Creators.
A lot of jokes in one image))) You found out the place and time) I gave John these wonderful swimming trunks and let Brian get a little replenished.
Show & Tell

roma★

JBB: An Artblog!
art blog(derogatory)

titsay
wallacepolsom

blake kathryn

No title available
Jules of Nature
h
Misplaced Lens Cap
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
Monterey Bay Aquarium

#extradirty
Cosmic Funnies
No title available
Cosimo Galluzzi

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

Love Begins

JVL

seen from T1
seen from Colombia
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seen from Colombia

seen from Germany
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@extraordinarilyniice
Creators.
A lot of jokes in one image))) You found out the place and time) I gave John these wonderful swimming trunks and let Brian get a little replenished.
Lou Reed interview,1975
starlingari
He puts her to mind of those statues in the museums during their little absolutely worth-it struggle to finish his outfit; just imagine, wrapping up Michelangelo’s David in lingerie and sighing at a display of marble and silk– or the discus thrower, draped in pearls and lace, twisted about like she has to do in order to clip the further garter straps: The man deserves his own podium in Florence, a display at the Louvre, but he’s already got those crowds and many more in his satin pockets, now doesn’t he? What a shame those ancient artists missed this!
He’s a work of art all his own, and Ari adoringly clasps hands to rest cheek atop knuckles to show precisely how ‘right’ she finds his costume to be- “Glorious!”
While he worries with his cigar, Arienette poses just as one would when on display, precisely how she’s been taught– left leg slipped on ahead of her, hands planted on hips, chin up high: she’s dressed to impress, and fully prepared to strut as one would expect her peacock comrades do! Whether she belongs locked up in an aviary or stood on a pageant stage is up for debate–
but EXQUISITE! he said! Of course, his approval is all she needs, and has her promptly dropping pose, flitting wrists in a coquettish display of dismissal: oh, stop, don’t stop! “Hush, Freddie, you’ll make me blush– then I’ll clash with the turquoise, we can’t have that.” But both hands are already shielding her cheeks, darlingly embarrassed over the prospect of any party-goers thinking the same as he does.
Nodding along in agreement now- “Brutal, brutal,” obediently and absolutely dripping with purpose; she wastes no time dumping out the contents of her purse on the floor at their feet. Like a child, Arienette plummets down to the tiles, thumbing through an array of stray dollar bills, little shot bottles of liquor, tissues, loose cigarettes, a couple hair ties, uncontained pills, a really lovely pinked glass bottle of perfume– a pause in their search, so she can spritz herself and smile, before it’s set off safely to the side– FINALLY, three tubes of lipstick are brought to proper attention, each lid abandoned with a single slip of her thumb: “Okay, Darling, I’ve got… some cherry red, it says, but not so much like the fruit, more a Red Light District sort tone, you know… this one, it looks purple next to the gold, but I assure you, it’s a truly villainous maroon, look now,” Ari draws a tad of a line across the curve of her thumb, to show him what she means, holds up this example of a paw while showing off the final choice. “Oh, but this one, it’s my favorite but it won’t do, just a blushing pink, matches my pointe shoes–” FAR TOO SOFT TO BE BRUTAL! “I suggest the maroon, you’ll be able to eat them all right up, put a chill in their bones and tighten their trousers, brutal indeed!”
The two deemed worthy are held out in offering, and Arienette goes to fumbling through accessories to scoop them all back into her purse– “Where did you say we were going, after this?” she hasn’t the slightest idea what’s next in their adventure, but is more than willing to fall right in line. “Pending your answer, I may need to break into one of these,” said as she squints to read tiny print on a caramel-colored little liquor bottle…
And this is precisely why he barely knocks about with the lads, he validates to himself as he thinks of being chastised for dashing off to his car after a gig- instead he plucks the darlings right off their arms and steals away with them into the night. It’s low hanging fruit really and they’re quite an easy snare as many are partial to his company when they find themselves accomplices in escapades that end in something far grander than a rumpled nest of hotel linens and cottonmouth. And he much prefers them as well for as fair a maiden as Roger is, surely he doesn’t possess the fortitude to withstand the tedium they’re currently indulging in nor will three shades of luxe war paint be falling out of his clutch! Freddie titters to himself as the contents of her purse disperse at their feet, the pearly gates have opened with their herald angels careening over marble. He gingerly deposits his cigarette through the crystalline neck of an abandoned coke bottle that teeters nearby and comes to roost on his haunches (hardly an easy feat in his present state but he clings to modesty like a Titian muse) to examine her wares for himself.
“Trust in lipstick and trust in life,” he murmurs, surely the echo of some great prophet, simpering as raven lashes crest the prominent rounds of his cheeks almost in reverence, as if reciting a hymn, genuflecting before a holy idol as he lifts the maroon stick from the soft cradle of her palm and looks to her, “Praise be, Goddess, Grrrrand Empress of maquillage and couture!”
