A world in colour lies
                semi-distant, semi realised,
A near-forgotten future exsanguinates, yearning
              in the weakened glow, of infinite winter morning.
The voice, the voices, the voiceless, my anger, my age,
                Pan-millennial youth in coming years will fade,
It will carry duvet and pillow from hateful home
                to halfway-house until half way home
It will make all its hearts into the shape of cardboard,
                blemish the fire with chemical ****, **** hard,
It will seek forgiveness at the steps of screen,
                beat asthmatic chests, fingers, ribs and seams,
It will see itself cower in the horrible light of mirror,
               sail to the sun on wings of fakes lashes,
And it will burn, burn not in forgiving hangover sodium,
                but burn in the eye of a guilt yet to come,
And it will drown, drown at the blessing of the water,
               drown at its birth time and time over,
And it will wound, wound in scythe and cushion comfort,
                wound the waking dream in Siamese horror of sorts,
And it will leave strangled in the cords of its university hoody,
                leave alone at night, touch itself and cry.

Bursting rhythm from the panopticon, viewing all aspects
                of itself engulfed in ex-disney coloured acid
                spewing forth from the desired wreck,
Hurtling profound and profane into and beyond
                ******* and love and love and *******,
                *****-tinged snows lubricating seasons onward into each other,
Gut-busting, gut-busting, gut-busting societal downpour to harridan office
                from liquor dormitory, escaping and elevating
                on citalopram or selegiline,
The surgeons and nurses, the poets and builders, ever restless
                at the unbolted door, screaming into their unread palms,
                comparing varying hell to holy water lakes of others,
Sipping the dew from paradise wing, discontent with all
                in purgatory-England whilst licking the knee
                of America and imagined Europe,
Wanking itself dry at the lottery of thought,
                crude reckonings spiralling sugar into salt
                landing on the tongue of want,
Feeling crucified at the Atheist tea party,
                climbing the cross of trend
                supplying own milk and nails,
Unwanting in the chrysalis, ignoring coming candles
                but fantasising a thousand symmetrical suns
                to limited avail and idea.

But idea there will be, birthed, blood-hungry
                gnawing at the heel ‘til bare bone,
And it will rip apart fat riddled arteries,
                Deconstruct, Reconstruct all the bodies and the cites,
And it will write and spell all the words wrong
                realising that what ‘they’ are selling is sign language for the blind,
And it will note of itself as harsh but not unkind,
                reject bribe bread and water be it divided or divined,
And it will say of cartography “No need as of yet,
                I have seen men lost in the lining of a suit,
Crying into their shoes, uncombed, unfettered, unfertilised, without hope,
                after laughing into empty lakes.”
We can each say “My God, my empty sky, my cartoon prophet, my local MP,
                I have seen everything and want none of it,
                I am alone in a narrow shape of time,
                watching us all unfurl to the scent of burning feathers and hair,
                to the sound of punctured veins.”
We watch silent litanies for graceful pardons of filth,
                in “Amen” then nothing,
We watch our age’s world rend lung
                through hollow cheeks and air in our bones,
We watch ourselves into eyes or no eyes at all
                watch ourselves read last lines and then
                watch ourselves realise and whimper
                from ulcerated gut, tongue or pen,
                the everlasting knell…

                “…And it will happen again…”

From the upstairs window
She has a wonderful view of him
And she likes what she sees.

She stares intently.
Her heart beats faster
Her mouth opens
And she almost drools
As she considers the possibilities
And imagines all kinds of fun...

But soon
Alas
It is over

And he flies away.

