Our old uncle, Daedalus,
     he'd grin when he spoke to us
His mouth was missing teeth
and so his wisdom flowed out free
He always smelled of cheap cigars
     alleyways and corner bars
He'd tell us he had seen the world
     and this was his decree:

     "Don't fly too high, you little *****.
       You just might live to pay for it.
       The Sun is always hot,
       the ground gets harder every day."

"But, Daedalus," we would complain,
"You are old and we would fain
see the sights you saw before
          we sleep beneath the clay."

And dear old Uncle Daedalus
     he'd laugh and spit and swear at us
"You ******* little ***** had better
heed the tale I tell.
This life is one big ******* maze
with twists and turns and tricks to play.
The kings control the monsters,
who make Earth a living Hell."

We'd try to listen, try to thank
him for the words, but his breath stank
and, anyway, we thought that he
               had prob'ly **** himself

But dear old Uncle Daedalus
hung Death from lips that spoke to us
and ****** if he weren't right
about the things he always said:
"Inventiveness works, by and by
with daring, you may taunt the sky
                                   like I did
                                  but the fall is long--
my dreams and son are dead."

He always smelled of cheap cigars
     alleyways and corner bars
"You ******* little ***** had better
heed the tale I tell..."

"Don't fly too high, you little *****.
You just might live to pay for it.
The kings control the monsters,
who make Earth a living Hell."

Poor little octopus.
Big head and eight tentacles
but no *****, ***** or testicles.

What's that, you say? Then how do these poor little cephalopods
buck such terrible odds when they feel like a ****** agenda
and they don't have any pudenda?

Well, it's quite simple, really. He hands her ***** on a tentacle
and what do you suppose?
She says, thank you very much, and sticks it up her nose!

Honest. No dinner first or shoulder massage,
she just whacks it up her nasal passage. You can be quite sure
this is an amazing olfactory aperture.

So the moral is, don't complicate a simple process.
When you're feeling frisky, *** need not be tricky.
Just consider the inventiveness of the octopus with no ***** or a *******.

Because it's the ingenuity of the octopus, not it's ****** act,
that we should court. Compared to the octopus,
the human nose is naught.
It's too high up and tight for such naughty, wicked sport.  

Also, such a human act is fraught with political incorrectness.  
A gentleman who tries this little rort to get the girls to snort
and says, up your nostril, madam, might all too well
receive a rude retort. Or even worse!

I say herein lies food for thought.
                                                        ­                             Mike T Minehan

practicing mental gymnastics
insipid memories
seeping their way past
defensive buffers
remembering repressed poisons
as a catalyst for making
wiser decisions

lackadaisical reactions to
sharply defined parallaxes
warrant an immediate shift

fractal spectacles
the labyrinth of my innards

inhale the cosmological smoke of suggestion

words become meaningless
when repeated exhaustively
semantic satiation
slicing away at true intentions
paving the way to
false inventiveness

shallow river beds are loud
prouder than their counterparts
insecurity overshadows

a lack of faith in the faint of heart
everything worthwhile
falls apart

Dear Spanish breeze,
You rolled up my inspirational sleeves.
You gave me a glorious sight and placed me in an inventive light.
I call you a thief in the night for robbing words out of my mouth.
You guide my fingertips and the lips of my pen
by kisses of daydreams and endless ideas.
I am a home where the sweetest poems abide in.
Ready to come out and imprint a thousand pages.
What a delight to travel through poetic time of this artistic city.

Dear Spanish sun,
You burned my lack of poetic desire.
You colored my inventiveness like you darkened my skin.
I admire the way you have inspired me to become the poetess i aspire to be.
Your ravishing art undressed the indecisive poetess in me.
So here I stand emotionally naked in front of written truth
ready to loose myself in your Catalan atmosphere.
"Rest your ears darling and let your eyes whisper poetic visuals," you say.
And i close my eyes. I travel through this dream till forever ends.

Ten minutes is all Sabyasachi Mukherjee has. “Can you keep the interview short,” I’m asked, as the announcement of his participation in the finale of Lakme Fashion Week’s upcoming Winter Festive show is made. Is ten minutes enough to recap the 14-year journey of this master of colour, cut and construction, I wonder. But I realised that Sabyasachi in rapid-fire mode can make ten minutes seem like twenty! Excerpts:

What is it about LFW that made you return?

It’s here that I first made a mark as a designer. I’m familiar with the format, and know the people. It is like a homecoming. The good thing about LFW is that everything is taken care of – from building the set to inviting people. So I have the freedom to focus on the clothes. It is like putting together a complete show, but doing only half the work!

