Original designs. Stickers and streetwear.
Original designs. Stickers and streetwear.
He stole the hoodie on the way out of a basement show and didn't slow down to see whose it was. The gold eyes and the hooked nose do the greeting; the fangs and the horns do the rest. Ink runs off the sleeves into a puddle at the hem, as if he never let anything dry. He is having a better night than the shirt.
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Cute was the assignment. What showed up is a cream skull under a bow too big for it, heavy lids, a mouth that won't quite smile, pink along the bone like makeup that stayed. The bow does the dressing-up. The scowl clocked in early and never left.
Drop the needle and this is the word that comes off the sleeve. The letters are fat, rust and gold and olive, a little sun-faded, the kind that used to live on a bedroom wall above a record stack. Daisies and sparkles crowd every leftover gap. 1973 didn't believe in quiet margins.
Those eyes already decided you asked too much. Spikes sit at the throat and a daisy sits on the belly, neither of them a joke the fish agreed to. The stitched heart and the tartan look lifted from a jacket that took the hits. If you laugh, you're doing it without permission.
This is a happy face after the painter refused to stop. One eye is crossed out, the other is a black oval sliding south, and the grin sags down the yellow like it got tired of holding. Spray grit still clings to the circle. The joke leaked, and nobody wiped it up.
The pale plaster never gets a rest. Mouths take the head, the neck, the shoulders, each one locked mid-shout, packed tight enough that a crowd can pass for a single body. Start counting and you'll lose the person. Look long enough and there is only the same scream, stacked until it can stand.