I didn't exist in the 90s.
That's right, i just turned eleven.
Just his little slice of *******.

Hip Service
By Julian Malek

The zeal of cobblestone tolerance arrayed in fashionable hues masquerading as crimson secrecy, elevates the tide of man but some boats leak in their foundations. Therefore a cork to every exuberance and a triumphant torch for every sorrow lives onward in collective time. Larks that abound because prescience and PUGET sound, that brown has become the new orange which in turn prowls as a concealed swarthy black. To antagonize the willful and frenetic pace, a prodrome of lasting but memorialized disgrace. Should I move to a state by first or last name, or is the final appellation worthy of much more lasting fame. I scurry down the aisles, bemused by shimmering tiles and the beguiled audiences who see much in my limitation but doubt little about my debited elation. Ringmaster Barnum, how much horticulture is needed for assured superstardom, how many cloisters must we evacuate from the incendiary plumes of a metaphorical Harlem..  But know that no virtual reality can supplant the reality that does truly exist, or at least our time is too infernal and purblind to resist. Carrey the tops of mountains in the humor of wellsprings and fountains, we engage a menagerie of egos lilting of an etiolated pragmatic concern. Evicted from paradise, littered with say-cheese demise ensnaring three blind mice eaten alive by snake-eyed vice. To feel good without incorporated tyranny, we must see blue and red as alternatives to the same destiny. A world that reckons with the futilitarianism of pacified malcontent and astroturf monikers that lead the impressionable into a slaughter shed. Established or not, any enchantment under the sea must include fishes once a pastiche of me, but to them I avoid their courtesy flush and never even faintly blush as my egalitarian statements are lavish thrush.

Five TO Won baby one in 99, everyone here aboard the titanic stays alive, you got your boat baby and I got mine, gonna make it with babies numbered in surreal primes. Halt the slots game the nines, a stitch in time is going to turn out to be Mine. Flanger goals, girded piles, liminal like an aborted Harry Styles, we climb mountains we issue tithes, and the turmoil is etched into 45-notched bludgeons and two-tucked knives. Excuse you, where have you been all day, have you been sauntering in a gentle rain or a genteel pain, have you wallowed beyond the mires of doubt and ranked above David Blaine. I hope you tell me of your magic tricks, rather than your other flicks endeared I stand to fight an ineradicable itch. But if not, you placid pond dented by so many rocks and so many ripples give your heart over to me, before I clinch the special Olympics *******, we ran, we span the homespun garments of your left and right hand, but death is a specter that ghoulishly carouses along the carousel terminal disease we call life. I beseech your deepest affection and want to console you for your deepest struggle, to be there every time wed with time rather than a throttled scuttle. Moons make you guarded but maroons leave me desiccated, don’t ever let that wilted flower die, always water it with a rich but gentle ties and widened deck for all to at once marvel and pry.  Monsters of Mars Attacks once flanked my bed, as though the **** brain scared every gooseflesh and restrained every frisson of mystery. I lampoon myself for those cold Dark Knights and the protection ended by the plight of the poor mattering nothing to the deliberately internecine rich. I struck gold in a valley somewhere, an oxymoron of paradox that now you have the privilege to dock, to stay aboard to be a vessel of peace less widely deplored. Even if we don’t sprout wings, we garner the exactitude of measured things and our glass elevator though easily shattered by the glower of enslavement is actually our vista to heaven or listening to brethren tingles for rich mans trinkets and other things. For humanity deserves a legend and a princess, a regimented desuetude and a flanged lust but in our mistakes wildly flouted in momentary moments we become purified by the temptations of an alabaster palace.

***** the left-field wisdom of a pragmatic paragon ellipsis in prison, slip between the cracks and let my suburban muse become your urban ruse. To enchant a caged world beyond a reality delicately and deliberately unfurled. Squirming toads on highways enchanted but dead, are graves for the blue becoming purple in every dignified red. Gainsay assaults me with platitude, a repeated hitter quit on the first bunted ball into foul-line territory. Those gripes are swiped right in all circumstance no matter the plight. The pronged hearing of a trident sensitive to ambient collection, and suddenly we are all in the mad house even though the house of profaned pain is much worse. Glimpses of gambits that gambol for nickels in transit as occult grenades and known dice waddle through without artifice or device, and the laughter and slaughter that trains collegiate minds, differs no more than the tropes of a glamorous violence articled in sordid rhymes. This surfing movie means so much more than Surf Wax America pristine in limited but sacrilege nirvana. Teen spirits smell muskier than 90s pop dreams, the grasp and grunge of gouged eyes becomes a mummified staid, a scarecrow to those who disobey. Childhood flashes with blinding light, and new sight illuminates darkening blight, A blight eradicated only by two magazines and including one that houses the bullets that ***** themselves between death and comatose dreams both within astral sight. Littoral harbor on a seaside town, a shanty with a brackish gown that glides the gourmand to the cosmopolitan eatery on the outskirts of lost & found. But forever lost in embonpoint and forever gained in chavish that exonerates the gaunt, the etiolated prince in heart becomes irrefutable marrow in minded souls.

