People may tell you to not cry...
I won't because I know the difference.
They think they know when in fact they lie...
I say bury yourself in the deepest of detriments.

They may say that a new day will come...
They only spout what they can't comprehend.
They forget that you are ailing from a broken heart and that you're not dumb.
There's only you in your space, alone you stand...

Textbook responses are all they can offer...
They know not that it'll only make things worse...
There can be no replies so nice and proper.
To rid you of your life, your plight, your curse.

They may even share personal events that they think familiar.
Thinking what worked for them may work for you.
But no two situations are the same, albeit looking quite similar.
At the end of the day, you only owe it to yourself to pull yourself through.

I say feed your pain, grieve hard if you must
Wallow... Dwell... Drown yourself everyday.
Let your blood sear your insides, beneath your crumbling crust.
Let the world around you descend into destruction and decay.

What made me the expert...
To say these horrid, putrid things.
Because I am you and we both lay in the dirt.
Driven mad by the persistent echoes of our own misgivings.

I'm no expert... I am just a broken man.
Telling you to let yourself be caught in your own sad and angry song.
Be weak... Be as weak as you possibly can...
So you could rise from the ashes and emerge hale and strong.

Are humans inherently evil?
Does it go right to the core?
Do we always need to prove ourselves?
Do we need to settle the score?
I watched a documentary
With people doing experiments
On other people just like them
Callous with their detriments
The lower class
The prisoners
The foreigners
By practitioners
And now we have this information
Torture, surgery, chemical weaponry
Some classified, some out to view
Is it their duty of citizenry
To share that information with me?
To tell me how and when and why
To share results of tests gone by?
Do I even want to know?
Do not let them die in vain
Maybe I should share the pain
(maybe you should share it too)
To learn
To see
And  
NOT to do

Valentino has its red, Versace its Medusa logo, Chanel the tweed that lines dresses and jackets and handbags each season. In the fashion world, these nuances of texture and color, in conjunction with shape, are what help define a brand's identity, what ultimately makes them feel familiar to consumers; they are fashion's version of DNA. Designers carving out their place within the industry will often land on their own set of signatures that are built upon with each new collection—but Patric DiCaprio, the 26-year-old designer of Vaquera, isn't interested in "buy-ability" or recognizable traits. "We are obsessed with keeping people guessing" he says. "We want that to be our thing."

In the three seasons since launching the New York-based brand, DiCaprio has infused Fashion Week with the sort of Dionysian energy once felt at early John Galliano shows. For his Summer/Spring 2016 show, staged at the Church of the Ascension in Greenwich Village, models walked the aisle to the Smashing Pumpkins in baptismal baby-doll dresses and ruffled bloomers, with DiCaprio's boyfriend closing the show in a wedding gown. In February, with new partners David Moses and Bryn Taubensee on board, a debaucherous cast of models dressed in Victorian-meets-club looks danced, lifted their skirts and put their cigarettes out in audience member's drinks at the China Chalet venue in the Financial District.

"Vaquera is about constant reinvention," DiCaprio says of his no-guts-no-glory ethos. "It's about the future; the future of style and clothes, but not in the cliche of futuristic spandex and metallics."

Much like his collections, the designer's path in fashion has been far from linear. Born and raised in Alabama, DiCaprio attended a private Christian school before studying photography at a public university in the South. An internship with DIS Magazine offered him a crash course in art direction and styling, and the opportunity to draw creative fuel from New York—a city that has very much proven to be his creative elixir.

"I felt like I had been underwhelmed for my whole life," says DiCaprio, who moved to the city five years ago and taught himself to sew through YouTube tutorials. "When I first came to New York it felt like I had finally gotten my head above the water and had oxygen for the first time. This place was overwhelming in the best way." DiCaprio spoke with PAPER about his creative approach, his unconventional path to fashion and his idolization of David Bowie.

What sparked your interest in fashion?

I think it's always been about clothes for me. When I was in middle school and high school I was always in bands. I was obsessed with Screamo and David Bowie—the groups that had such strong visual aspects to their work. But I think part of me always felt like I was doing that so I could assume the look. Screamo bands would let me wear the size zero, ultra-stretch white jean. With David Bowie, I wanted to wear the gold eyeshadow; it was always about the look.