I can come inspire you
Become your idol
Like I have a mansion
Built on the Bridle

I have to make a move
Come and take you down
I wanna make a movie
And sing like Chris Brown

I wanna make you work for it
So I’m putting in resistance
I’m tryna go half’s on a baby
Bring another life to existence

I just watch you undress
Spend my time fantasising
Sweat drip down your spine
The temperatures rising

Yuletide essays read poorly of spiritual love
Save of winter concerns of cold hands and feet
But to me my warmth is from within and without
From sensitive elements and looks of expectancy
All through the year I am loved and brought home by generous arms
Holding my tender heart with simple fingers of gentleness
At Yule my fears are ones of inability to conform
Yet I know that my love will be kept holding small edifices
Of temperate thoughts and radiant hopes
Lest our love is exposed to the winter blast
It has no maintenance worries as we stay locked
Deeply embracing through the chill of the night
In the mornings there may be white blankets of snow
Which drive others to feel  isolation and loneliness
But here at Yule as ever our hearts are as one
Despite the dragging pressures of the seasonal presence
New Year is a triumph of milestone epic
Fantasising our minds with future conquerings
Especially as most are timid in their push for reality
Ours has been honed to supernatural  levels
Although we look deeply into bringing these to bear
We know from our hearts these are just around the corner
Upon the very road we travel

Long Dark Silent Beach
Waves Hitting the Rocks.
Full Moon Half Covered.
One Star Shining Bright.
Honey all over
Illuminated by the Moon.
Slow and Gentle
All over
The Sun Rises.
The Fantasy Ends.

grin penetrating my mind and your touch - your grab - sewn into my side
sinking as a summer without fin(n)s drowning in your baby blues,
boy
and fooling myself into early christmas hollyboughs? go-lightly on me, oh please!
A ****** bisou beneath mistletoe
with curled toes and auroral, idolising eyes
fantasising eyes
overall, decriminalising eyes
Annie excuse at (H)all to see you and
re
-vive (mes soins, votre sécurité)
-kindle (the ignition to my inspiration)
-pair (poles apart)
a pair in the most offensive of ways
my only vice is cleansing yours
but your sins or psyche?
am i wounded or warming?
my truly fatal frailty

I'm chained to this system,
To these rules and regulations,
A constant spiral of the same sights,
Forced artificial happiness,
Recycled reinvented pleasures.

These comforts can only numb the aches,
Until dark skies and cold weather,
Expose my wounds to the wind.

Lack of materials, lack of all,
Keep me trapped in dizzy frustrations,
Fantasising new sensations and places,
Knowing the happy, coloured blurs will sharpen their lens,
And reveal their familiar, colourless forms.

Sitting on my fixed space of land,
Still rooting for the next month to win me over,
For the next week to triumph against the last,
I tug at my tired chains,
Hoping to God there's that there more than this.

Our butterflies, and sweet, rosebuds,
Languishing lazily within a dream,
Once together, but now lost forever,
In fading memory’s drifting stream.

We shared every pleasure, she and I,
Two girls embracing, love so sweet,
Tasting our butterflies and rosebuds,
Consuming our passion’s, *****-heat.

We explored all nature had to offer,
Sun-drenched glades, darkened woods,
Fantasising, and illicitly tantalising,
Our butterflies, and sweet, rosebuds.

I want to roll over in the night and feel your enchanting presence.
You're intoxicating.
I want to feel your arm flop over my torso in the night, and hear your sleepy whimpers.
Being with you makes me weak in the loveliest of ways.
Why, I could lie awake and listen as you breathe, watch your lungs as they tactfully rise up and down, for hours.
You, my dear, are mesmeric. Trance-enduring, and ever so magnificent.
You're the exact thing i've been fantasising about. You're the escape I need to keep myself sane in the audacity that's more commonly known as reality.

You're my one and only.

WHILE many little girls grow up fantasising about their weddings, Amber Tan Sze Min was always dreaming about designing bridal gowns. Many also grow up letting go of their childhood ambitions, but Tan was strongwilled, although it meant momentarily giving in to her parents' wishes.

She dropped out halfway through her pre-university course, and ended up studying graphic design. It was only after graduating that she could pursue a two-year diploma in fashion design at Kuala Lumpur's Raffles College of Higher Education, and thereafter flew to the UK to major in womenswear at the University of the Arts London.

"I wanted to prove to my family how much I wanted to design. It's not something that you'd get just because you say you want it. So I stood firm throughout the years, and showed my passion for it," recalled Tan.

