I made a poetry film for Harpers Bazaar about the fashion world. Hope you enjoy.
Today I am a black and white picture in a magazine with high circulation. I wear Dior high-top sneakers, also in black and white. In that regard I am street-wear inspired buffalo leather creating a trendy look. I am adorned with little details, small things that separate me from competitors like when the Burberry designers included hidden sections of material to differentiate themselves from Top Man. An overall sign of increased quality. In this case I am the leather strap with the cool metal stud around the top; the CD logo heat-embossed on the heel; I am the ”Dior Homme” ring on the laces; the two-tone rubber sole. I am a reference code of six letters and seven digits. I am £450 all-in.
Through rainbow lights and missed hours
your eyes might taste stars
find sushi in Pisces;
the musk of post-sex sweat
in Leo’s paws.
I find myself an extra
in a reality TV show I hardly watch,
considering faces of multiplied James Deans
their pouts as cameras shoot
and they turn:
all cock’n’ball attitude
as they drop a shoulder,
lift a hand to the lens, flip a v.
being one leg in and out
brushing against greatness
cheekbones, the down and over
that slow realisation of cogs that whirr
and those that don’t. Everyone
even the best, aware
of their luck, aware of their looks
everyone hiding somehow
behind something you can’t quite get.
It’s my birthday today! @maxrobertwallis