How did studying photography lead you to fashion design?

My school was very focused on the craft—the dark room and perfect exposure—but I think I was on the opposite end, I was interested in what was happening in the photo. I left college to do an internship with DIS Magazine and because they're involved in so many creative avenues like photography and styling and art and video, I was able to get a realistic vision of things. The experience [with DIS] made me realize I was less interested in photography and more interested in creating these characters.

When school ended, I moved to New York and and worked with DIS again and then with VFiles in [the archives department]. I'd go through old issues of ID and Paper and Dazed and it taught me a lot about fashion history. I had been removed from all of that when I was growing up, there was no Chanel store in Alabama, there was no Dazed And Confused at the Barnes and Noble in Alabama. Coming to New York I was able to get my hands on the clothes and study these old magazines.

How did you get that initial internship though?

I'm obsessed with Tumblr. I got on it more than eight years ago, and it was a huge part of helping me reach out to people. People that I'm still friends with now—Hari Nef and Juliana Huxtable—I met through Tumblr; they moved to New York before me and motivated me to do the same. So I emailed the team at DIS, and asked if I could show them my photography portfolio—which sounds so funny to say now—and they offered to show me the ropes. They hooked me up with Avena Gallagher, who is an inspiration and has taught me everything I know about styling.

About two years ago I started working for her and became obsessed with styling. I styled Charli XCX for a year—and it was exciting, definitely closer to what I wanted to do but it wasn't exactly it. I wanted to pull specific things—1980's Issey Miyake, but there was no way a no-name stylist like me would be able to get my hands on it. So I bought a sewing machine and started sewing the things I wanted for photo shoots. Vaquera started as an art project that wasn't about wearing the clothes or making something for Opening Ceremony—it was about making clothes that I could then shoot. The final product was the look book.

What made you decide on the name Vaquera?

A few different reasons. I was reading a book by Tom Robbins called Even Cowgirls Get The Blues and it was really informative for me at the time. I was also working in a kitchen as an expediter with a bunch of Mexican line cooks and they had a lot of pet names for me, like "el pato" which is gay slang for f—got, and "little baby doll." They knew I was from the South so they'd call me "La Vaquera" because that's Spanish for cowgirl—even though cowgirls aren't Alabama, it's more of a Texas thing. So I just called the project Vaquera. It seems so arbitrary now, I'm stuck with it for better or worse.

What's been one of the challenges of keeping things future-focused?

I've had criticism from people that it's such a bad business model to reinvent yourself each season, that no one's going to know what to expect from you. Buyers are going to be confused, you're never going to make any money. And I've just been like, "Well, I think we don't have any interest in that." We are obsessed with keeping people guessing—we want that to be our thing. I try my best to keep it a secret until the day of the show and then just let loose.

So we're going to assume you won't be giving any clues about next season's show.

Oh my god, i don't want to give it away! I think people want to see billowy-sleeves but that's out the door. We're doing something completely different. Romantic but a whole different definition of romance.

How has working with David and Bryne changed things for you and the brand?

Last season it was like a whole new brand. We came together through Avena and it feels like we're progressing, which is exciting. I got sick of doing everything alone. For the Spring show I sewed everything, produced it myself, got the location, cast it myself.

And did you collapse after the show ended?

It was a serious problem, it became impossible. I realized I was either going to have to plateau so I could get my life together or I was going to have to find a way to expand the vision. I trust Bryne and David with my life and they understand my vision but have their own ideas. It was a necessary change.

So many designers have expressed concern about the relentless pace of the industry recently.

All these different seasons—pre-fall, couture, designers showing things that are going to be available for purchase the day after the show. That's so scary for people like us who are on our hands and knees in the living room cutting the clothes and can barely get them made in time for the show.

Do you want to stay independent? What are the benefits and detriments, in your opinion?

