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Click to preview God Died in Hiroshima photo book

LIMITED EDITION from the Editor
Circulation controlled, available here for collectors only.
Any purchasers will automatically receive DVD and future edition FREE

NOTE: PREVIEW FROM BLURB LOOKS LIKE SHIT, BUT THE BOOK ITSELF LOOKS LIKE DYNO-MITE. JUST GOT THEM TODAY. MAR 17.

Front cover jacket blurb from Seanie Blue:
I am paid to take pictures of young women who are not wearing any clothes. Rather: Young women who normally pose nude for fashion or men’s magazines pay me to take pictures of them which make them appear to be interesting people. To be perfectly honest, I once had literary aspirations but prostituted my abilities to become a psychologist in Hollywood, where my analyses are made with my camera rather than my couch. Actually, let me be more blunt. I was a dreamer who cashed in his assets, his dreams, to frolick in Lalaland with women who hated to be objectified but did not mind me objectifying them as long as I framed their appeal with their concerns for Mother Nature, since they loved their mother and hated to see her stripped in the name of profit. I have wasted my life on frivolity, when I might have been correcting some of the planet’s ills. And now I have run out of time.

The bomb fell.

This modest book and its accompanying video of titillation and frustration is a document of my 54 days before the bomb.

Seanie Blue
Iceland, 2012

seanieblue

About the Author

seanie blue
seanieblue imperial city, usa

Music enters the brain near the limbic system, near the cortex and the engines of emotion. You feel what you remember. Can your touch have memory? Smell, of course, and music, these have instant connections in the brain to your emotions, to the lavas of feeling. Forgotten impulses stream up from the molts of memory, and the smell of baking bread and the guitar chords of a song remembered from a sunny day and the love you felt then bursting in your veins, all of this cools into crusty Now, this moment, standing on a corner years later, lives distant from that touch, that kiss, that taste of always, when we sat in the hammock and looked into each other’s eyes and admitted our love through the veil of hot blistering tears, I love you, I love you, I will never forget today, and here I am on the corner, remembering that day, and I am there now, in the smell, in the sound, in the flavor of who I was with you, loved by you, somebody else, something different from what I am now.

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