If I am a spy you are an ESPY, and if I cry than you are a baby,but since neither are the case my wiseacres will cultivate lava lamp dreams for a new generation and suddenly Boston bets on Harvard, but who knows of this piped blather squirming for relevance rather than voguish but temporary chatter. My regatta knows how to swim, my life now knows how to cringe and yet still win and in stilted plays of bungled sincerity the God of peace reminds us of our transcendent personalities. That we in sincerity top the barnacles of invention a novelty but a rarity. But the guillotine quill of emboldened unscripted parvenus ruthless in their eager dues, outdate and outlive the sued swayed blues that indemnify Clinton and make the atomic dog an amazing Winston hill a church often in sheltered disuse. Imps and urchins sting the sentiment, cloy the alimony of repentant betterment, but neither touches the gilded skies of pleonasm striving for raspy disguise as to dissuade further diatribe investigation. Lurking in those scared days of youth, the gore of unalloyed horror scourged me with a limp, that compassion itself could ever become a gimp. Now years later athletics better and scoring goals making the mildew sweat and the years wetter, not a global warming that can be alarmed by global mourning. Take peace at heart if distanced spears of separation make Idiocracy as a pastiche look exceedingly smart. And spar only with the true antagonists bridging malevolence with expedience. Killjoys sure, will joy even more sure, but still boys fluttered heart stopping dead at a stop-watched alarm the worst tragedy of our sordid sort. Give an African Child a real home rather than a spatial roam, a palatial desiccation of momentary Jonas Brothers snapping back at captives with sexualized foam.

Narrative blinds shuttered in an Island among mountains hardly ever wiser to sanitize the sanitarium among the wasps of stung power. Police crumple their uniforms as they prowl down the avenues, looking for misfits and widened platitudes. Somehow that the vigilance of those corrupted by their very career choice, look even worse when megalomania of private is the limelight of public, to their defense few turrets I can muster but castles in the sky will be the apartheid judge. Those that cling to virtue to eradicate Porsche-driven faked or real deaths at the most breakneck speed, that Fast & Furious operation if disclosed completely would turn the Shire of the ring into the hatred curtailed by a song in Sing-Sing. Immunity must not Yoda implore, that livery Liverpool marooned on islands can also to deplore the R.E.D. and still whet the sharpened stead and the fly-by-night Manchester United alights like militant peer pressure for wranglers in tights. But beating the Beatles at a game of Walruses and egg-shelled eyeful towers likely impedes rinkside hockey from anything over bellicose ballyhoo…it exists as a transient fixated glower. But who knows about soccer speculation when love is the transcendent temptation, when nest-egg hens rather than neglecting rig Bens of clockwork and clocked words designed arise better for their token ken. Do I must repeat the subtext of submarines, yellowed as though ugly unused as though unseen, as though the quixotic earthquakes of tintinnabulations Avatar dreams. Wafted souls console the disheartened thoughts of a dashed dream that Berlin hates more than a Furor’s unbridled and useless scream.
Demotic clips slinging from the bedridden silence of a token moon and its token friends, swimming in a shore of ambiguity whether history mellows or whether its furor melts away momentary doubts. I want to avoid the sting rays exorcised by due providence and become the amalgamated talents gentry and of course the upstart swagger of Jack Dawson. But with the psy-op going on, the people manipulated on all sides of a gray picket fence will the relationship bloom without muttered dissent or pretended smiles. Will we take upon the shuffled shuttle and dig with shovels deep-rooted Christmas trees and toast our lives to Dos Equis. We may never go out of style, but the treacle of illuminated imagery when divorced from sentiment bristle shows a swagger that prioritizes rather than amalgamates all love. I love being brash and brazen and honest because when she finally ditches the grandstand of delayed frenemies fandoms of other tinsel decorations without any substance beyond meretricious thrill. You want a roller coaster on some days, but most often you want the nutcracker to elope to secret hiding places. Swim with adventure not just in love, not just in affection with the starlight now matter how luminous, sixpence all the richer is no centuries any poorer and we could be that gilded couple of star and screen and if we ever have to scream, let our screams unite us in passion, rather than a milquetoast deference to pedestaled beauty. but of course the end times don’t laugh at your crumpled wizened relapse. Not out of convenience wed by a discriminating genetic harvest moon but a deeper engagement that flatters when stylish and bristles when romantic but never defiled, never riled of specious pretense. Promise me that you will always remember me in my flaws and my faults, in my scause factory destructions and the penults of PEN-ULTIMATE wisdom that comes before the grace of God in the annihilation of passion for eroded omission. If your goal is to be remembered, check that out…but the most admirable goal is as the propinquities of souls dusted in the wind returning to a spring equinox of passion and if you find in yourselves reservations do not depart from sacred land, and never jilt me because of a boisterous and menacing friend. You are everything to me right now, and I Hope this persists despite the vicissitudes of star-favored afflictions mixed with utter benediction without the pontification of stilted Benedictines  or rather the hyped ludic effrontery of termagants being made of younger and younger women. Leave it at this ,32 leaves the royal secret in royal hands and the Knights Templar and us we altogether hold hands, if only a prelude for a masquerade ball. But the stilted embarrassment of crestfallen time, let that be relegated and emphatically lets embrace what is like to not ever need a real white horse to get back into your favor, because we never go out of style we can brandish the best elements and reject the sentiments of the too newfangled and the too stodgy. We in our crenellated pleonasm can eager ride the lightning to another tomorrow and another yesterday and if even not that, we virtually make an indelible impression of embroidered love not too distant in ivory towers and not to vulgary( catering to popular sentiments) to become a trash glam movement. We soar, others deplore but let their purblind doubts render them blind to our burgeoning love.