Last February, the pint-sized lass introduced her bridal wear label AMBERSZE to the public for the first time at The Wedding 2016, a bridal fashion event by model and event management company Andrewsmodels.

It was never in her plan to debut as a bridal designer though – it lingered but only in the back of her mind as an eventual project – but her innate interest inevitably unveiled itself. "I have loved bridal gowns for a long time so I was making them before AMBERSZE even existed, and posting behind-the-scenes photos on social media. And that led people to identify me as a bridal designer.

"I wasn't planning to do it this soon but the opportunities knocked on my door, so one year ago, I decided to bring alive all my ideas and sketches," shared the 29-year-old.

Thankfully and finally, Tan's family recognised her resolution and embraced her penchant for designing. The Klang local considered herself lucky that she was able to kick off her start-up with her family's financial support.

"They always say fashion is a rich man's world. I couldn't understand this until I started the business, and saw a lot of truth in that statement. Everything involves money," said Tan.

She added that much of the capital was channeled towards building the brand and getting it out via media coverage and advertisements.

Another chunk of the money went into producing the dresses – all hand-made, by the way.

"Whether they sell or not, that's another story," she noted.

DRESS DNA

For the next eight months, Tan set off on a lonely journey of blood, sweat and tears. With only an assistant to help sew and embroider the garments by hand, Tan was dabbling in everything from designing, material sourcing, running the business, to doing public relations and accounting work.

Now that she has a team – including three assistant designers – behind her, Tan can take a step back and take the helm as a creative director, still designing but more focused on furnish-ing concepts and ideas – that never stray far from the company's philosophy of self-representation.

"I believe everyone likes Vera ****. I admire that she has her own thought behind everything. Likewise, my collections have to have their own thoughts and research to back them up.

As a designer, you have to stay true to yourself and not copy from existing designer pieces," opined Tan, who's also an avid reader.

AMBERSZE marries the essence of haute couture with new trends, by which Tan simplifies and demonstrates the former using translucent fabrics, for instance.

"So you can see the skeleton of the corset," she highlighted.

The play of sheer fabrics and coordinates (crop tops and skirts) may sit on the less traditional, or even risqué side of the spectrum, but Tan is confident that the personal tastes and styles of today's brides are shifting towards modern pieces that epitomise their true selves – as compared to the popular princess gown offered by most bridal boutiques.

"Nowadays, people want something new that show off their taste, fashion sense or status. Something to represent themselves, I would say.

That's where AMBERSZE comes in to serve," said the eldest of three siblings.

BEYOND BRIDAL

Of course, customising one of the most important dresses of a woman's lifetime can come with the occasional odd requests and a mountain of pressure.

Especially with a clientele that varies from pregnant to offbeat brides, as well as celebrities.

AMBERSZE's track record is a week for designing, and two to three weeks for production, but Tan recommends that brides make an appointment at least three months before D-Day.

"I usually get to know the bride's interests and taste, whether they prefer urban or classic designs. Whether the wedding's going to be indoors or outdoors; at the garden, beach or zoo!

Some brides may want certain fabrics which require a bit of sourcing too.

"To me, design is not just something pretty. You have to solve problems for your customers," said Tan, who also designs bridal veils, headbands and waistbands.

Besides tailoring her clients' dream wedding dresses, Tan has plenty to juggle in the meantime.

AMBERSZE boutique-***-studio is in the midst of moving to Sunway city, and alongside an evening wear collection due to launch in September, the label is also rolling out a ready-to-wear (RTW) line at the same time.

"The RTW line is going to be resortstyle to complement our hot climate, carrying 20 to 30 womenswear pieces. They're simple and modern, yet will not lack of nice detailing," she hinted with a smile.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth | www.marieaustralia.com/plus-size-formal-dresses

Buried in Wonderland
I picture you here with me,
Us,
Together once again.
Forever.
I still remember me begging you
“B-baby, please save me,”
But you didnt.
You never did,
So why?
Tell me, Darling,
Explain why I’m still pining for you
Still dreaming,
Still fantasising us together,
Maybe on a picnic while you caress my face,
And tell me how I’m the most beautiful person you’ve ever laid your eyes on.
But for that to happen,
I have to wait
And for you baby,
I'll wait forever.
I'm comfy here sweetie,
I'm warm
In Our Bed
Waiting in your Favourite coloured dress.
Longing,
Only for you.

