graffiti

Urban romances, subtle and wild.

[graffitifactory]

𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

XXIII.IV.MMXXIII

ABOUT: musings about Shaw of Love and Producer; the '♡' represents personal favourites.

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

+ Bonfire

+ Candy

+ Castaway

+ Cola

+ DVD-ROM ♡

+ Fair Trade Fair Deal ♡

+ Figure ♡

+ Ghost in the Mirror

+ Idiot Nation ♡

+ In the City

+ Nectar of the Gods ♡

+ Plastic Bags ♡

+ Priest ♡

+ Radio

+ Rebel, Saint ♡

+ Rockstar

+ Summer Velvet ♡

+ Tempest

+ The 90s ♡

+ Thunder and Bass

©𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮; 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴, 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘮, 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘩𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥.

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FIGURE

She drew a heart in his notebook, and a little rockstar too.

He scoffed at the tiny figure, but the next thing he knew, he was smiling. How so very childish she could be. She was so darn cute.

+ MASTERLIST

©𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮

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ROCKSTAR

Neon showered his body. Red and magenta, blue and violet, lime and green.

Muscles glowed with color and a glaze of sweaty film.

Cells cried with heat, tears trickling down chiseled skin.

Fingers moved against a black bass, a youthful instrument.

He was perfect. He was a rockstar.

+ MASTERLIST

©𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮

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THUNDER AND BASS

They didn't hear the thunder. Only the bass.

They didn't see the man. Only the rockstar.

They saw only the brain, but not the heart.

He was all of those wild delights together, not one thing or the other.

Heart and brain. Sun and rain. Thunder and bass.

+ MASTERLIST

©𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮

[graffitifactory]

22-5-2023🦈⚡️

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21-5-2023: Shaw SP soon🦈⚡

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SUMMER VELVET

Youth in his kiss. Summer on his lips. Wild freedom upon his tongue. It wove through the blue violet of his hair, the velvet sun. There was the sweet mint of bubblegum. A taste of carefree soul. Silver earrings glinting in pairs, metallic and all.

+ MASTERLIST

©𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮

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TEMPEST

Tempest.

The sky was in tempest, and so was the ground. Lightning and whirls shattered the world in half, perfect like thunder and bass.

Darkened chocolate and wet violet rippled in a violent waltz with the maddened wind. Rain fell against the bones of handsome faces like tiny needles.

There was a glow in his eyes—the thrill of a challenge purely bred. One on one. Injure. Two. Have fun. He would toy with him a little longer. What's he even able to do?

Two brothers stood before one another, he smirking, the cupid's bow of his soft lips curved; but inside that wild, wild heart, deep, deep inside, there might have been a tempest too.

+ MASTERLIST

©𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮

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IN THE CITY

She may not have been that smart, but she thought she knew.

If he had not wanted her, how had he chosen her? When he had not liked her, how had he spent so much time by her side?

She may have been smart, but then why did those pretty coral lips quiver at thoughts and doubts of his stance, bowing to a torrid heart?

Had he wished to, he would have found graffiti and melodies enough; they would have played their parts.

It made little sense, yet somehow made a lot—a cycle in the city—for that's how the heart sways the brain, and how the brain sways the heart.

+ MASTERLIST

©𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮

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GHOST IN THE MIRROR

A beloved ghost in her mind, a dear ghost in her mirror.

Time, a lot of time, had passed since she last saw him, looked into those honey eyes and bathed in their urban paradise.

It was grand, much too grand, her love for him, her longing; they weren't at all minor. So deep were they that he had become a ghost in the mirror, immortal, glowing with pops of color and neon stage lights, that glossy ebony bass shining against his lean body, teeth gleaming with the smirk of youth and familiar mockery.

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©𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮

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BONFIRE

The carefree soul of youth, no matter the hardships he had met, was not a candle, but a bonfire that burned bright.

Sure now, there were moments of doubt and melancholy, times of loneliness and tragedy, but they carved him and colored the flame, so much like a fish's tail is as part of a fish as its fins, as the very core of its heart.

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©𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮

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FAIR TRADE FAIR DEAL

In the summer sun smeared metal glinted, a lot like familiar silver earrings.

Long fingers wrapped delicate about the empty can. Dim were the amber eyes that looked at the wall, at the graffiti he had just spoilt on that wall.

Her eyes were wider than cherry pies, chocolate hues following spray as it slithered down the pop of neon over his intricate name, a slow snake of ominous paint.

As it was, he had given her attention, but was she intrested in him, sad for him, or for the talent and graffiti he forced on walls?

Did she care about material or soul?

Would this be a fair trade, a fair deal?

+ MASTERLIST

©𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮

[graffitifactory]

IDIOT NATION

The world was an idiot nation.

So many stupid people, so many brainless monsters.

He didn't bother dealing with as many of them as he wanted. He would never, really. No one could make him. It was meaningless stuff. A waste of time. A killer of energy otherwise better spent.

He has better things to do, like letting wild melodies drift out of his long fingers and into one of his many glossy basses, making color flow from his fingertips onto spray cans and street walls, and being with one silly girl he allows to know him more than anyone else.

+ MASTERLIST

©𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮

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RADIO

Gentle, rough. Calm, wild. Fire, water. Up, down. Sweet, sour.

A strange concoction of opposing flavours, yet those flavours, a lot like the pieces of a scattered mystery, locked into one another perfectly—heavenly in their act, in fact.

And he himself was that mystery, but not quite so: open book, locked doors; brain, heart.

Many were the times she had failed to read him, and many were the moments she had the correct key.

Time with him was a date of youthful cheek, hidden reality and endless depth. It was a time she, in secret, hoped was a date that would never end, like a radio song on repeat.

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©𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮

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REBEL, SAINT

Not a just saint, but a rebel too; she wished to be like he was.

He was a rebel, so fearless and confident she imagined that when he put his silver glasses on, the world and its people froze mid-motion—a student's pen would stop at the swirl of the circle above the little 'i' in her notes, children's lips would melt still into the soft cheese of their pizza slices, skateboarders would hang curled, upside down in the summer air.

And all of them would be painted, glowing vivid and bright, in 2000s colors, pretty and alive.

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©𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮

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THE 90s

Rock music painted the 90s, its electric guitars on overdrive, its bass resounding; it colored his little world with loud energy and cool melodies.

Soon, the world that was founded on artifacts of a mystic past blared with colors of graffiti, neon of stages, blur of videos.

A cheeky child, he was the prince in a universe that mirrored the reality of his mind, of his self, of his very soul.

+ MASTERLIST

©𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮

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PRIEST

What would the priests have thought?

Eternal curse, life in oblivion, dealer with devils, merchant of dark.

She, a young woman dabbling in the nightly arts, tying a human soul to that of demon—a young man whose veins flow with colorful ghosts of graffiti and vivid bolts of rock music.

Impure the rockstars were, kinder than many humans to her yet. Midnight guardians.

What would the priests have said?

+ MASTERLIST

©𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