robert mapplethorpe on a sunday night.
a row of houses with yellow mouths and gleaming teeth inside. light like fluid that holds and protects. inside, I could
do all those things.
a room of my own with books along the walls and calls that cut through the night. I decide, get up, follow through. I turn to you and I scream for the sake of reactions. there’s nothing else. just snakes of ink in the bath and deep blue colours outside. I move through it, looking in.
Garry Winogrand at SFMOMA…
all around the sound of seeds growing on rooftops and in the cracks of crackhead alleys. and long hours in hidden fields, healing wounds from walking and spreading angular legs to the sons of sun gods. avoid this body, mad dogs of london. it belongs to no one.