Forget the brisk trees dangled in the wind on winding paths through haunted forest or remember them because of ghoulish fortress but with our apotropaic lamp we can avert most evil and call the rest fun and gains and shun but fames never profaned, never inalterable a destiny to magical to be some whimpered catcall. Or we could linger beneath lambent street lights disguised as though wilted garb, attrition of circumstance waiting patiently for the matinee and the vintner to escort us beyond the garb of pretense in a city so abundant with it that it deserves castigation. But I digress, a beachside cliff overlooking tepid waters tumultuous in their power but august in their noises, the cadence of love will sing a half-moon bay on full-moon nights and we will frisk each other like grasping at straws of permanent tracks trammeled of the elite and a sidetracked basque bet. Trim those antlers and instead grow metaphorical wings, to us we all sing but few can match your elegance and everyone would be crazy not to see your ennobled age and together thrilling songs to emulate thriller in sales we will collaboratively sing.
Haughty sneers from lifeless lycanthropy straggling furtively along the pastiched sidewalks of grime, livid because they can’t share the lingering limelight, with as many guarded perks of privacy clambering like a hive of snarky sharks. Lets ditch the big town dreams in terms of posh and stature if only for a caressed moment beneath the unadulterated stars and if you find spars **** to the extent they are amiable than I say guess what my name is Lars! Or wait a second, paused in the big city spotlight our stenciled hearts will guide whatever progeny is yours or mine or ours together we will sing the most comforting lullaby, and caves no longer must we abide. Yearn and earn every inch, as I gripe with my delicate saddened pinch but I think the innuendo speaks . Ripen with our trips to Napa, long afternoon sunsets swim in our hearts as we taste the vanguard’s toast on elegant wine.I console with entreaty to disavow the omen of that San Franciscan church October 2008, the doom implied by Einstein, the raillery of a world grinding down the endless decadence of a railed future inalterable in destiny or partialy amenable to widespread coquetry.

Forget those rumbles in your past that made you feel partial to insecurity and learning the ropes you transcended all and live in all eternity. Thimble and brook, tolerant of all those tokes I took your rebellious side flattens the yeast of Exodus raspy in its begrudged clapping. But the Pharaoh of the modern world sheltered me under his prickly thorns, shielded me from the sickly things that life adorns. We have the numbers on our side, the weight of destiny on our shoulders, dedicate yourself to yourself and I will preen the most vibrant wisdom and love will leap like Apollo across all borders not for camel-****** hoarders. We are culminated destiny in the wings of the best daydream

1995 saw the start of Generation Z,
the ‘iKids’ with a knack for this new-fangled technology,
Millennial 2.0,
caught in the limbo of the World Wide Web development and Rose Gold iPhones.
They say we’re adaptable,
but apparently we can’t make our own decisions about anything.
They say that we don’t care about anything
except for our tiny little screens,
but they forget who put them in our hands,
and they forget who they run to for help
when they forget how to troubleshoot.
They forget what kind of technology we need to keep sustaining life in the Information Age,
Caught in a crossfire because
Yeah, we’re 90s kids—but the 90s never really actually ended until 2006,
the only difference between two decades being
how much neon versus how much chrome,
and just how expensive accidentally opening the internet app on your mom’s blackberry phone was.
We’re nostalgic for all the things we can’t quite remember,
and half these high schoolers weren’t actually born until 2000 or 2001.
Most of us aren’t old enough to even remember 9/11, nothing outside of the news clips that our teachers show us in history class every single September.
I was born in the same year as the Columbine shootings.
The United States has not been at peace for a year of my life.
We are always fighting— fighting for everything.
Human equality,
posing arguments about micro aggressions and refugees, seeing the inhumanity in the past that we’re living.

None of us are older than 21,
under such hard scrutiny while Baby Boomers Wave 2 still run our country.
We inherited the Millenial’s exhaustion,
the generation before us spending our childhood fighting for all the things that we have never really believed in.
Fairytales.

Generation Z.
The ‘iKids’ who are going to one day be making leaps and bounds with technology,
the generation to nurse this dying planet back to health,
Millennials 2.0 who know how to learn from our forerunners’ mistakes,
who know how to adapt from Sidekicks to iPhone 6S Plus in less than a decade.
We’re the kids who have realized that fun is found in safe spaces rather than invading each other’s personal spaces.

They say we’re too sensitive,
but at the same time they claim that we’re desensitized.
And I thought we were the generation that couldn't make decisions.

Take me back
I wanna go back
Let's go back
To that one place that's one in a million

Take me back
I wanna go back
Take me there
You know where
Take me to that one place my childhood is missing

Yeah I'm missing the 90s

We might be known for our glorified past,
How we went out and played real games outside.
And then time just flew so fast,
There are a lot of things, now, we can’t ride.

We grew up knowing society had rules.
TV said to study, go to college, and live happily.
But what unfolded before us is kinda rude,
A painful slap of some dose of a new bossoming reality.

As every generation may argue,
Ours may claim to be really confused.
Memories of bike rides and skies of different hues,
Rapidly changed by virtual abuse.

