Wednesday, September 26, 2012


Like the scent of summer, the radiation hits the skin roughly beautiful pain. It radiates the skin like blood running through my eyes. Fame is an illusion, but Summer is fairly surreal. It's a part of this unexplainable sadness I face. It's V-the Voluntary Radioactive Indie Soul my heart loathes and loves.

I am Haley Greens, I am like Summer. I am the Summertime Sadness my Lana Del Rey lips smoke through. I'm just fairly ugly, that's how I feel pretty. I am soulless and soulful, both things compliment each other like coffee and gin, like the insanity complimenting a genius mindset. To be pretty, you should just carve out so much ugliness until it becomes pretty. Nobody is pretty enough to be ugly, and no one is ugly enough to be uglier. Everyone is fairly the same, that is why we should carve out the facial mindset. Red is not always Red. Teal is either Blue or Green. Vanity comes in between these tainted pain.

Perfection is a lie, Beauty is a Nobody, It's the charm shining throughout like the light bulbs shining the whole room. Everybody is beautiful and ugly, everybody is in between the delusional walls between the opposite of each other, ugly or pretty.

That is what is beautiful about fashion, beauty, and art, it has no boundaries, it has no limits in this and that, everything is a teardrop falling from the branches of the boudoir. It's like, buying fake gucci is still fashionable, it's just a sin of morality and fashion, that is the ugly and the pretty. Like the loathing mist dancing in the dark, it crashes and hits, the vintage essence of fame. It dies and smokes Marilyn. In the crowd I'm just deaf and alive, when I hear the spring bells of death, in my red ombre sundress.

Collared Fur will hold my name. Like the puppy in the middle of the electrify, death again will strike. I am the campaign you get for free. I inspire too much you see and that is just a shame of how hip hop dies within inspiration. Everyone dies for the new campaign but buys the fake ones. Why don't we all just die and reinvent and wear velvet all over again. Life is like a braid, it sound simple but is harder than a maze in the inside of the rose. I am your maze game inside this Summertime Sadness, your teen idle, your red lipstick, and the ecstasy lingering like fame, blood, and the lining equator of love, lust, and the rusting voices off these factory decaying, beautiful.

In shades of brunette, I emerge out. I want to be a strawberry blonde so I put on a wig, but I also want the world to go away, as I command with my bottle or ice blonde. I want to be Britney Spears and Lana Del Rey, I want to be Marina Diamandis, and I want to be Princess Diana, I want to be Marilyn Monroe and Judy and Benette Ramsey, I want to lose it all, I want to die in infinity and beyond. I want to drink, I want to hate, as smoking pout is not healthy, wearing fur should be an illegal pleasure.

Knives are meant for cooking but some chose to utilize it towards death, that's the beauty of the immoral, they only come alive in insanity, that is what I find genius like McQueen, the beauty is savage, it is beastly, it is innocent, and in the end, it is only in the back of your minds, tingling like an idle strand of bottle blonde.

It's sad and beautiful, the prologue of everything, the prelude, and the finale, the omega, dying from alpha, that is what comes in between the thick lips of truth. Every time I fall down the rabbit hole after I follow the curious cat, I never become Alice, I become Malice, Haley is not imaginable, it dies between lies and eyeliner tears. Delusional walls of blood die like Ramsey's blonde. Why don't we all just go home and enjoy the warmth the cottage gives and read a bible, won't we?. 

Playing pretend like roses and vanity is just a stand forward and backward. Living is alive, Death is getting by, Freedom is an eternal lie, you see. Sadness is just a shadow of your will, you are as sad as summer. Pathetic like the roses dying in fall, this will die, the beginning of fall is coming soon. Seven Five One, like art, the factories will wilt with my soul.

Don't forget baby, Kiss Me Hard Before You Go. Summertime Sadness. I just wanted you to know. That Baby You're The Best. A song to my lipstick and my red fur coats I chose to left behind. I am like Dolce and Gabbana's gold sequins, I am just as paranoid as the dying pastels, like shades of violet the other season, and like the rebirth of leopard, the coats and the imagery of veils. I am Haley you see, no?

I sing the body electric, I am just a bad baby, I am just an image of my vuitton brown, I am not that wise, not a saint, I am just Haley. Don't you see the radioactivity running through the fibre of the weaves this wig I snatched to my scalp?. Can't you see and listen from these YSL stained lips, I am as bad as never and as good as today. I'm just gonna drown and drive from the back of your mind with a Mint Vespa. You see I don't smoke in, I exhale, inhale, and steal diamonds through these dollars.

Everyone will go denim and louboutin-speaking through these studded visions, like frozen yoghurt, health is a lie, pleasure is what comes within, I usually sip the sea salt my hair exhales, love hurts like antibiotics, like the dragon rage jabberworck fires in a million years. I will love you till the end of time, baby, sorry for this madness. Haley you can leave through these gaps of Vogue Italia Features.

Walk like Donatella, bleach my Louisiana dreams, I am a bad couture addict. I would kill for the last piece of sequin I can find hanging around fashion week. I am just an icon I never could be, I am ugly and pretty and stupid and young and just lost. I will love you to death with my eyeliner tears, I can't them, I am your leather studded kiss and the ruffles off your collared blouse. I am Haley Greens. Born and Raised the Artistic Womb. Louis Vuitton Brown-Pink Ombre. Hybrid Feminist.