I think we want to stay independent. I want to make money but I don't want to feel pressure to do certain things. I'm already so sick of that show we just did—already on to the next one. It's like with Demna Gvasalia getting the Balenciaga job: I was so disappointed to see him doing the same thing he did at Vetements at Balenciaga, but then I realized, with all the money that's involved and when you're working with these huge offers, there's contracts. Money complicates things in a way that I think can hurt people's creativity. Maybe you'll make a lot of money for a few years, but you might forget how to make exciting things because you're stuck with the designs that worked well one time. I want to make money, but we want to find different ways of doing it.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-melbourne | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide

Lumpenproletariat's                     
Comprise the population
Revolutionized, new variants
Attempt consolidation.
Socialist experiments or
Anthropology's deviation?
Avoidance- societal detriments of health:
Classism's obliteration.

a small group of individuals
bound by the intersectionality
of their detriments
meet;

and although alone we stand
in head and heart and hand
together the mind and the heart gave birth
to something each of us forgot were worth:

when we are together, a real person is born
not through the perceptivity of gore and of ****-
but of virtue and strength being visible not
to anyone other than us 3 who forgot.

Build me up, cut me down
Deep I sink into waters
Slowly drifting upside down
Flashing images remain to having my brother
Still alive, but to me, he is not the same
My father, king has the crown
Maybe should forgive him
Supposed to be the captain, yet you let this happen
Don't mind my mother, throat not-so-everlastin'
Detriments swallowed, at least no more liquid to slip

Rumination exit for brighter spaces
So in the end, I'll be a little less traceless
Fleeting emotions just as snow
Flakes of the past uniquely brought into glow
Shining through the cracks shedding under one's skin
Scoliosis, like backs seem to be breaking, it seems the past always wins
Life without control
Brings man to fold
Even if his cards were flipped
The sunken feelings persist like a final rock skip
Trying to ascertain thoughts of a warranted life
Reborn in the same world where the water's solely ****

Everyone gathered from all sides of the ocean
Earth was depleted of all positive emotion
The action of the people was a battle against the before
People who lived life just to watch the world burn
Dosing out the flame
Humanity saved itself from those to blame
Heroes' journey sought itself from pain
In this new life, there is no need, just change.

you fall down, you have no choice but to get back up.
when you get back up, you lose something; a piece of your strength, energy, will... something. keeping on is not free.

you spent the day in bed. too exhausted to get up. you're so sick of bed. your body feels angry for being so still. you just didn't have it in you to move around today. this is fatigue. it isn't fair. in fact, it's cruel.

there is no feeling good anymore. there are what some poor souls refer to as "good pain days" which is just another way of saying
"I know what it's like to be in such bad pain that you want to die, and I'm just thankful today's pain was at least not the worst it has ever been"

you're on no kind of schedule. it'd be a blessing just to eat and sleep at normal times, with some regularity. you feel like crap all the time. you gain weight and lose muscle. you feel weak and heavy.

lie in bed. peace of bedtime is a foreign concept,  your body aches to be comfortable, and you may doze off for 3 seconds before jerking awake by inconsiderate muscles that don't really care that you haven't had a solid hour of rest in 2 days.

pills are a blessing and a curse. relief and side effects. they allow you to rest and they mess with your brain. you'll get so sick of taking pills and you'll begin to hate them for needing them.

the very best you see in your future is surviving. that's what fibromyalgia is. your job is getting through the days of pain and exhaustion, the physical and mental detriments that come with it. your life is a fight, and you are so, so, so, so tired of fighting. you always, always, always feel you have no more fight left in you.



you're 21 years old and you fondly and bitterly remember a time (not too long ago) when you thought some things in life would just be givens; career, family, adventure, accomplishments.... health.

you're 21 years old and you learn that you get none of the above. you're too tired, you hurt too much, and this disease seems to only get worse... it seems to have taken everything from you

and then it takes some more.

It was almost a birthmark, a death sentence embossed on the deepest crevice on her heart. Grace had always known that the noble blood fleshed her existence. In return of power and glory, she must wear the brightest crown which will light the horizons to a warm shade of amber. That someday she would rise together with the sun and cradle the stars with this invigorating honor.