We still try to live authentic though,
Thinking wishfully that we can escape the Net.
Go to places, do things, go back and forth,
Brushing off every little regret.

But who’re we actually fooling?
The Net is inescapable,
Lose interconnectedness and you’ll cease existing,
A feeling that is plain horrible.

We’ll figure this out someday,
That’s what we tell ourselves,
But as we live each day,
We acknowledge that a little help wouldn’t hurt.

Leave it to 2015 to transform the slip dress into, well, something other than a slip dress. No longer was the slinky, curve-skimming frock the evening-only pinnacle of sensuality; instead, it found its footing as a functional layering piece. It was worn on top of T-shirts, under sweatshirts, and over pants. And it wasn’t just the runway that inspired the nouveau way of wearing the piece: Everyone from Orthodox Jewish women to Rihanna put their spin on it. Here, see the best ways the slip dress was worn in 2015—and the cues to take when you sport it post–New Year.

Try an Orthodox Line of Thought

Turns out it was a Brooklyn enclave who managed to make the sexiest trend of the year—the slip dress—the chicest. And no, it wasn’t Williamsburg hipsters. So how to master modest layering like the Orthodox? Try a men’s blazer over the silk number, adding sleeves, or extending the neckline.

When in Doubt: What Would Kate Moss Do?

Feeling cold this winter? Make like Moss and combine the best of two worlds: The cozy turtleneck and the body-clinging slip dress. The simple pairing is the peak of insouciance—while keeping you warm.

Grunge Goddesses Still Rock

With the addition of a stoner-style hoodie, the slip dress got a major dose of grunge-forward flair. On the Vetements Spring 2016 runway, a hunter green hoodie thrown over a lavender slip dress gave an instant too-cool-for-school effect, while Ursina Gysi turned heads in an orange lace–trimmed swath of silk and a blue oversize pullover on the street during Fashion Week.

Rihanna Put a Bad Gal Spin on Hers

First, she took the hoodie and slip dress trend and gave it a go on the street. Next, she threw on a pair of sky-high cuissardes to pair with a short, baby-pink number. Then Ri-Ri topped a shimmering bronze slip with a baseball hat! Whatever the move, the singer deserves major credit for giving the ’90s throwback a modern bite.

And About the ’90s . . .

The revamp of the ’90s on the runway also brought back memories of a very throwback way to wear the slip dress: Seen on Spring 2016 runways fromCourrèges to Emilio Pucci, the boudoir staple was layered over a long-sleeved shirt or a simple tee to counter the sexiness of the slip and cut the sweetness.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney

I am a ******* broken radio that my grandpa wouldn’t even bother fixing
I got a thousand channels, and all of them overlapped in every second
You came to me and said you wanted to enjoy the 90s
I knew what I had and believed this time I was gonna make it right

“Sir, this is location 328…”
“Love is wonderful…”
“Oh, Jonny! You can go **** your own ****…”

All the channels got mixed up. Like the cereal that I had this morning
Uhm, It was more like the **** cake you slapped in my face on my birthday last year

I wished you would stop tapping me with your beautiful finger
At the same time, I loved the new crystal nails you just did yesterday. Your soft skin against mine and nails stuck on my back, left me marks and joy

Stop leaving me
Don’t give up on one tap or two

My frustrations attacked the balance of the stupid sound system
I was either too loud or too quiet

You finally left the room
I was still on the table
intermittently playing the 90s
Trying to find the perfect volume

I've got a grasp on my black telephone
Holding it tight to my ear
No fear. He'll pick up
It's like 3AM or later
I'm ****** up 
Dropped my wallet in the elevator
Now I've stumbled into bed 
Living dead and seeing red

Ring
Ring
Ring

"We're sorry..."

Thoughts swarm like locusts 
Bug-buzzing in the phone
Sweating my spray tan on the bed sheets
Left alone with a dial tone.

Nightstand pill bottle Jesus
I'm reaching out for you

It's been ringing for a few minutes now
I've rolled up in the coiled phone cord
'I think the room is spinning'
Tilt-a-whirl bed taunts my stomach
'I'm home at least'
'I need to tell him how I feel'

Ring
Ring -

"We're sorry, the number you have called
Is not in service at this time
Please check the number
Or try your call again."

THE TORTURING VOICES




you see my dad was watching the cricket with us

and i watched it with him, and it was very fun, you see

we saw australia being beaten by the west indies, because

they were so cool, you see, we were the cricket boys

and no robber wanted to rob us, because we were into australia’s favourite sport, cricket

you see i heard a non realistic image of my father saying

brian’s not a mans kid, brian’s not a man’s kid

and i was trying to relax and calmly watch the match

and my family were unrealistically teasing me, mind you they were having fun

and the words they said were different to me as it was for them

brian’s not a mans kid, don’t get kidnapped brian be like us

brian’s not a man’s kid, and watched the cricket, ya know trevor chappell doing an underarm ball

mum called cricket, anything and everything which has everything you hate

well, i don’t believe that, i was feeling like trying to be a mans kid

brian’s not a mans kid, brian’s not a mans kid

and i was getting these awful visions, i wanted these voices to stop

you see people in canberra were doing it too, but they looked like fierce kidnappers