Finales are a challenge – given the expectations of people in the fraternity, profiles of attendees and the intangible themes created by Lakme for interpretation into garments…

Well, it’s not at all difficult for me. This is my fifth finale at LFW. Once the make-up and hair are set, it is easy to imagine the look and what the girls must wear. I’m way too senior to worry about pre-show stress. My biggest pressure comes from whether I will like what I create. Beyond that, even the critics’ reaction doesn’t really concern me.

Will this line too be about Indian-ness?

Whether I do Western, Eastern or a combination, I always use Indian handcrafts, and all my clothes are handmade. Traditional textiles, block prints, weaves and embroidery are a constant in my collections. The theme being “Illuminate”, this line is about red-carpet clothes with a strong shimmer quotient.

Sunday was National Handloom Day. Considering our diverse range of homespun textiles, do you think everyday must be celebrated as handloom day in India?

Absolutely. It is mandatory at my stores. My staff wears only handloom saris or kurtas made of hand-woven fabric. My Instagram hashtag says ‘Wearing handloom everyday.’

Social media plays a significant role in promoting tradition. Smriti Irani’s ‘I wear handloom’ campaign on Twitter and the 100 Saree Pact are recent examples. Isn’t it time designers too found new ways to promote heritage?

Yes. As more and more Western brands enter the market, our designers must first establish an identity of their own. The Zaras of the world are bringing active prêt into the country, so it is important for us to revive the market for Indian clothes. Reinventing tradition and rethinking marketing strategies are critical at this point.

Has the hustle of today’s business taken fun away from fashion? How do you strike a balance between creative expression and commercial viability?

Oh, that’s very simple. I set my own rules. For instance, this year, I had too much on my calendar. I didn’t do ramp shows, I only had a showing on Instagram. Established designers must create new templates that suit their creativity instead of allowing the market to set the pace for them. Because, at the end of the day, only if you have the time and space for creative expression, can you create beautiful clothes that determine the durability of your brand.

If you were to spell out two major problems faced by the fashion world, what would they be?

Lack of originality. Lack of self-belief.

Fashion has evolved into a glamorous industry, and today, many youngsters want to be part of it. But most of what we see on the ramp and in the retail space are risk-free repetitions.

Well, for designers to evolve, the market has to evolve. But the mood is changing. There are designers who are willing to push boundaries and clients who are ready to experiment. Facebook, Pinterest and Instagram are changing the way people see and respond to fashion. The horizons are widening. This is a wonderful time for young designers to launch their labels and sustain their inventiveness.

Very few Indian designers have taken the effort to document fashion. What about you?

Yes, I will at some point in time get down to writing about my brand. But for that, I will first have to find the right publisher!

Many corporate players are keen on collaborating with designers.

I receive so many proposals for collaborations that I refuse one every day! I am collaborating with Asian Paints, Forever Mark and Christian Louboutin. Another huge one is coming up – but I will not be able to speak about it at the moment.

Do seasons really matter any more in the world of fashion?

Global warming is making designers understand the importance of season-defying clothing. And people too, I feel, don't shop for seasons any more. They just want beautiful clothes.

Can you update us on your forays into jewellery design and interiors?

I have collaborated with Hyderabad’s Kishandas & Company to create some iconic pieces that are hugely popular — and of course, plagiarised! I have a line coming up for Forever Mark. As for interiors, I wanted to design homes, but people did not seem to have enough confidence in me! (laughs) So I ended up doing up my own stores. I have also done up the Cinema Suite for the Taj in London. Celebrities who have stayed in the hotel have appreciated it. A significant collaboration in interiors is happening in October.

Your suggestions to keep traditions going…

People need to be educated about handmade textiles and crafts. A time will come when China will lose out to India because as people become aware, they will only want to support products that are ethically sourced and foster craft communities. Surprisingly, the new millennials are in favour of luxury that is completely handmade. I see that as a positive sign.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses

What is originality anymore?
The pop songs we listen to day in day out,
That are only updated remixes of
Songs that our parents
Already know every lyric to.


Is it the pranks we play on each other at school,
Poking holes in the top of water bottles,
So we don’t get caught when we try to catch our class mates.
Drowning them
In carbonated energy drinks.

Don’t think you’ll get away with it.
The teachers already know,
About flicking elastic bands at the backs of girls knees,
So they scream a little louder
And turn around to see
Boys smirking faces,
Because they have been there before.


Define originality.

Originality
. /əˌrɪdʒɪˈnalɪti/
noun
1. the ability to think independently and creatively.