The princess fancied the notion of becoming next queen for its promised delight as other royals often tell her. Every time she shut death to birthday candles, it was all that she wished from the watching gods above. To be the perfect heir, the ideal ruler, and especially, the greatest candidate for the crown.

From the gardens waved the precocious white bloom of calla lilies. The clouds were a dash of milk frozen from the never ending stretch of blue. Faint chirps of birds echoed around the towers. On the palace ground, Grace acquired skills of a squire, for it was written through time she would defend this very castle in her hands. Days were occupied with lessons and lunches, meetings with lords and charities. She was a lady of compassion, inherited the old queen’s discipline and sophistication. The townspeople loved her greatly. They cherished her like a living ornament caught in a sea of the unlikely. A depiction of a good woman whose soul was constructed to comply with the rules and duties she is given. Accustomed from the expectations, the princess endures hardships, turning predicaments into something magnificent. The entire kingdom was pleased. And only then, the exploring winds tell otherwise.

Nobody knew Grace wanted to dance. There was this rhythm of renaissance enough to make her pointe shoes swoon across the dungeon room, her shadow--the audience. Instead of being entertained by minstrels, she would prefer the empty theater which she calls home whenever the sun sinks a sudden thought of change. Or that one time she secretly headed for the woods, not far from the stream, and put on a show for the skeletal trees to applaud to. A perfect piece of broken melody. That is what she all was. Her desires transformed into a banquet she must not feast on.

Because she is everything the crown is not.

A young amateur star, an artist of fascination, and a dreamer of the unknown. Perhaps, these were enough reasons why she became a magnet for chaos and everlasting detriments. It murdered her during the day-- kissed her a goodnight. The almond eyes that sync with her cinnamon tea, swirling in brown, blinked briny tears. From withstanding the pain, sustaining the hold, even though the harsh fate made its call. The only concept which drove her far is everyone’s acceptance.

But who could she be really? A figment on the stage? If at each glide the eyes foresee her as a rebel, much to her chagrin, who would look at her then? If the depth of the ocean has been buried within her voice, to everyone’s astonishment, who would listen to her anyways? What if she does not fulfill the responsibility which the kingdom predetermined for her, approved of her? Who would love Grace?

She built an empire so high, she cannot climb down her own stairs.

The message of the wind sounded like a terrible lullaby. It was too venomous for her dilemma. Because until this moment, this scenery, this pronounced living, she never stop hoping that one day, she will no longer be a stranger to herself. When the archbishop lifted the crown from the velvet cushion, the stones shimmered its vow as the brightest. The Queen’s authority shined through all of them. Before she sheds a tear, it already settled on her head, delicate and ethereal, faultless. Grace realized she spent most of her life fitting the crown which does not belong to her in any form.

No! She is not going to mourn another morning, nor sleep the night with a heavy heart. Fear might threatened to slit her throat, but she was not having it! The princess unveiled her mask and hurled the kingdom’s crown beyond the assembly.

“What a disgrace!” They thundered.

The formation of her identity is what stunned the people. None of them expected such disaster to occur, due to this, her royal majesty has sent all white horses in search of the beloved child. Nowhere to be found, her linen dresses flickered in fire while the crowd stared in horror. And she was nothing, but a forgotten soul.

Trees were once again clothed in green after the icy blaze of winter. The princess raced through the minty grasses and drank the enchanting smell of lilac, almost like a doe playing in the wild. She felt light as a feather, dancing in joyful exuberance. Other girls joined her below the white sunshine as they twirled and sang. It was the perfect moment to reveal the blind side buried for so many times. The blood that once dripped in the glass of her ill-reflection began to fill the rims of imperfection. Luminescence was so brilliant she had to squint to see.

The brightest crown anyone can wear is to be their true selves. No matter who you were born to, or where you live, despite the obstacles, and consequences. It does not make you less of a person, for you already are complete.

She was not a disgrace. It is still Grace after all.

