‘’I had a dream, I could buy my way to heaven and when I woke up I spent that on my necklace.’’ I am a God. Not in a pretentious, impressionistic, chauvinistic or cogitate manner but in the true natural sense of the meaning. The translation of God is: Statue, idol, icon, super-natural being. I know when I die; my naked, dexterously sculptured body will be exhibited on clandestine elite exposition, erect in pure platinum of only the purest snow white comfort of my own blissful home. So in these legitimate translations how am I not a God. How can anyone tell me I am not.  Let’s go out and have some fun.

Tall, self mutilated dead skinny, vain, narcissistic and hedonistic goddesses, bony materialistic French models, verging the Italian-stallion vulnerabilities and exceeding all Russian capabilities of anorexia, black dark insecure eye-liner, black shiny skin-tight heavy duty leather studded Dior Homme By Kris Van Assche garments, for her delicate protection in her own pain induced war, smeared black lipstick, extraordinaire skeletal legs, her love for refined beautiful devil dandruff, jet black nail-polish. All of which I indulge in, nurture, nourish, comfort, feed, poison then feed-off, destroy, obsess, desire, require and sleep with.

We’ll move to Japan shoot some Hiroshima because it is a designer thing of which the ordinaire, commoner at the local haven wouldn’t, couldn’t comprehend. We cool, you not. We know you wanna make love to us, and then we will ‘scarefully’ divorce you because we can. Then I will transform to myself and reminisce touching myself with my own iridescent chrome skeleton claws because intimacy comes over me anyway. Detached, deceased, cold, anxious, uniform but hot and elevated we stand. We are robotic, immaculate through never expiring, futuristic, haute couture (literal meaning: High fashion) machines; we are the people that rule the world. We are so 3008 and you are too 2000 and late.

‘’Saturday night we look alright, we’re going out – boring, London friends, NYC – boring, sexy boy, girl on girl – boring, Marijuana, Cocaine, Heroin – boring, Galliano, Donatella,  Dolce&Gabanna, DSQUARED2 – boring. Love of my life, bear your child, everything I ever wanted – boring. Life is such a chore when nothing kills or thrills us anymore’’ – when it’s inevitably boring.

Suicide for fun? Not the deadly, dreaded diminutive derived from bloody bondage inspired boredom, but: Rock’n roll will live forever, huge. Comparable to snorting AIDS out of a golden $10000000 test tube, but with a more spiritually invigorating egocentric scent, and viral venom. Very Russian billionaire in terms of ‘Whiskey is the new vodka.’ The near enlivening, rich-brat suicidal approach to the ‘Cigarellos’ (chocolate cigarettes) I used to eat when I was young. The let’s go out and have some fun or I’ll break all my toy’s and die trying.

We are not using weird anarchic, conjuring theories bound and sticky taped together by habituel and ‘arty-crafty’ salvaged scraps. This, I think is inexorably, demoralizing, diminishing, degrading, debasing and too iconographic of the enduring daily go back and forth; the poor, mind-numbing, lame and broken. Well are they, who know and who care because I don’t. Why are the daily commute not using suicide for fun, it is extremely fruitful for a high that they will never come down from, but the low-life’s just can’t afford it. The only happy people in the town are poor.

Milan Fashion Week
(Courtesy of dolcegabbana.com)

Feat. Eddie Klint, Tom Warren, Mathias Lauridsen, Jesper Lund, Antonio Navas, Julien Quévenne, Tylor Fuchs, Julien Sabaud, Vincent LaCrocq, Matt Benstead and more…

Music: Those Two Guys: ’33 Rev’

D&G sent down a very much stylized and altered version of the tux on the runway at Milan fashion week with a more spoilt preppy, modern inspired approached version of the tuxedo with a slight nerdy twist.

By use of pinstripes, soft print detail, lapels on the jackets and cunningly designed pockets this tuxedo style of dressing is a more, modernized yet casual sportswear approach to the traditional and iconographic tailoring of the olden days.

A very monochromatic palette of black and white was used to make the look contemporary. Black rimmed glasses, cravats and polka dot bow ties were used to contradict the glamour of the collection.

Basically this look is insane as its relaxed fuckoff playboy on his Italian or French Riviera yacht.

Sick.

I should mention I have an elder brother named George le Roux,  who with a few friends has opted to rather write the book through starting an EMPIRE with baby angel wings sprawling through all creative sectors of heaven so he can buy his way to heaven.

”Tom’s paroxysm”

par·ox·ysm // (prk-szm)

[Middle English paroxism, periodic attack of a disease, from Medieval Latin paroxysmus, from Greek paroxusmos, from paroxnein, to stimulate, irritate : para-, intensive pref.; see para-¹ + oxnein, to goad, sharpen (from oxus, sharp; see ak- in Indo-European roots).]

parox·ysmal (-k-szml) adj.

parox·ysmal·ly adv.

Through Tom’s Paroxysm I will articulating, and sharing a vast amount of diverse content, through the creative world to whatever aggressive fucked-up theory I want caz I can and cunt-struck individuals must cunt-off.