and i said you can’t get me, i am a sports watcher

so i went home and obsessingly watching the cricket and AFL and rugby league, rugby union

you name the sport i watched it, and i fell asleep in front of the sport

you see i have this vision that mens kids watch the sport, mens kids watch the sport

brian’s not a mans kid, ******* ya hooligan away from us

you see, i wanted at that stage a hooligan to my dad and i had someone grab me outside a club

and i kicked him saying, get off me ya kidnapper, you won’t get ya hands on me mate

and dad was watching the cricket and enjoyed it, but i got frustrated with all that teasing

i didn’t want to be kidnap victim and i hate being my families or friends little teasie

i battle voices saying how is our little tease doing hey

but i hated when people wanted to bully me, saying your family are like us, your not

i said i like sport and they said, no you don’t, your family does, and your not like your family mate, your like us now man

i told my voices to *******, and they said, your not like your family, your like us

and this made me into a little 2 year old boy, i hated that voice

i remember i loved watching agro, which was a funny puppet on channel 7, and the mens kids said

don’t watch agro, watch cheezeTV, which was the cartoon show on the other channel

and my voices going crazy saying, you are a crazy person, who is too old for baby agro

and you are not like your family, your still like us, buddy

i screamed out, LEAVE ME ALONE, i am a sports watching mans kid

and dads image said brian’s not a mans kid, brian’s not a mans kid

but it could’ve been greame thrones kidnapper or patrick dunbars kidnapper

i said voices,  ‘stop', i wanted to be like my family, they said you are not like your family, your still like us

and i said, they look cool, and you guys look stupid, please leave me alone

there is also a man who wanted me and my brother tied to a pole, but we felt we weren’t immortal, but cool

i went into pubs to dance and watch the sport and i felt like a cool man

brian’s not a mans kid brian’s not a mans kid, stay in there koomarri man, get ****** mate went the little homebody kid

as i was watching the canberra bushrangers baseball team played, yeah totally awesome dude

brian’s not a mans kid, I WISH IT’LL ALL STOP

.you might ask: why isn't third-party "issues": 34% in bold?! simple... depends who you do it with... AND believe me... we must be living in the golden age of prostitution... god they care about protection, one even said to me: i get checked for S.T.D.'s on a regular basis... and i'm pretty sure AIDS doesn't travel from the oral consumption of ****... stomach acids and whatnot... see... transparency... even if it was "****"... when she's crying like that... would i walk into a shop a buy / steal a leg of lamb with or without the usage of a transaction meta-object? hell... i'm interested in the metaphysics of money, sue me... but you never invest a person into the formula of ******* with a *******... there's absolutely zilch, in terms of investing with something beside your body... your character and what not... pure Newtonian physics... two ****-naked bodies colliding... and since it's a legal transaction... ****... what lie is there, breach of conduct? if you don't pay... the **** gets his way: adding fist to the face, first, and then a fist up your ***: and you can scream ****! ****! ****! all you want by then... the English can't accomplish the perfected art of an affair akin to the French... it's not in their Huguenots' nature... so why the elaborate lie? **** it... an hour at a brothel... and let me tell you... a ******* will ask you questions like a priest: questions like: do you have a girlfriend? affair over what? an hour, an impersonal hour with what allures a soul, a thought, but is fundamentally the reciprocal posit of your own body... sure as **** beats the ******* / stripper profession ****-tease... god... they're so ******* ethical these days, actually caring, telling you whether or not they check themselves regularly for STDs... mind you... one of them told me a story about a ****** in a Spanish brothel, by some pundit.

let's be honest, for once...
there's no point parading the matter,
orchestrated by some
distant pompous sentiment
for: whatever life was
supposed to be, for all of us,
but never became -
an alignment of thought and
being...
              
  what the **** has someone
done with my fox?! well... "my" fox...
he hasn't been seen
for two nights and i'm getting
worried!

i am a drunk -
        my maternal grandfather
was a drunk,
my paternal grandfather was
a drunk, my uncle is a drunk...
only my father with his
father complex is the odd one out...
genes took over...
if i didn't drink,
as i once did...
   bah... a fairy tale...
           why bother lying?

point being: i'm far from a drunk fiend...
a fiend nonetheless -
benevolent at times -
like... ah... **** it... whatever:
i'm not going to gloat about
my antics...

but at least i own my predisposition,
and thank **** that i'm
not looking for a partner -
as my grandmother used to
say about her son (my uncle):
it be better he stays alone
that brings misery to any woman...

hey, i have a drunk's perfect
stash of interests!
   i'm not going to repent either...
do "you" even think it would
be possible to
read a single book of philosophy
when paired to a woman?
i don't think so...

            and the hours i spend at
night, headphones on,
listening to **** like 90s sub-grunge
akin to mad season (song,
i'm alone)?
   **** no!

                i'd have philosophy in
body, looking across from me...
    i'm starting to contemplate
that man has internalized
the perfect woman...
while woman?
  has internalized the most imperfect
man...

           i'm starting to think
that, the whole physical reality,
puritanical materialism -
hell - going as far as undermining
the theory with transgenderism...
can i say that men are more patient
than women, when it should
be the opposite?
   well... then again, "should"...

