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Fashion’s symbolic sensuality draws eyes, stir passions and maybe even resentments!  =]

Of course, maybe you’re above worldly conceits, above fashion. YOU, go through life as unaware as sinless Adam and you’re excessively handsome, or pretty, obviously.

But for the rest of us - fashion is the medium of our beauty and God created Paris for fashion.

We’re pretending we’ve come to Paris (our immediate, pandemic safety-pod-family) for a family reunion - but REALLY, we’re on safari - a freshmen, college-wear, “back to school,” ensemble hunt (for meeeeeeeeeeee!).

Step 1 (there’s only 1 step) - go to the Rue Saint-Honoré.

This year, I like-like Anna Molinari - most of the ready-to-wear daily-trash I snapped-up is hers - all hers. It didn’t start out that way - but she sould me on an uncharted course at first sight.

Other designers seem to be pushing old-lady-looking floral prints this season. Eeuw! Why?? DIAF.

My gran-mère (grandmother) told me - 6 days ago - as she attempted to tame my run-away hair: “You need to be unpredictable, petite beauté, not some comely young automaton. Then everyone will find you interesting and watch to see what you do next.”

Thank you, gran-mère - I’ll settle for looking interesting any time.
It was wonderful to be able to go and see beautiful things again.
Love is like a Parisian night,

To which fanciful fools are drawn;

But tower lights, and stars alike,

All fade away at dawn.
ria geneva May 14
take me to Paris, she said through star-filled eyes
through which she couldn't quite see
and his shadow beckoned her delicate hands into the unknown

and when she touched the Eiffel tower it felt almost as cold as his hands had been
when he picked her up from the grass
but she ignored his ice hands
and instead
hummed to the tune
of his contralto voice
even when it raised with every hoarse breath
as it turned to terrifying storms of thunder

she lay in silk as her artist's muse
soft fabric against skin
chills sweeping up her back
goosebumps against her arms
yet she smiled

but she longed to hold the paintbrush and swim amongst the bright colour

when she traipsed across sunset fields
she felt his grip tighten
but she treasured the security
that he wielded
in his rough hands

and when he hit her
it felt like a kiss
Hakiim May 10
what’s the law of flight
when do we walk on the sky
when does a feather bloom like cupid wing
bow in hand trying to set a good impression
only to face moons alone at night

i thought i shot for me but i guess i shot for them
who will strike me with their arrow
when does a bow become a boomerang
is the ocean really a river
am i only a bridge
nim Apr 22
cigarette ashes
fly on the wind,
as i stare at my black coffee,
it gazes back at me.
black sobranie,
and i debate;
of all the people,
i find it hard to see
is there something
worth seeking.
just like dust,
i let them go
i never looked back
let them think i'm bore.
you may be
a world unseen,
yet i am so tired
no words flow well enough.
i'll just go lose myself
in paint and doubt
while i stare at my coffee,
and flit around.
It was an unexpected travesty
While I sipped on my Paris tea

Black and swirling in the creamy cup
The melancholy inside wasn’t made up

The touches shared never to be replayed
A pen left wordless on the splotched page

The story of us dwindled and ended
I’ll yearn the soul I lost and befriended

It stains the wanderings in my heart
Restless longing never to depart

Will she look at you the way I did too
Or with her smile is your gaze anew

Amongst any spoken tendril I have to say
You’ll ignore it regardless, keep it at bay

No matter wherever I beg and try
Forever I’ll be pinned as the bad guy

Your friends affirm it without any doubt
The words you spill attract gallons of clout

And even with a vine of knowledge to prove
They’d pry and spy ‘til nothing’s left to prune
Whilst drinking my daily cup of Harney and Sons Paris tea I imagined this scenario. The heartbreak of being replaced is shattering indeed.
Ruheen Mar 21
I remember the inside:
A little red; a bit of grey.
Rows of leather seats and carpeted floors.
But it was when the journey began,
And I sat down,
My feet dangling over the edge,
Just like my anticipation -
They told me we'll be under the sea.
But I felt us moving;
The slow hum I heard eased me.
My eyes flickered to the window,
My parents' voices faded,
As I watched my reflection.
Then I noticed her. In the window.
I recognized her,
From where we had left.
It was while I was on my feet,
Hand clasped in my mother's,
But eyes fixed on her.
The girl sat waiting, sketchbook in her lap,
Pencil in her hand with her legs crossed.
It was crowded and clamorous,
Yet she paid no attention,
Her gaze set on her art,
Her movements steady.
The girl's raven hair was tied
And I think she wore something blue.
We went in together.
We sat on the left,
She sat on the right,
And drew.
And drew.
And drew.
And her pencil left dark marks on snow-like paper,
As her hands moved fast, then slow.
I couldn't help but watch.
I strained to look away,
But the window only showed…
Black. Bricks.
Darker than her hair. And her pencil.
We were underwater, but I didn't care.
I was more intrigued by the girl
Who sat so close, but was so far away.
Practically living in a different world.
I was helpless, shy, way too curious.
I wondered what she was thinking. And drawing.
It was pure, innocent, fascination.
Then the train stopped.
She stopped.
I stopped.
Because we had arrived.
We left.
She was gone.
I was bored.
Again.
A memory
Zach Blackmer Feb 25
The demos of France rise to light,
To silence the cavernous glut of king.

Paris glows a bright hot white,
As the echoes of torment sing.

The people gather all their might,
To snap the golden chain.

The masters of the people’s plight,
Claw back to save their reign.

As thunder cracks to end the slight,
Paris glows a deep dark red.

The fall of this great sight,
Fills our hearts with dread.
Rajan Feb 7
The doors slid aside at Métro 1,
A interminable tube driven by an inhumane robot,
To take hundreds to their lovers, their homes, their offices.

A girl fantasying about her lover, A man scathe in love,
An old woman enamored with The Price of Salt,
facing the young man with a Kindle spirit.

A foreign girl with passion for the city,
slides through the crowd,
And an indigenous man wished he was somewhere else than here.
At the next stop a man bids a farewell kiss to her girlfriend.
And in comes a middle-aged couple,
Enters in with a hatred for one another.

I stood for my final stop,
the doors slid aside,
and I got down.

A couple of goodbye words to these swaths of strangers,
who color my dark life with smiles and tears.
"Farewell strangers, I shall meet you another day at another time."
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