•the quality of being novel or unusual


synonyms: inventiveness, creativeness, creativity, innovativeness, innovation, novelty, freshness, newness, imagination, break with tradition, resourcefulness, cleverness, daring, individuality, unusualness, unprecedentedness, uniqueness, distinctiveness
.

Is it smuggling ***** in water bottles,
Or sneaking down to the back garden
To have one last cigarette with your friends,
At 1am
On New Years
When you have had more to drink than your parents
Yet you are only 15.
Watering down whiskey from your parents liqueur cabinet
With apple juice.

Getting caught drunk
After being out with friends, Stumbling in at 2am
On Sunday morning.


Storming up to your room
After having a row with your parents.
Slamming the door,
Screaming at the floor,
Calling a friend,
And ******* about the people who brought you into this world.


Maybe
I’m not as good with words
Than I thought I was


O r i g i n a l i t y I s D e a d


Your parents Grandparents
Aunties and uncles
Have seen it all before
It’s a fact of growing up
And one day
You will too know
Exactly how it is

She is a tress of hair out of place,
combed in slow sweeps from my forehead.
I thought her an enigma to perchance unravel
by the press of well-paired lips
or by a mind besotted with moon glow
and Grenache wine;
one wicked with wisdom.

Saccharine words stirred into woody coffee,
I, Whitman, imagine her
the chill of Robert Frost
clung like sugar grains to my Leaves of Grass.

Almandine eyes of the nine Mousai
revved up by unbridled inventiveness…
I twinge too much to hold it inside,
she triumphs beyond the rim of her vessel,
so our ache and exultation
steal past the musing sentinel of apprehension;
and leap from once dormant imagination
into spirit shadows and splendid motifs.

She is a stranger to all,
but to those whom she whispers as lover.
We, two strangers of sun and moon,
curl nubile into night
to take our nuptials at dawn.

One hundred million miles and
one earth between us;
now bound as one, we pull the tides
into an unexpected tempest in my heart;
a tender act of indiscretion
undoing a tame, near tepid, bearing.

Thus muse and artist
feast upon the provender of providence
and all delectable in between them.

To concretize my theorized love,
I could play the accidental odds and strew
slippery tongues of spotted petals
onto thickly trafficked highways,
or use the best predictive modelling
to deduce when and where I can poke out
a well-heeled boot to trick unwary spills
and ****** a kiss from the unsuspecting
lips of any suitably compatible
passerby oft times inconvenienced and passed
on by.

These well-oiled and crudely experimental
methods do produce expected results,
but not the breakthrough nor the looked-for
satisfaction of appropriate reactions,
so I'll keep my dotted eyes tucked in
their pulpy stems and my shoddy toes curled back
while I beam my bits of invitation through
circuitous routes spatially arrayed along
parallel paths where one might search
with an extra-terrestrial inventiveness,
and wait.

I know the trials of these errant waves
won't add up to a guarantee
my burpy blips of a pulse can reach
the receptively comprehending and responsive
soils I seek, but it's the remoteness of a stead
to come stalking that appeals, and despite
the Hawking drone of unveiled warnings
I might regret such contact, I'll risk it all
on vaguely washed wishes this astronomical
anomaly with an alien sensibility has
one match.

It is not always easy to express one's self
When his artistic creations are never placed in galleries
They are often forgotten of
Sitting there gathering dust on a storage shelf.
It seems as if ten more people are at the same task
As which you create with
Comparing their outcomes to your own
Your light of hope fails to light
Due to many missing you that must express
such visions
A dog starved to the bone.
Eyes meet the other exhibits
As your kiosk is primarily never sought for business
The confidence of challenge is there, however, it soon melts away
When all of the hard work which you have placed
in expressions for the world to see
Fade to darkness like the "dark side of the moon"
As night simply ends the days.
Questions remain about what you are truly "gifted"
at or "ahead" of other game pieces on the board game of life.
When so many are inventive such as you
One too many is a crowd.
You pull down a fake smile. A fake shrowd.
Now the net is neutral
Damaging my once vibrant flow
As my hands are now tied to how I can grow
The rules of the game are now many and harder to get around
Like a roadblock in your sight of your future
The air begins to become too thin and your mind weighs heavy
As the cut in your creative inventiveness
Bleeds too heavy and needs a "miraculous" suture.
Needing others on my team
Every time  I seek out such
I'm the "driver x" at the "speed races"
and the "forced gun" to bear uninspiring
and lonely expressive paces.
Is their justice to the laws limiting one's freedom of expression
just to protect those in the "top few?"
When the own half of the platform on which you try and "compete"
However, you are too small to be seen as "you."