dreaming of the frederic malle perfumes at barneys.  and how they make me feel.  whimsical and rich and cruel and sad.  i miss now the carnal rose or une rose or the iris or vetiver.

as i take refuge now in pure oils, and fight the allure of the carcinogenic chemical rush of perfume industry . . .  my hunger is for something else . . . the beautiful perfect love that never quite occurred.  the hunger chasing after rainbows in beverly hills, a concentration camp for rich people.  they are forced to loiter their days away, waiting for new threads . . . i am thinking of liam folan and markus bender, crushes.  and shay raviv, a crush.  the beautiful veiled women in hermes scarfs and diamonds.  the necklaces with the gold star, beverly hills is the middle east, and the cruel racist maligners tried to rope me into their hatreds, but i was too fond, too fond of the gracious persian culture, and the silks and linens, the warm arms and beautiful eyes, the people who wear their suffering on their face.  i was held captive in a little human zoo, not quite catherine deneuve in the umbrellas of cherbourg, or doolittle's flower shop girl . . . in an industrial wasteland, a ruscha painting, to starve and drink coffee, and eat chocolate for dinner, and ogle edible chanel, and love, love, love . . .
if we lay down before us who made what where why, fashion is the least of our worries, the fashion bank, the west bank, i am sorry for war, ashamed, agorophobic.  when i leave the metropolis, i will need a metal suit of armor to conduct the electricity barely animating my limpid self . . .  it is the hunger that starves me down.  i am weak before the metal skies, the autos and the trains, and human kindness in a sculpted face . . . and the beauty of the charms and a maid with perfumes and a dandy carting baudelaire back to the garret.