Was there really any other choice in the end? They both led Victorian lives surrounded by exquisite clutter, he trusts in her utterly and completely, she’s proven to be the Venus to his Earth, the entirety of the evening’s fate hanging in the delicate balance of her painted thumb and this glimmering capsule. Well-versed thighs elevate him back into the heavens and he struts back towards the mirror, unsheathing the lipstick to christen his pout with Ari’s chosen poison. Its painstaking work but he has a steady hand and suddenly he’s transformed, hastily brushing away the impure thoughts that he may be outshining Liza, but it’d truly be a terror to confront her now and have that elephant in the room. His thumbs slot beneath the bands of his garters and there’s a victorious thwack as he takes hold of the mirror like a tempestuous lover, crushing himself sensuously against it, and impresses a villainous stain, leaving a streak of maroon leering back at them. And then he turns towards Ari, his trance breaking as he hears the telltale signs of his driver's floundering attempts at conversation as he attempts to entertain their now deeply inebriated shop-owner.
“The Drake on Park and 56th, I heard about it in the coat room before we left, it’s whisper down the lane so don’t hold me to it but I swore I heard something about a live boa constrictor,” he dutifully answers her- he and the boys nearly stayed there for their New York leg until they heard someone nipped about 200K from Zeppelin’s safety deposit box, “it’ll be wild so a little elixir wouldn’t hurt. I have another bottle of Pérignon we can crack into on the way there!”
068/??? freddie mercury close ups
im busy doing angel activities
• Paradise Lost •
Perfume bottle consisting of eight enameled glass bottles as orange segments, set in painted ceramic holder. (ca. 1925)
Freddie in Body Language (Alternative Takes)
Freddie’s cats Goliat and Delilah
starlingari
She’s still all tangled up in a bundle of feathers, letting out slight ACHOOS when one of those faux-peacock-plumes comes up to tickle her nose. It seemed simple enough when she’d taken a gander at it! A leotard-something; a glittered belt; some giant, obnoxious derriere accessories– JUST ANOTHER EVENING, ISN’T IT!? Freddie’s theatrics in the dressing room sparks a solid smile as she works to nimbly slip turquoise stockings up and over lanky limbs…
It’s his question that finally rattles the girl from preening in a mirror, though. As if they’d been friends their whole lives, Arienette doesn’t waste a moment trotting along his way– she’d been following at his heels, the tips of his coat tails practically, all evening anyway. “Oh look at you!” she’s intimidated a moment, by his height accentuated with stilettos while she’s still very blue and pathetically planted on stockinged feet, all small and such; it’s almost natural for her to roll right on up to the tips of her toes. “You’d be the crème de la crème of the Kit Kat Klub, you would!!”
Overflowing with giggles as she meticulously assists with his zipper– she hopes the costume won’t rip, but hardly believes anyone would really care if it did so while HE was wearing it… “There, there, just delectably debauch,” Ari curls a knuckle over her mouth, trying to muffle a slight bout of laughter: STUNNING, INDEED! “What do you think of… of this, of–” like a pup chasing their tail, she spins about in tight sorts of circles, reaching thoughtfully for the bundle of feathers coming from the small of her back until she manages to tangle fingertips about one ( but not before being a bit dizzied ) “Aren’t they phenomenal!?”
With his arms outstretched in a messianic stance to steady himself in the doorway, he sucks in as best he can, bronze musculature rippling threateningly and heaving shallow like a Victorian dame shimmying into a corset. He thinks of them, how many ribs they must have cracked to be beautiful, turning their vital organs into tin cans, and he grits his teeth, spoiled by the comparative generosity of the garment- if fucking Marilyn could do it so could he! Freddie pivots once the deed is done, purring at her compliments, knackered from all of the finagling. He knocks his hip against the side of the stall and eagerly obliges Arienette,-a spinning doll ripped to life from a jewelry box only a doll pales in her magnificence, drinking her in like a connoisseur, absentmindedly fumbling around for a fag- somehow conjuring a pink Nat Sherman- Queen Sized- and lighting it with a flash of metal and a roar. There’s a long beat as he challenges her, the dark coals of his eyes stoking a slow burn mischief.
“You’d be barking mad if you turn up in anything else!” he eventually announces, marveling at the display as a Cheshire grin glints beneath his silken lip, “exquisite, rivaling the peacocks into extinction- you’ll do damage in that thing, alright.”
Perfumed smoke wreathes his flushed features as he reels over the finishing touches, suddenly feeling tragically under-dressed as he appraises his companion, that chandelier drop necklace he’s got in the car could help pull it all together- but there’s still something missing…
“So much for crashing any parties when they’ll be parting seas for you,” he titters, his smoke wagging in rhythm with his cadence, hung precariously from his pout as he contemplates his predicament- ah, lipstick, “-I need a rouge, these smackers aren’t getting enough mileage on their own I’m afraid. Have you got anything? Something, brutal, my dear- nice and loud!”
Grace Jones “Portfolio” (back album cover), 1977
🍷
He’s starting to believe they’ve stumbled into another continuum, where time stretches and warps into a slow eternity like a Dali fever dream. The cosmic mishap’s happened at the Three Choirs winery- tucked away in the rolling hills of Gloucestershire, effectively stranding him until his driver eventually circles back to collect him. His impeccable posture has faltered since the onset of their pilgrimage; his form now sprawled languidly in the back of a crowded wagon as they draw further away from the safety of civilization into the vineyard. Their guide, a particularly stern looking woman with a librarian’s up-do forcing back her brows, threatens to pickle his own mind as she drones on about fermentation. His eyes are weary half-crescents, the rare candor of his boredom strewn over his expression when he spots her across from him. They’re near acquaintances, surely would have been thick as thieves if the band had wound up with Zeppelin’s manager, but nonetheless a viable partner in crime.
“Fucking hell, I’m three seconds from a coma, dear,” he teases in a husky whisper, lazily clutching a nearly empty tasting glass by the stem as he squints at their rambling guide, “I say we go rogue…”