THIS GRACE…

To be left a rotting corpse in the inky depths of my screaming, vacant soul
To taste the freshness of the air only to have it ripped so unnaturally from my shriveling lungs
Once sitting atop that merciful beacon of hope,
I find myself tumbling, grasping, gasping, clasping for some hold onto the beautiful signal

And who is to blame?
Who?
Certainly not you, for it was your hand who found me troubled in the merciless murky vapor
Your hand that lifted me from the bowels of hell and so dotingly destroyed my detriments

But had it not been for you I would have so happily, so cheerfully accepted my vacant vocation
Of restlessly, recklessly, ruefully running around without any remorse for my forlorn reality
For it is not the force of you freedom that loosed my heavy chains, but rather the form
That vicious vigor that stuffed my spirit with a seemingly ceaseless, incessant self-assurance

But for my essence to not identify isolation, to not recognize regret seems so conceited in comparison to yours
Which is ever growing, ever loving, ever laughing, ever knowing, ever telling, ever asking, ever showing, ever…
After all it was your being there that showed me how lonely I truly was, how pitiful of an existence I truly led
So now I state the obvious

Why?
Why go through all that endeavor, all that effort of effectively and essentially helping me escape my insanity just to throw it out the
Door is where you went, leaving me to collect the shambles and shards that was the life you made
Leaving me to collect these silly splinters just so that you could prove a point

A point well taken, a point notably noted, and a point you called no return
Return?
Return from what?
From the friendship promised, or the friendship broken, or the new twisted friends of which you’ve hardly spoken?

And so I take my leave, but I will return
I will not leave such a dear thing to burn
Burn in the essence of what we call hope
For, after all, you were the one who threw me the rope

i am abstracted my dear;
waves no longer take their love overlooked

starved, lacking, consuming

your detriments shred upon the earth
lest remain I be unhooked

starve me, deplete me, consume all in sight
rewarded comes great pleasure
here I am hidden all night

Drifting down between the riverside trees
Early afternoon sunlight kisses you
As your raft glides over the clear water
Your focus is held by the horizon

In the distance, a split in the river
Presents itself, and you must make a choice,
Similar to one Robert Frost once faced
And like him, you stand in uncertainty
The one stream appears in a wilder form
Verdure bulging over it unrestrained
Keeping the sunshine from touching water
As if it welcomes neither man nor beast
It offers danger... and adventure too.
The other stream seems safer to explore
The plants on either side yield evidence
Of passage made by creatures unharassed
What great temptation security is
And what mind-numbing boredom it provides
Tension builds as need for decision comes
Emotion overwhelms your perceptions
And you choose by impulse over reason

Moments after resolution was made
You are already regretting your choice
Yet the depths of your mind cry out to see
The benefits beyond the detriments

Regrets and mistakes riddled
In a fading abyss
Where services long past rest
Are shackles at the soul’s behest

Crawling in the ashes of perception
False comforts ring as hollow realities
Bound, unbreaking, unyielding
To withering ideologies

In the demagoguery of fears
Hearts are burning so bright
When their truths are set alight
Never to cross the surface in their plight

The detriments born of desire
Create the fuel to a new kind of fire
Seizing the boundaries
Consuming rationality

In decisions to face
Creations belie
The beauty and foulness
Where reflections
Of imperfection
Die

Why do we allow
these shallow
stubborn *******
to acquire annual annuities
on slick sick
investments;

Like oil refinement
or weapons,
such detriments
to our social health
and our environment.

Will we be able
to restrain
this barbaric disposition
that manufactures
guns and
environmental disasters
with our false bravado?

Never good enough is a feeling I know all to well,
Like a stained emotion in my brain,
that runs so deep down through my veins.
It's a seed of feeling you planted in me
and over time have watered routinely,
to grow immensely to the point of
where it is all that I know.
I've always been the target to all of your own regrets,
and the target practice never seems to end as you're incapable of grasping that the shots you fire conclusively leave me scarred with nothing but
unsolicited relics of your detriments. Those scars are permanent,
and your late apologies are nothing but pointless bandaids with weak adhesive.
At some point one may "forgive",
but one never forgets.

We always talked about how we would leave this place.
That high school was nowhere near the stepping stones to life.
All it ever taught me were new tricks, better places to hide.
Three years later and I’m still stuck at home, better yet I chose to stay inside.

