drunk bros taking up too much space.
    Good fucks and not so good fucks.
    But somewhere
    Somehow
    Over that bridge
    Right across the pond
    Yknow the girls are turning up
    And they’re waiting for you…

  3. isgeny:

#Saoco papi 🎶 😂😂😂

    isgeny:

    #Saoco papi 🎶 😂😂😂

  4. kicker-of-elves:

Trinidad’s Folkloric Ballet         National Geographic October 1999
David Alan Harvey

    kicker-of-elves:

    Trinidad’s Folkloric Ballet         National Geographic October 1999

    David Alan Harvey

    (vía magnacarterholygrail)

  5. SAOCO 

    Cuando mezclas whiskey con agua de coco.


    SAOCO 

    PAPI

    SAOCOOOOO!!!

  6. beatnikdaddio:

carnival. 1975.

    beatnikdaddio:

    carnival. 1975.

    (vía magnacarterholygrail)

  7. NO ONE HAS DREAMT THIS YET (1)

      It wasn’t necessarily the fact that she had blown $600 on “base products” to make her own shampoo. It was the effortless way in which her greasy skin produced a natural glow that somehow manifested itself as some sort of defense mechanism feigning a wise mentality. We were just having a casual conversation like those you have when you’re left in the car with someone you met an hour ago as your acquaintance in common goes outside to roll a cigarette and process their own shit. Lots of processing due to the fact that it was 4 of us and about 16 different pieces of luggage all crowded and jammed into a tiny ass Subaru, driving across Pennsylvania which must be the widest fucking state ever. And somehow this shampoo and organic soap she had spent so much money to make could not mask the stench of their crumbling relationship, of which I was the #1 spectator in the back of this tiny damn car alongside my friend whos immediate world was comprised of whatever was blasting out of her skullcandy headphones. It was then necessarily that I was wondering who these people were that I was crammed into this car with, where exactly was I going? I was stressing out a bit thanks to the fact that I had just lost my laptop and digital camera on a NJ transit bus, the subsequent lost and found, cat and mouse game resulted in a compact flash card filled with photos of my white lesbian friends bonding with each other inside their West Village townhouses, while I was on my way to work for $10 hr in the unforgiving Tennessee heat. It was this fragmented world that I was really a part of during my early 20’s. Somewhere in my head lay the critique to call off all these abusive patterns that I kept finding myself under, oftentimes dismissing them as my one desire to “victimize” myself above all things. I can only describe this by admitting that for the earlier part of my youth I functioned under the narrative of a 3rd person, and that 3rd person was a privileged white girl from a small town in the USA. Nothing could have been farther from my reality, but somehow the imagery that set off in my brain after watching Emily Van Camp’s performance as a troubled teen (daughter of a doctor/preacher in a small Colorado town) gave me all the visual cues I had to enact in order to give myself the “look”. The look of troubled white teenage girl with her pick of hot boy toys who somehow has access to hard drugs in her small ass town in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.And where was I really? Somewhere in Floyd, Virginia. Living in the house of a progressive white couple who lived in China to practice “eastern medicine” and had their house full of gongs and artifacts I couldn’t name. Their garden smelled like fresh mint, their cooking smelled like nutritional yest but their conversation reeked of orientalism , white privilege and the arrogance that comes with a thousand dollar plane ticket to far away lands that somehow empower you to oppress even more once you come back. Who were these people and why was I in that space? Talking about “base products” and alternative ways to produce photo negatives in another small ass North Carolina town full of beautiful white boys with dark hair and green eyes that reminded me of Squall Leonheart in Final Fantasy 8. You with the manchild path already laid out for you ,struggling to find the words to connect to your Dominican lover in Washington Heights all the while wishing you’d connect with me, your Puerto Rican lover all the way in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. Being a gentrifier way before I even had the word , living among Jews and not understanding their ways , traveling among straights and still not understanding their ways. Wishing someone would pay me more for all the sweat and all the anxiety and all the fucking pizza sauce I made without even having the language to truly understand myself or why I left my beaches and my friends and why I was in no path to get a degree and become one of those fancy thermometers that goes to parties and talks about internships and somehow lives like Carrie in Sex and the City on a meager salary. But I digress, this is about an awkward conversation in a car in the middle of Philadelphia, this girl was the first piece in a crumbled story, something to do with self-discovery and missed connections and redefined aspirations. This girl had a vision and the resources and the space to make that vision flourish on infertile ground. Even with her unwelcoming smell and her eternally socially acceptable quest to “find herself” she had something I wanted and it would take me 6 years to get it. “Base products” to make my own damn self.

