The grime was no man's grime but death and human locomotives, dead men were on that train, wearing all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black misery, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt. Industrial, modern. All that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown. Those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, on the home-pile of rotten railway sleepers and sawdust, bath of steam, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely overheated tin cans with rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of wood stacks, the noise of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of iron, bloated espresso machine balancing on thin tracks and sphincters of dynamos - all these entangled in your mummied roots. And you there rolling towards me in the steamy sunset; all your glory in your form. The nightmare train went on through the milky sunlight its whistle screeching and the dead men inside laughing.
Is a dream a lie if it doesn't come true, or is it something worse? 'Wall Street' once has turned into 'Route 66'. The Great Depression answered the financial crash of '29 followed by the 'Dust Bowl', formerly the greatest natural catastrophe caused by man's excess. Homes for sale or rent. Rooms to let - fifty cents. The world has enough for everyone's need, but not enough for everyone's greed. Miss American Pie drove her Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry. Eight miles a gallon and driving fast, she landed foul on the grass. No James Dean to borrow her a coat. Moss grows fat on a rolling stone and while we were looking down, the jester stole the thorny crown. Jack is nimble, Jack is quick, Jack Flash sits on a candlestick. No angel born in Hell and fire is the Devil's only friend, and the three men we admire most, The Father, Son, the Holy Ghost, they caught the last train to the coast. There we are, all in one place. A generation lost in space. No time left to start again, but them good old boys are drinking Whiskey and Rye, singing "Bye-bye, Miss American Pie, this will be the day that we die."
"What have I become?" she asked in softly whispered tune while laying the unknown depths of her thoughts down beside her. Life has become lifeless and disheartening. In her hiding place, there is no soul to be smelled, not even a fowl in the air. The expanding deep sighs hurt the void within her, holding secrets that are withheld from others eyes. Only yesterdays sweeps upon the shores of her eyelids, refusing to let them shut. Not another sun shall rise that can't be seen. As her sight starts to fade to the colorless end of hues, so there on the dock in death's hands she waits for time to receive her, the black cloth upon her skin reluctant to the coldness of silent winds that brush against her shoulders in a sweeping manner. The sweetness of memories has been cast away within the ripples of the water. No longer are they soothing as the salt from her gaze stream like fire down the high rises of her cheeks. Every single one that plunged into her hands was added to her pond of many tears.
There are some girls, that never become women. And some women that never become ladies. Females are innately the more vulnerable species, though saying so out loud just pisses them off. But it's the truth. Leading with emotion, hearts on sleeves, timid and subservient due to low self-worth; low self-esteem. Those that are happy to remain girls don't question their inner strength. They have not been tempted by the fruits of their own minds, by the ache of their untouched souls, by the places deep within the female body that once touched, must be touched again and again, or she'll fade away. Those girls kneel before life, without the call to submission, but simply because that is where they fit comfortably in their own existence. What makes a woman a woman, is the ability to allow the call of her inner Goddess to be heard by all parts of her being. Finding her inner masochist, her inner witch, her inner Aphrodite, by allowing temptations of the mind and flesh to seep into her soul. That woman craves the strength her power instills in her. And she craves even more a man that can take her power and make her even stronger, by relieving her of it. The burden of power can be heavy for a female, and sometimes a woman needs to be a girl. And as for the woman that may never be a lady, she is unique. Some women can turn off the inner beast, present themselves with a certain level of reservation, in the right company. But some, those truly wild creatures, are of the rawest natural state. Those are the women that need to be tamed, by one that holds their best interest, within his reins. ~ Francesca
He lifted her to heights she'd never known, now her fall from his grace finds her with vertigo. Unable to focus, the world passing in a blur, her mind spinning faster than these blackwall tires. Reeling from the whiplash of his final impact, she leans on an old friend that never looks back. The road never wavers, he shares her desire. Give and receive, a mutual fire. The more she gives he simply opens wider. There are days so breathtaking she must share them with him alone. Let him lead her to places she never dreamed she could go. Nights so lonely she's nowhere else to turn, they ride in comfortable silence, nothing but miles to burn. She always comes back to him when she needs to escape. He eagerly accepts her, never hesitates. Listens intently to her unspoken fears, wipes away each of her lingering tears. Brings her horizons painted just for her eyes and shares with her vistas words can't describe. As daylight wanes and her grip on life fades, he brings the stars into sight and she can finally breathe. Letting out a sigh of liberated relief, she lets the night air of Spring set her free. ~ Francesca
The camera went insistently around the gorgeous sealed white body, examining and making notes of its deep sleep and history. Dear C. S. De Ville, you are hiding layers and layers of warm dreams and richness. Thrilled by this rare white find the camera lost track of time, to be suddenly startled by a faint movement that disturbed the morbid mossy stillness. The old beauty wearily yawned: "What a persisting warm clicking, so alien to my death." She exhaled a feeble breath: "What is this emptiness where the sun seems not to gleam by day, nor the moon by night? What is this deep sleep that fell upon me?" She quivered and lifted her eyes unto the shattered horizon on a mapping created by cracks and rust, shadows of memories fell upon her foggy windshield, the silence was broken by this movement outside her wintry coffin. The glorious white Cadillac De Ville, Sedan, four doors, Hard Top 1960, the dream of all dreamers - now just an image of herself. A whole era was ready to spring to life but her memory faded, what is left is a sad smile, which deepened the lines on her wrecked face. She felt cold and rusty but didn't bother asking who and why surrendering to the clicks that bring her back to her past golden glory and give her eternity. With despair, she sighed: "I was the aspired prize, implied under the glitter blinding those who came chasing for a richer existence. I lost it all; wealth and beauty are buried deep under this crystal white meth," completing the ongoing lamentation, "White trash? No, no, no! Winter's Bone? Yes, you could call me Winter's Bone!" ~ Shadia Alem
In spite of all the advances of civilization, the woman has remained as she came out of the hand of nature. She has the nature of a savage, who is faithful or faithless, magnanimous or cruel, according to the impulse that dominates her at the moment. Art should be functional. And art should tell a story; a narrative that places you in the situation of every photograph, allowing the viewer to be as closest to the soul of the subject as possible. The distinctive feature of the photographer is his ability to surprise and to exceed our expectations. But who really knows what is on in the photographer's mind when work is created? "Decipher me or I will devour you!" The female bloom, nearly stripped, but never obvious, nor offering little, rides lightly on the time's line where space opens into the high plain's depth. The feminine form factor, represented by the curves of elegance and playfulness, positioned in a barren, male landscape, symbolizing life's portraiture of relationships. The joining of the two human universes, male and female, merged in nature's perfect but rare Fibonacci harmony.
Observe, if you will, our curious cardinal upon the window sill. A more magnificent creature, impossible to find. Yet she looks out on the courtyard with lust in her eyes. What could it be that she covets so hungrily? Is she imagining passion or leaning toward envy? Fallen leaves and brick laced street create a breathtaking portrait indeed, but her eyes are drawn to classic beauty. Each fine machine commanding her attention. After all, they have turned heads for decades, no matter where they go. A form originated from their creator's own feel of a woman. Unique curves, distinctive purrs, there is nothing more thrill inducing than a moment inside such a one-of-a-kind ride. Push her to the limits and you soon will realize: the problem is not getting cool air to her rear, it is getting the hot air away from her. But our pretty bird is focused elsewhere, her soul whispering desires only her body can hear. A cloak of white silk, wrapped around elegance and light; imagining the glow beneath the sophisticated guise. Her mind drawn to the thought of ivory thighs. Blush finds her face, her chest overwhelmed with beats and she silently wishes to be seen. To be seen and received. ~ Francesca