i am what any woman would
consider - broken goods...
good... i like that...
       it means i can be left the **** alone...
drink as much as i want,
read as much of what middle-aged
women call: drivel (philosophy)
and spend my time listening
to a back-catalog of bands from
the 90s... or the prior century...

what... with the current statistics
from the Sunday Times Style
magazine?
      53% contra 32% of women
and men (respectively)
          are happier post-divorce...
61% contra 47% are happy staying single
post-divorce...
happy new singletons:
aged 55...
                 42% of marriages
are affected by divorce...
                86% cited not being ashamed
of divorce...
      ill harbor imbedded in
a former spouse men (17%) - women (8%)...
argument for divorce:
my spouse "changed" (49%) -
now... this is interesting -
i remember seeing this same *******
over a wide span of time...
the second time i saw her -
she said to me: but you haven't changed -
and subsequently starting crying
while drunk during ***...
so i know where "change" argument comes
from...
    ***** i aged... finito!
males more likely to date within
the first 6 months...
     66% had children of ex-spouses...
    90% agreed that staying in an unhappy
marriage is worse than divorce...
   i bet 99% would find life more rosy
than being dead: what with being wed
to life... sure as ****: i've seen my grandparents
at it... my parents... life outside of
marital constraints is so ******* rosy!
food stamps and no central heating...
rosy as ****!
          third-party "issues": 34%...
lack of communication: 29%
    incompatibility: 23%
          abuse: 22%...
           different "life goals": 20%...
***-related problems: 11%...
                  in-laws: 7%,
  parenting problems: 5%...
          financial issues: 14%...
well... well well...
isn't life just peachy!
           those percentages in bold?
they're in bold for a ******* reason...
the only reasons that would
make a divorce definitely prudish...
    the rest?
fickle people... little fickle people...
it's like eating a bowl of Haribo sweets!
the choices!

stats? Style report -
     1,060 of women and men surveyed
Fleur Britten...
     Style Magazine 23 Sept 2018...

well... i'm out, always was out...
no woman wants a drink,
and i have Sophia to think about...
       and what a spectacular failure
i am in this department...
the longest "relationship" i was in
didn't even pass the half year mark...
and that's even before i started
my career in drinking with Jack -
(by the way, he sends his warmest
regards) -

            bitter? no... not really...
i can't share a bed with a ******* cat,
let alone something much larger
and not furry...
             my bitterness dies within
the confines of an hour with
some Bulgarian girl
   who cries when she notices
my heart is an unwavering rock...

            hell... when she started crying
like that during ***,
talking about her daughter...
    what are you supposed to do
if not stop, cuddle,
and kiss her tears?

I used to think that all of them were just bodies. She-figures, they came and went, facilitating infinite happiness and following with hellacious heartbreak, aorta explosions galore. They pass. I stay. She goes. I remain. We all take a trip, but she falls asleep while I follow the road, I sing the song, make the lyrics up as the 101 heads West, and I careen against the Pacific. I see silvery-white plumes of whale breaths spouting, they break the rocks of my rock and roll. When the levee breaks, we'll have no place to go- I'm going back to Chicago.

California. Line 5. Verse 1. She is born in Arkansas, in Denver, in New York City, in the back of a taxi cab, her parents waiting for a table at Earth Cafe, 1989. There are concerts, balconies, elevator shafts, and on benches. The gain rises, the volume up and up and up, I offer her a cigarette, I ask her if she likes my dress, I show up with two palms full of a flame, and I say hello. Browsing in high-definition, the water is warm, my feet are planted and I have everywhere to go. Classical emporium of light fill me with ease, greatness, and belief. She asks me if I'm gay. Every great confusion can be proven to be fortuitous with enough time on hand. I kiss in cars, in bathrooms, and barrooms, in hallways, on staircases, on beds, church steps, and legs. I touched a leg, ran my fingers through her hair, my thumbs curved to the height of two ears alongside a size B head. I love art *****. i burn candles, and I swirl the wax around until the walls wear masks of white. I check-in to a hotel. I stop to buy wild flowers on the side of the road, or to climb down a ravine, we open a page into an enormous patch of strawberries, wind-surfers, and the golden Palo Alto beaches. I am in Bronzeville, on my way to Bridgeport, I am riding the train, browsing magazines, and singing new songs in my head. My lips are wet with excitement and the musings of the Modern Art Museum and the gift of a first kiss; behind the statue on Balcony 2, near the drinking fountain, the Eames couch, and two lips meeting anew. Bravery in twos.

Chapter 1, Verse 2. The chorus is large and exciting. New plastic shining coats. Smocks patterned with the Random House children's stories that we played with as children. We didn't wear gloves, or hats, or pants, or our hearts on our sleeves. I was up to my knees in hormones and very persuasive. My fifth birthday was at the Nature Center, you chased me into the boys' bathroom and kissed me with your wet and four year old lips in the second stall from the door. I eased up maybe 2% since then. The speakers are a little bit fuzzy, it's like listening to the spit of someone's tongue cascade the roof of their mouth while they pronounce the British consonants of the 90s. Said and done and saving space.

