To a nonchalant model and a broke poet

This model doesn't want to do this shoot.

And no matter how much your spray her hair, it tousles into knots of desperate beach dreams. Gargling fish bones, meshed with some whiskey. And legs, flitting like deadening butterfly wings. Craving to go away from this drab-oxidized room, where cameras flash into blinding lights and the soggy biscuits on the tray..swerve, swerve into technicolor. Purple chocolate chips and pink, organdy tea.

Mascara twilled on her lashes, reminds us of baby coconut leaves and both of us have this horrible job to do. But we need some money to pull this *shit* together. But we are hungry for making something better. Hungry, because my poetry doesn't give much money but she is a devilish temptress. Because at least, its someone's masturbation.

And a company to the times, when this model and I sit outside alone and it brings upon silken threads of verses. The one's little girls in the roads are playing with and wrapping it on the tattered Barbie picked up from some garage.

And we are once again tied. Knotted up.

But as for the next hour, we kneel to the flashing umbrellas and contemplate the perfect chin angle as if it requires some existential anxieties.