Blue Velvet, that is how I will close down my tears, that is how I will begin and die beautifully, how I will reinvent myself out. Young, Wild, and Finally Free, and Breathless. The finale of my life, that is what summertime sadness is not. It is a state of mind I wish to be, like my hair, glossy brunette down my lips, full time injected with bee stings. Don't let me down today. I am a long thinker. Ride Ride
Ride. Behind the windows of the voices of the birds on the summer breeze. Idle and Pretty.

"I am too ugly for everything, and physically I am a boy on puberty, so my mum flattered these pictures,
everyone is beautiful in their own way, in the tears of fur, vanity faints with glamour."
-Haley V. Greens (Reinhardt Kenneth's Alter Ego)

PhotoVogue-Vogue Italia Feature

The Photographic Sense.
Photographed by: Reinhardt Kenneth and the 7 Egos.
Model:  Diana Muljono Putri(My Beautiful Mother).
MUA/Hair Stylist:Diana Muljono Putri
Wardrobe: Varity Beijing.


Saturday, September 8, 2012

The State Of Dreaming

A Letter to Reinhardt,
Sacred, the sacred mind of the human being, it is the ghost lingering on the living body, it is lost by the boundary. Inside of fear and the wrecked soul of the innocent, we all live inside the boundary, we are tied into the darkest ribbons of prejudice we could’ve escaped from. We are trapped, trapped inside a boundary of the wonders of the world.

The society, as disrespectful as usual, they don’t get the state of the awkward behaviors of art. They get anything that does not fit in as a medium of hating, a medium of disbelief, a medium of hatred. It’s like you can’t be who you are because no one likes you when you are true to yourself or you’re doing your art. It’s like when you can’t just have everything you need in order to carry on, seen as an outcast.

In search of a runaway, we pick up along the pieces of our earliest inspirations, our mindset and the environment affecting us, we see throughout our dreams, our imaginations, the things you thought will never stand a chance. Like a plastic bag, a lightweight medium only utilized, those are the inspirations you used along.

As you are set to go, we emerged to drawn in the beautiful imagery, where you see yourself as inspiration and your multiple personas go around the field, the field of the golden locks and braids of the soul, like a phoenix emerging from ashes symbolizing once we lived in fear. Don’t be afraid, young one, don’t take the hatred, they’re a trap. As we become weightless in dreaming, becoming the one sleeping and living and breathing and singing in the state of dream, unconsciously we obtain the most radioactive behaviors. Demonstrating the helpless ones we all die slowly realistically, and live a lot more in our complex mindset, the beehive around your radioactivity is the electric shot your heart possess, dying slowly in the cards of the poker monochromatic reality, we burn into ashes and reinvent ourselves all over again.

We search for fields, we search for adventures, we seek through it with a medium of art, we melt down like candles burning inside our passions of art, and kill the society. Like a light speed generation, we evolve like crystallization of art, we form a reaction finally, young soul, we become one and 8, we become the soul of the sleep and the passion of the living, we obtain and see through, yes, we inspire.

As calm as the breeze of the wind, we chase, we chase for the warm heart, we seek for the sun of our souls, we’ve only just begun and almost end, we die in the warmth of our own arms and give birth to each and every one of living particles of ourselves, like the cell dying every 24 hours but remain beautifully. Like a beautiful melody, the nights will break, we are the lion, the unicorn, the gargoyle, the siren, the swan, the hybrid, the alien, and the dark souled black diamond. Our hands are magical, they kill every each particle, appearing like dreams and particles, we are attached to it, we chase for our own dreams, dying and living and breathing and bleeding like tangerine to mint.

The search will end in maroon, it will end with childhood, it will break, the bear holding the whole nation of reality, the inside of the roses appearing fake, dead, yet alive, glued like the kiss of the phoenix. The cup, the cup you spilled to empty your mind and spit reformed saliva of the 8, and finally the journal, the cyber sanctuary you run to everywhere, like the parent cell, dying with the organism it reproduces, the dream, the soul, the fame, the art, and the reflections of the apostolic convention, the living.

 But the soul will split, it will split to the ones they reform, the dark and the light. One holds purity, virginity, innocence, and peace, the white swan, the Holy Ghost breaking dawn and dusk with light, running through and forward, running for the final living. And on the other side, the Black Ghost, the raven-minded intelligence raining as the sun goes down in pink, it conquers the world in ritualism that dies and reinvents, like eyeliner and vanity, it never spills, it just simply spits. Both hearts are connected, they are identical, they are itself the key to The State of Dreaming, breaking the glass reality holds. Young Blood, Young Soul, Young Art, go through the living, you are two but one, yet 8 in a mature way, stained with ART as how sin should go throughout, you know what they say, a canvas is only beautiful stained, we are masterpieces carved with soul and blood.

The Photographic Sense
Photographed By: Reinhardt Kenneth and the 7 Egos.
Model: Joshua Christian 
Special thanks to: The Loyal Dawi, Austin Beckrhousment and all your dreaming personas, Jo, and everyone involved. 

                  The Lion