Making love languid on a sunny afternoon
if you are holiday spend your money release yourself
The Big Hush
Astronology and people
advice on self-decapitation
walking through a graveyard
fantasising about having your head chopped off
when when when
crazy as the new normal
normal as the new whip
existentialist crap in my head
the analyst must save some money for the state
he sits there digitally ticking a spread sheet
looks at me and says
'these mental problems
are they all in your head?'
I say no they are in my feet
you have a sense of humour he says
you cannot be depressed
so
time to start busking in the streets

A tale of a lady in waiting.....
Emily did speed dating,
For her swain she is waiting,
Emily, anticipating,
Hopes fantasising,
Are her nuptials nearing?
Is today that diamond appearing?
Shall she have a solitaire ring?
Preceding her white wedding?
Now her swain is appearing,
He has a burning question,
She waits for his suggestion,
She's the lady in waiting,
Is her swain proposing?
"Emily, Emily, Emily,"
He sighs, heavily,
"Here is my question burning,
I ask my soul's deep yearning,"
Emily waits for a diamond ring,
"Emily, Emily, Emily,"
Swain whispers breathily,
The lady is waiting....
"Can you marinate chicken wings?"
"Emily, Emily, Emily,"
He yells angrily,
"That's rude, how crude!
That's the last time I see you!"
Now her own wings she is marinading,
Does she resume speed dating?
Does Emily ever stop dreaming?
Solitaire ring anticipating,
The lady is waiting,
The lady is waiting,
And waiting, and waiting, and waiting............

At age 2
In my daddy's eyes I saw a fortress
A pillar of protection
The monsters in my bed feared him

At  age 4
In my daddy's eyes i saw
A world spinning with seas of love and mountains of hope
the reflectiom of me
Was a precious jewel

At age 5
In my daddy's eyes I saw a hero
The fruitful productive provider
His voice of resonance an assurance
As he lifted me up and made me giggle

At age 8
In my daddy's eyes I saw
My confidant
Many stories he inspired me with
Teaching me lessons of life
As he taught me how to ride a bike

At age 10
My dad was nowhere to be found
Mum wouldnt tell me where he went
She said 'it' was complicated
I still loved him wherever he was

At age 15
my television was my dad
Teaching me all dirt
My world was spinning with despair and rejection
Adolescense  was tough
Fantasising on Jlo's ****
I understood that he ran away

At age 17
I found an older girlfriend
After many rejections with the younger ones
I forgot about my dad
But when I remembered him I resented him
I missed looking into his eyes

At age 19
I remembered his lessons of life
'Money is not everything'
'If you dont get what you want,
you didnt really want it'
I didnt want to become like him

At age 20
10 years with my mother alone
And here he is standing at our door
Looking like a drenched fowl
'you have grown so tall'

Im now 20 dad
and you must be kidding
10 years and that is your first line?
I want him to go
Mum takes him in
And forgets all her hurt

I corner him at the dinner table
You are a coward dad, why did you run away
He can't even look me in the eye
Mum speaks on his behalf
"Its gonna be okay Dre"

At age 21
Deep inside i hurt
Why did you leave us?
Son, you dont understand
Sometimes you have to leave those you love the most
If you care for them

Still at 21
I cant stay anymore
I move in with my other girlfriend
This one is young and hot
The older one taught me 'game'
Dad doesnt make sense

Later in life
I swear to be a better father
But i come to realize that
Dad was the better father

I see with his eyes that sometimes you have to leave those you love the most
If you care for them

Even though they might never understand...