Fitting my eyes on to the screen, locked on pointless detriments
At least that’s what they tell me.
Finding comfort behind the infinite web.
Even if I can’t see you, you guys are all that I need.
You don’t have to feel that way.
You don’t have to force yourselves to stay.
Life outside this box of wonder pulls us back in to check on reality.
And I’m so sorry for how I’ve been.
Enduring the worst, for an inevitable fatality.

Lab rats to the social media game.
Unwillingly we played.
Trapped behind closed doors shutting off more than circulation to our peers.
I pretended I was alright.
Fell in deep conversation almost every night.
My best friends now consist of a keyboard and mouse
And a monitor to reflect the pain.

When it goes black, so does my mind.
Addicted to always losing track of my own time.
Venture out to the otherside without ever having to leave my bed.
All of these theories are in my head.
Maybe I should just log off instead.
No one more game, then I’ll call it a night!

Finding fools gold in a treasure that only I
Can appreciate when times get tough.

Thank you for giving me validation.
Thank you for adding me.
My name is so-and-so.
I’m glad that we can finally meet.
Raise your hand up high.
The cyberworld a crippling joyride.
Life can pass me by
So long as I can connect online.

A crystal cup came spilling dreams on my carpet
The fallen stars of modern saints
Sprawled out with nothing to say
                                                                     [Seeming to have meaning
                                                                            aint as easy as it seems
                                                                       and Love makes me a fool
                                                                               surrounded by a flock]
All these dreams in all these containers,
the symbols aren't lost on me
since I don't have the nightmares
where I can't wipe up the stain
of melted woes, and shadow foes
drunken in the sunlight
I fight my demons on own time
                                                                 While spinning out from the center of luminous jewel saint
                                                                                 rhymes, we dream as we fall asleep
                                                                                              and it all seems real to our minds
Go on home kid, there's nothing left for you here
just a broken typewriter and a sullen sense of gratitude,
there's nothing more
still, he can't seem to stay away from the scene of the crime
                                                                                                            [This is so often the mistake we make]
The same things repeat endlessly
                         and I'd like to change the wave I make in time,
not anything one could surf on, but something substantial
                         from the bottom of my heart ocean throbbing coral reef,
poolside tides are the flavor of the weak

Wavering slaves build bridges underneath
a powerful dam and
                                           [I'd like to just say here that I"ve never considered harnessing the power              
                                            of man to build monuments and skyscrapers, I'd prefer if we all just play  
                                                                                               in the dirt with smiles on our faces, shameless]
Regarding sentiments, rather than overzealous detriments,
our lives become a broken sentence spoken
by horses in jokes,
                                       and I'm
always the nihilest, oh I can't believe that,
as if I'd like to get back to where I was
when I didn't know my head from my
heart, letting the latter flounder the former
and vice versa, tangling tendons
and mangling veins into the shape
of chariot's reigns,                                            I drive a gold hearse
                                                                                  through the mountain range
                                                                                  while death is back there at my doorstep,
                                                                                  I left a note at my place
                                                                                  saying, "come back later,
                                                                                                                                      I've sailed away"
                                                                                  
                                                                                  Truth be told, I never intended to stay

Have you ever met people,
Who are so insensitive when giving their opinion
Such people care less whether their words
Give you the same feeling as cutting an onion

They find it so easy to pass a judgment
Without considering the detriments
Relying on their words is like,
Using a banana peel as shoe grip on an icy road!

Look to history to know the tale
the sum of what came before
when a single act can't explain
the reaction from the crowd
the slight should not enact
cries of anger then expressed
except when the breadth is seen
of the pain the wounds inflict

the pinprick made in jest
or the statement meant to quip
both convey so much more
than  thoughts may account
assumptions miss the mark
to detriments of the ghosts
those that walked the twisted trails
tracking back to hurt once veiled

these revenants doubt intent
of the one that walks their grave
demanding blood for trespass
with damnations few contend
the past has more to say
than all the mutterings that explain
transgressions made by fools
with knives turned back to wound.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190422.