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KURV | |
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Kurv Magazine is not a stoush - not a fight, not a battle, not a brawl. Not a clash, not a scrap, not a fracas. Not a skirmish scuffle broil fray melee. Flick flitter flutter flit, and you won't see the quiet war that is Kurv unfold. Ah, look at all the dirty pretty things, beseeching the camera with their fuck me eyes and fuck me lips, not a care in the world, as long as all the world's a stage. But look beyond, do you see? Flutter, flit and Behold! The soldiers! The same lips that once screamed fuck me now scream fuck you - legs akilter, pouts awash, their blood red lips spill from page to page, and they use their bones like guns. Fashion. Fashion. Victim. No, Kurv doesn't scream, it whispers. It's all there for the taking. I spy with my little eye a torn nation named Timor. The Japanese plaything, Lolita. A diva. An artist. A visionary. A muse. There's plenty of pulp out there, but with Kurv you get all the gloss without the guilt. It's about more than the throw of a designer's dice - it's the world in which we live, a world of conflict and fire and ice. It's a world we love and hate in equal parts, and a world that begins and ends in Kurv's pages. Once you get to know our contributors, you'll know they wouldn’t have it any other way. Because neither should you. Kurv. Let the battle begin. Patsy Galore
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