I am saving up for Grace. A crush in the mid 2000s, black hair, long legs, and the only brunette for a decade before or after. We played doctor, with the electric scalpel we turned our noses red with Christmas time South American powders. A safe word for an enemy, the sun for an enemy too. You bolted out and took my early Jimi Hendrix Best Of compact disc case too. While we're at it, you took my Michael Jackson cassettes as well. I go mid-range, think Kiri Te Kanawa in the whispers of E.T.'s Elliot. Stuffed-animal closet party for seven minutes in heaven. Your family came with butlers while mine came with over-educated storage. A blue borage sky in the intestines of life, a splinter in the shanty-town of invincible daily struggles- both of us were born again in O'Hare Airport's Parking Level D. Too many nonsensical arguments in two-tone grayscale ripping open the packaging of a course about trysting in your twenties.

Your stomach's history is overpowering. It is temperamental, mettled by spirits and sleepless nights, borborygmus, wambles, and shades of nervousness you were never comfortable speaking openly about. The history of your ****** was privatized, in options and unedited films shot over and over candidly by a mini DV desk camera, nine months to read you wrong to weep in strong wintry walks back and forth from The Buckingham to the Dwight Lofts, Room 408 without a view. All of your secrets in a little miniature of a notebook, bright cerise red. You captured teardrops in medicinal jars meant for syringes. You tied strings to your fingers, named your field mouse Ginger, and introduced your mother as Lady Darling. Captain with stingray skin, the hide of Ferris Bueller with the coattails of James Bond, dusted with daisy pollen, and clearly weakness. You ate me like bitter herbs on Thursdays, and like every other woman I've ever met, on Tuesdays you always kept me waiting.

I have wings for everything. Yellow wings for a woman in a yellow dress, Red, White, and Green wings for Bernice from Mexico City, Purple wings for  Mrs. Doolittle the doctor who worked at Taco Bell, the Jamaican priestess who was traveling through Venice Italy- we smoked hash with the grandchild of James Joyce on the Northern pier against the aurulent statues of Apollo and Zeus, Cupids' collection of malevolent tricks, SleepingB Beauty's rebuttal in fending off GHB attackers, my two dear friends who were kidnapped in clothes, abandoned in the ****, and only remember eating chocolate donuts with sprinkles and the bruises and dirt on the insides of their thighs. Nothing clever. Nothing extraordinary. Everything sentimental, built to withstand soot, sourness, and early female bravado.

You know how to play the piano so you've said, but i only have the CD you gave me to prove it. I do have evidence of your addiction to men and *******. I have your collection of dresses with tags still on them (but every woman has some of those), there is the post office box in Kauai, the Halloween card from last November and the two videos I have stored on an external drive in a nightstand adjacent to the foot of my bed. You sleep atrociously, talk too quickly, and **** like your father abandoned you when you were five. Your talent for taking photographs is like your skill-set for playing the piano, but I don't have the CD to prove it. You don't believe in social media, social consistency, friendships, or hephalumps and woozels- with the exception of the classes we shared together in college, I've never seen you outside of the most glamorous of fashion. You hate flats, hats, and white wine, and for as sad as you can seem to be at times, I've only had you cry on me once. While we were on the phone, three days after your mother hung herself. That's when I last left California, and I haven't been back yet.

I love a Kristine, but once a Britni, a Brandi, a Joni, a Tina, Kristina, Kirsten, Kristen, and a Katherine and Kathryn too. I know rock stars who are my dearest friends, enemies who I share excellent taste in music with, and parents who've always had my back but show it in lashings of the tongue and of the belt. It's been two years and three states since I was two sizes smaller than I am now. I've never considered the possibility that I was the main character and not the supporting actor, but due to recent developments in antipathy and aesthete, reevaluation, and retrospective nostalgia. All of this is about to change.

I am me still evolving without my usually stolid and grim ****** features. i bare brevity to situations existing that would **** most or in the least paralyze a great many. There is one for every hour of every day, and one for every minute in every hour, second in every minute, and more than the minutes in every day. No one has a second chance, shares a different time, or works off a different clock. I have been called the master of the analog, king of the codependent, and rook to queenside knight. I share a parabola for every encounter, experience, and endeavor. I am three minutes from being a cadaver, one drink away from a drunk, and one thought away from being completely alone. I think upright, i sleep horizontally, and I love infinitely. I am the only finite constant i have ever known. I am the main character, the script, satire, sarcasm, and soundtrack are mine.

"I don’t care if you believe it. That’s the kind of house I live in. And I hope we never leave it.”
There's A Wocket In My Pocket by Dr. Seuss

The seductress on my mind
Lives in full on expression
Laced in the free confines
And platitudes of direction

The sequential confessions
A private march of signs
Lead aggressive regression
A spinal tap of times

Timid forms of prose
Do not impose, much
In the way of speech
Or the ways of preach

A dandelion blossoms
Fully under direction
Of gunfire and hellfire
Made in mans *****

A milk which is colored
A dark, rusting, crimson
For this is the gift adorned
An antiquated prison

A dream once flowed upon
The rivers that line my arms
Texts of pharaohs charmed
With distant songs sung  

Yet, not distant enough
Into a further realm of
Steak, salmon, wine, and
Pontification, a type sublime

Cardiac and stop and frisk arrests
Psychedelics and prophylactics
Insomniacs and chipper morn birds
Courage and numbing fear tactics

Topics are churned forward
As thoughts are yearned for
But are seldom rewarded
Without snide comments