  8. NO ONE HAS DREAMT THIS YET (2)

     Am I to find you in a state. Of disbelief? Eyes wide open looking into a wide net cast to capture your sensibility. Am I to find you here, or there? Deeply interested in understanding what it is I see in you, completely unsure about what it is you see in me? Should I search for that time in your eyes. A window. Looking over your land, looking over your fruits. Releasing you, like a shutter, at what speed and at what time. Editing you. Being one of the many hands in the path from existence to mere representation.  The way you sleep and eat. The way you stare and watch. The way you dance and sweat. All these things I remember, all these things fit into the color wheel I’m equipped to reason with. All this can survive a file conversion and a visit to the print shop and a moment of carefully articulated critique upheld by thousands of years of oppressive pain inflicted upon the body you never knew. And this critique exists in a silent room. White walls, gallery spaces that are so loud with unspoken truth. You can almost see the mud and the blood. You can almost taste the tears. But you stand there in a state, to be seen, to be felt. Eyes wide and hungry for the beauty you can only birth yourself, and the eyes that can see it amid all the shade. And its a moment in itself, a beautiful representation of a lived reality, dimly lit chocolate skin shining like the diamond among a pack of stones. So present and so in love, with life, with lust.  A body revered by the power of it’s memory, a body riddled with its own brand of confusion, a body of ones own.

  9. ytinifninfinity:

braceli dessert braceli

    ytinifninfinity:

    braceli dessert braceli

    (vía lqqkslqqks)

  10. lqqkslqqks:

HOSOI Fall/Winter 2014-15

The men’s clothing does not exist, the women’s clothing does not exist, nude color does not exist. HOSOI is a new unisex brand designed and produced 100% in Spain. #CARNECOLLECTION is the first collection based on the Japanese brand meaning: delicate, thin, low fat. Geometric patterns, oversize silhouettes, prints knives, biting and always without labels: Clothing for men and women openly.

    lqqkslqqks:

    HOSOI Fall/Winter 2014-15

    The men’s clothing does not exist, the women’s clothing does not exist, nude color does not exist. HOSOI is a new unisex brand designed and produced 100% in Spain. #CARNECOLLECTION is the first collection based on the Japanese brand meaning: delicate, thin, low fat. Geometric patterns, oversize silhouettes, prints knives, biting and always without labels: Clothing for men and women openly.

  11. youngturksrecords:

Glitch art x FKA twigs

    youngturksrecords:

    Glitch art x FKA twigs

    (Fuente: glitchartistscollective, vía lqqkslqqks)

  12. death-by-dior:

    samkidanuengirl:

    charlottesharks:

    Barbapapa, photographer Isabelle Chapuis 

    this is fuckin brilliant

    X

    (vía lqqkslqqks)

    Mi madre chilling in Vieques (2013)

  13. autremondeimagination:

La vida real | 2014
Alfonso Casas Moreno

    autremondeimagination:

    La vida real | 2014

    Alfonso Casas Moreno

    (vía autremondeimagination)

  14. papidreamz

SEDIENTA ESTA NOCHE

    papidreamz

    SEDIENTA ESTA NOCHE

    (Fuente: hypersexualsportswear, vía fagbarbie)

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