Going for a walk with a dog
one feels there are two minds looking
thinking
and sometimes wonders what the dog is thinking
or perceiving

he/she sees from a different height
is closer to the bluebells
the snail
or the mouse hole
perhaps these give off a perfume  
her sense of smell is stronger than ours
she has other knowledge than ours

I wonder as we walk slowly past things
what she is looking at
and this influences how I look too
we sense each other
absorbed each in our tasks

the one creating poetry
while the other is contemplating
the library of perfumes
and maybe fantasising he dogs
or perhaps just being
being a dog
as I sometimes am
just being me

Margaret Ann Waddicor 22nd March 2016

Ten years from now I wonder where we will be. What will we be doing to **** time before time kills us? Strange to think we'll be nearly thirty, the age we spoke of in dread as the old us sat in your hallway smoking cigarette buts from your ashtray.
Remember when we spent those six weeks apart? Remember how much we had grown? Perhaps time changes us just as time heals pain, or so they say.
And why is change so taboo? We needn't feel guilty when our new selves adore one another quite the same as the old. My new inner-city slang is still besotted with your mainstream skinny jeans.
There was that day in the park when I awkwardly ignored the bride and groom that passed us by, followed by the elderly couple, and the toddler on the swings. You asked me how I pictured my future and I shrugged, considering life's unpredictability.
Now I sit by my window, gazing at the golden glow of the city, not knowing what I want for a life of my own, but fantasising of the possibility of a Christmas morning where you unwrap a guitar and spend a lifetime with musical memories, with or without me.

what if I told you
I saw a lioness with fire eyes?

what if I told you
I witnessed the collapse of a marble empire?

what if I told you
I saw ashes floating from a soul burned by passion?

what if I told you
I saw an ice-cold Phoenix raising from snow?

what if I told you
I saw a canary so joyful its melody charming even the shyest of sun rays?

what if I told you
I saw a golden but poisonous rose?

what if I told you
I saw waterfalls coming down from blue and green galaxies?

what if I told you
I saw honey dripping from a dark heart?

what if I told you
I saw a diamond so rare that its brilliance scared even the lightning?

would you believe me?
would you think I'm lying or fantasising or even creating metaphors of imagination?

but
what if I told you
to look in the mirror?
what if you see
what I once saw?

The Typewriter

I didn't drink much till I was thirty-four
Life was not getting any better my writing ambition
Was rejected by my family as a pipe dream
I drank –the refuge of the feeble - and dreamed
While fantasising lost house, wife, hare& hound
Ended up in a cot on mother's loft.
A dusty typewriter in the corner took it out and cleaned
It with my scarf and wrote something behind an unpaid bill
I loved the ping it made at the end of its limit
Ping!
Wake up you drunken sloth I had found my Metier
Who wants to sit with losers in a smoky bar not me mate.
Writing has not brought financial reward but that
Was not what I was aiming at it was just to give thoughts
Wings so they could fly where the fancy took them.

No longer tracked in a dollhouse. A small spec from the view up above.
Heart erratic
Breath pumping
My confusions left unsolved.

No longer scavenging for booky ally ways for a quick huff and puff,
Fantasising about what I’m wearing as I **** myself,
Or when it would be most peaceful to inhale evil
Spirits.

No longer held on an invisible chain
Chained to my ‘friends’
That have accepted this mutual need
To be comforted not by what is said
But by what is given and pierced through the head,
Over and over
Again and
Again
For years
Four years
I knew not one of them,
But their smiles were kept green
And their eyes soaked in sad blood
Looking through narrow windows,
Thin lines of dim lights,
Pouring on lonely nights.
And that’s when I realised
Freedom is a slave sacrificed.

So if I must be chained
Let it be a chain
Hooked on loyalty
Truth
And love.
Let it be a chain
Flexible
And gentle
So I can find my way back
With ease.
Let it be a chain of strength
A chain that protects me.
Because I am no longer chained
To the idea
Of freedom in
Robbery.

am just fantasising about you, your sweet body, those ***** sweet kisses. The heart warming sensual moans as our bodies rock, and I slide into that sweet honeypot.

I can still feel the tremors of pleasure as I go deeper and deeper into you. I Love the smell our sticky bodies as we wash each other with our body juices.