Even if contorted to fit
Daily textbook definitions
A raindrop is precipitation
Not tears from eyes of perdition

Said a jeering member of an alley
A gatekeeper for all of Hades
A living reminder of what shape
Controls societies minions a plenty

I believe you are a queen lost in time
You are the seductress on my mind
The boom-bap of 90s street art hop
A collection of lives birthed caught

You are the desire of my epicenter
The freezing of my two lips together
A culture of desire and of fortune
A soft room with croons in tunes

I believe you are not pink matter
You are the color scheme in the sun
A serpent slithering within disaster
A tale of victory and woe as one

Tears sting the edges of my eyes
As shadows are cast upon my soul
A tree in mourning for it's seeds
As oil desecrates, dry, shallow soil

When did this become a love poem?
Atop the raft my dreams have flowed
Wordsmiths fashion sturdy homes  
To heal the word and to help growth

Inside one of these I fled and bled
In it I found fish, water, and bread
Self-hate and despair had spread
Until it was fully excreted in death

The seductress on my mind brought:
Dandelions with smoke from gunfire
Milk which was crimson in color
Pharaohs songs of golden charm
A conversation in full, and open arms
Arms that held my dreams with calm

Constructs of love and poetic meals
Heal the surface of darkness scorn
Feeding the soul of it's sullen needs
A return to an innocence unborn

“Ever since I started this job and anyone asks how I’m doing, I always say, ‘I’m great!’ ” Maayan Zilberman excitedly explains. And why shouldn’t she? The former Lake & Stars lingerie designer, who has since founded confections lineSweet Saba, happens to have the sweetest career around. Concocting a literal visual feast out of her Park *****, Brooklyn, kitchen and Fort Gansevoort Meatpacking pop-up shop, the Israeli-born polymath uses her background in sculpture and a biting sense of humor to create her vibrant, indulgent delicacies. Think sugarfied tubes of lipstick, rap mixtapes, and Rolex watches—with their raw handiwork and dead-on wit, these in-demand pieces match Zilberman’s equally enticing wardrobe. Hardly barefoot in the kitchen, Zilberman teeters about in her workspace in vintage Betsey Johnson Mary Janes, while throwing on a customized Adam Selman pearl-laced apron to protect her Prada skirts andProenza Schouler knits. Here, the dazzling candymaker reveals how she has always been more En Vogue than grunge, why she never forgoes a perfect press-on manicure, and her plans on taking Sweet Saba herbal.

From Jerusalem to Vancouver

I was born on a kibbutz, where the first clothing I had was a mix of unisex hand-me-downs, so I was given a pretty blank slate. When I lived in Jerusalem we were surrounded by several sects of Orthodox communities, and the fabrics associated with each group were inspiring to me. During those years, designer brands were becoming popular, and the only place I was seeing this was in the shuk [market] where one could find imitation Calvin Klein and United Colors of Benetton next to tzitzit and shawls. I think it was in the early ’90s that I first understood how to mix my ethnicity with fashion and food.

Also, one of the most influential books of my childhood was Color Me Beautiful, which the women in my family took very seriously. I learned at the age of 6 that I was a “Winter” and haven’t veered off course since. I still have the book and love to pull it out at parties. Later in high school in Vancouver, grunge was the big trend and there wasn’t much room for my sensibilities in that environment—even when I wore my Revlon Blackberry lipstick and grunged out with irony. I was always far more En Vogue and Versace than the Pacific Northwest could handle.

Taking Cues From ’90s New York City Street Style

When I first got to New York, when I was 15, one of the first things I discovered was all the music I could get on Canal Street. I used to buy mix CDs from girls in monochrome outfits and big name-plate earrings. They pointed me to Fulton Mall in Brooklyn, and that’s where I finally got pants that fit right and jewelry that reflected my personality—a departure from the stuff I’d received for my bat mitzvah.

A shift in style for me meant a tougher, more confident look, where a short skirt is a reference to an era, not a call for attention. Music and lyrics played a big part in teaching me about how to dress and how to feel feminine. I had a Versace quilted skirt that I wore a lot—it made me feel like the supermodels in the ad campaigns: Cindy, Claudia, Stephanie, et cetera. I also had a Jean Paul Gaultierdouble-breasted pinstripe suit that I’d wear casually. In fact, I’m still wearing most of my clothes from those days: Betsey Johnson floral dresses, Donna Karanbodysuits, a metallic Byblos pouf skirt, and a grommeted Pelle Pelle jacket.

Lingerie Beginnings

I studied sculpture at the School of Visual Arts, and for a year at the San Francisco Art Institute my major was “new genres,” a very ’90s thing. Right after I graduated from SVA, I did an artist residency with Ilya Kabakov at the Fondazione Antonio Ratti in Como, where they also manufactured some of the world’s most beautiful silks. A tour of their factory opened my eyes to a potential dip into fashion, but it wasn’t until I met a pair of women in New York City that same year looking to start a lingerie brand that I took a chance on garment design. I bought a bunch of bras and took them apart and figured out how they were put back together. I cofounded The Lake & Stars in 2007 with the desire to make a brand that was in line with the story I wanted to tell as an artist. Lingerie was a tool, a structure that gave me rules so I could tell a sci-fi tale while inherently delivering romance and *** appeal.

read more:http://www.marieaustralia.com

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