Words and photos by Nusrat Durrani
The party has moved downtown. Beautiful young men arguing about politics and rock n roll in the back room. The elderly gothic lady dripping black pearls rode in on an Arabian horse. I will escape soon into the soft white arms of the Cocteau Twins. The French banker chick offers me a clove cigarette. I take a drag. Two. Three. Josephine is squeezing my hand and she is upside down. She made a movie. She rode a horse. She is Armenian. I lead my army over the Brooklyn Bridge where lovers are telling each other beautiful lies. I have only the music. I’m high on vapors of songs, riding fast to The Girl with the Tulip Mouth.
The moon rises in slow motion on the crushed velvet sky, a silver coin tossed in a between two kings. In the fever dream, the motorcycle scream, the epic surrender on silver screen, I’m strapped to a two-wheel chrome machine, riding over sun and moon to The Girl with the Tulip Mouth.