Morrison Hotel

Creator’s Despair

It’s the creator’s despair,
to know what’s dripping in the shower
behind a curtain of pretentious words and wet hair,

while blue screens sing of truth’s dead and blame
the small creature, locked up
craves for a flame

of little grace and forced flair
scattered on the floor in an gray office
he sat, almost, uneasily sweaty in a brown torn chair

living in and out the characters of smelly comic books
an aristocratic old man, resting on his cane
studied his ways and nodded stiffly

his glossy lips sulking wet,
he searched with blind sight and shivering force
the reason for this other man in making the vulgair heartfelt

we both left this dreary place, on a roaring motorcycle
the old man asked me for the maze’s design
and the world in this library

realizing the scattered parts
of delicious rapp snitch knishes
are less impressive than the battle for beauty in men’s hearts

Photography: Abraham Saraya / abrahamsaraya

Styling and Creative Direction: Diego Ibáñez / diegoibanez2

Hair and Grooming: Sean Derbees / seanderbees_

Model: Rafa Sanchez / rafaelsanchez_4 @ newiconmodels

Poem by Raphaël Aziza Van Cappellen / raphaelazizavancappellen

Layout: Beatrice Panero / pane.nero