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Anais Vionet Aug 5
Vintage Chanel lives rent free in my mind
the colors are deep, subtle and magical.
Over time, the originally soft textures,
become luscious, like a lover's caressing touch.

In college, you dress down,
you want to blend in, not stand out
gods forbid you flag entitlement
and draw envy's barbed compliments.

The simple styles bear the twin burdens
of camouflage and practicality.

In Paris, fashion can be capricious,
but elegance is a silent conversation,
with its own intricate vocabulary in drape,
line, fabric and in painstaking choice.

In places where fashion matters - Paris, Manhattan, the Hamptons,
it can signal position, the way uniforms signal authority everywhere.

A splash of fashion can not only have a fabulous effect
on how its wearer feels, it can tell important stories.

I’m told that, in back rooms, where fortunes are awarded or lost,
fashion can announce arrival, rank, and intent.
It can whisper new wealth, in upstart display
or a threadbare, silent duel with mounting debt
.
.
Songs for this:
The Way It Is by Bruce Hornsby & The Range
Read Between the Lines by The Bingtones
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 08.05: Capricious: something impulsive or unpredictable.
sushii Sep 2019
as i walk upon this ground—
your ground,
i suddenly miss you,
my native brothers.

the oak trees twist and turn
signaling the return of my soul
and the loss of yours

on behalf of my kind, i truly apologize
we stole your land
and murdered you all

your statement was right—
no one can own the Earth.
we have tried,
and look where it brought us.

now we are burning up
at the expense of prosperity
and sacrificing longevity

native american blood
flows deeper, beyond fossil fuels
underneath the fracking
there’s truth buried somewhere

i can feel it, i definitely can
i wish i could scream to everyone,
“they were right!”

i wish i could scream to everyone
i wish i could bleed myself
to show them what we have lost...
to show them who you have lost.

native american blood
dries and coagulates accordingly
to our war rules

native american blood
flows no longer
stagnant in our marginalized hearts

native american truth
was our last hope
Mary-Eliz Apr 2018
Are you my muse?
Well, are You?

Every time we talk
ideas crop up

Sometimes crazy
sometimes not so much

But little flicks of light
appear
like a runway
signalling

along the synapses
of my
frontal lobe

Or a light bulb might
show up
in a bubble
above my head

No matter how
No matter where

They insist on follow through

even though some fizzle
and some just outright die

~~~~~~~~~~

So are you my muse?
I need someone to blame!

— The End —