My bedroom mistress, I yearn to learn more from your wealth of the act. You are an artist and I wish to be your apprentice. Teach me, let me do the practicals. Grade me, but let me have retakes.

Let me scoop the honey,
let me lick every drop,
Let me get drunk,
Allow me to savour the life dregs,

Let my fingers play the fiddle,
Let me sing and waltz to the rhythm,
Let me strike the notes in crescendo,
Allow me to drown in the melody.

Our song will have no words,
The music will not be meant for more than a pair of ears.
In our studio of five by six,
We will edit and launch our album,
And on our memory wall it will hang,
As the best platinum album of 2019.

I get so scared.

Because I always **** up. Over attached insecurely depressed and you'll leave by the time that you figure this mess.

I get so anxious.

Because you're all so intimidading. With your arms and your hands and the scents of these men and I try to stop fantasising of it but I can't.

I get so weak.

Because I give you my spark. And I loose all my strength to the thought of a man loving me for the things that I no longer am.

I never liked any of you.
I just love doubting myself.

in Paris
A summer is over the night arrives with
unseemly haste, it was not a delicious season
too spent most of the time indoors
fantasising about  silky sand, the sun and sea
reading brochures of adventures in Thailand.
When I get to a new place, it never is as had
Imagined it to be, say when I went to Paris
I had in mind the way it was at the time of
Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein, James Joyce and
Ernest Hemingway, instead it was just another
overpriced city, mind I found the birthplace
of Edith Piaf and the street had a patina of
time went by, so I shall not be invited to
a literary salon, but I got two collections of
poetry accepted at Shakespeare's bookshop
I’m glad I read their books, but I’m also glad
I never met them

I’m not sure if I can make it till the finish line
In so many years, I’m trying to be honest for the first time

When the sky turns dark, and the lights go off
I run with my demons –away from people, away from love

Its a ceaseless cycle —of needing to be seen but hiding
Underneath the cold blanket of meaningless conversations

It is not something I am proud of -believe me when I say this
I used to be the girl fantasising my first dance, my first kiss

But now I see how I’ve turned out to be so cold and grey
Because life is funny that way

One day you’re fearless and bright, almost reaching the sky
And the next you’re locked in your room, because nothing now makes you smile

Ask of the dagger I hurled at the beast across the room
Its wicked howl vibrating about my being
as it buried its fangs in its own dull heart
Ask of the white stained carcass wrapped in charcoal blood

I could talk of the glorious cliff and the reluctant child
seduced by the oblivion of the world below
But that’s hardly the tragedy I wish
to engrave on the stone made soley for my love's corpse

What of the silent repression of the inevitable sea;
its claws in your throat, its chains pulling you under
The only thing to come out: mere remnants of bubbles
embodying the muffled screams of the dead

I could talk of a caged bird
fantasising the sky being pure definition of freedom
What of its heartless darks that see and unsee the starving stars
What of the sadist winds separating
sons from mothers from daughters from fathers;
hearing and unhearing their pleas

Ask of the endless nights of my quiet talks with the moon
Its wicked words reeking with hope,
blooming and wilting around the night
Ask of the hollow flaw left untouched in the middle of the sky
Light extends her arms and creeps in,
she asks for help but we’re all asleep

I could talk of sleepless nights and lazy days—
vivid afternoons curling up way too fast in the dusk—
but that’s hardly a tragedy you’d like to hear
Ask of the dagger I hurled across the void
hoping to rip open another hole in the sky
so the moon would not be lonely when I finally went to sleep
but it never was lonely, no thanks to my blade

What of the silver blade
He shot for the sky but but fell in love with the moon
kissing open her jagged lips- and banishing away
moonlight bleeds out the scarred crescent
Ask for I'll tell you the stories composed with finest of runes

Like when the girl befriended the beast
not for its arousing shine that felt like velvet on the cobblestone dark
but the scars that she, so lovingly, drew on its body
matching every curve - every bruise - to her own
so painful yet hardly at all, so visible yet not in the least
It was the most beautiful tragedy I had ever seen