A 1,000 sailors have nothing against a few well groomed tailors However a rich man could not last a second in a pile of quick sand The call to sea is the same as that of a call to a tree They are both living and dead, Their growth is the giving bread One serves their master at the bay, the other spends time selling hay The water is fresh in both cases and both men have seen many faces A sailor never retires, but a tailor does as such For when he is no longer a tailor, he considers himself a failure Yet he continues on, looking for a cause, never taking a pause Until one day, walking by the shore he sees something so beautiful his eye begin to sore So he takes his riches, buys a ship, summons a crew, and plans his trip Heading to nowhere in sight, only to see the beauty so bright And so the man was once a tailor, he is now a sailor
Why is this tragic? "We reap what we sew" Even if it ended in failure Did you not see your face glow? As you held that fabric And then started to weave.... You made that suit Not only that, it's cute That's why you became a Tailor You must believe in your own sleeve
She’s a dimple and a drag, corner of Worth and Magpie, French Vogue idioms and her mother’s red flowery hoop earrings. Aloha! Aloha! Oopty-oops in contract loot thru streets and backyard parties, concrete larders, her eyes lie like presidential promises, a slipknot of licorice around her neckline to keep her rising tide from the Menarche Moon.
Anything to keep the little penny featherweight dancer from slipping. Her siblings poke fun at her funny way of speaking, her bath tub is just an excuse for chiseling at her innards, taking a drag at her lungs and punching her duck-billed platypus in the kidneys; a heavy-weight champion of the worm.
That until all the saints come writhing off the fishing lines. Until the ballerina’s edema coexists with Tokyo extremists, serial killer behemoths that keep body parts and *** toys in the freezer. Here, here! Wrath goes to the fella with the wicked demeanor. In an area of limited sight, this country, it’s people are sickened at the sights of themselves, and the wackos are coming out in large swaths, minerals and dimples strapped to their waist belts in the throes of a menopausal demagogue heaving OxyContin down El Camino Real.
Lost to backdrops scrolling past, She sits knitting in the carriage of a train. The vague needles They scintillate and glimpse With the cadence of the wheels – Upbeating ceaselessly.
Strips of tiny loops And eyelets like dewdrops Of condensation Grouped on the superior rim.
Once in a while, She gives a heave To loosen more yarn from the skein Of Filipino-made wool, brushed worsted weave. Spun and carded from the richest fleece, Deeper in the wicker basket by her feet.
The needles flash, With ancient rhythms and attack Of duellists in their chainmail coats. With little hesitation she can tack From plain to purl to blackberry. Count back by rote or slip a stitch While the fish-eyed gimlets gleam.
All gather profusely in her lap, As windfall trove, rich-patterned And warm with peach-fuzz nap, All crafted from a single line of yarn. Marvels fall continuously from wise Spell-binding hands and all is well for now.
Here is a thimble. Your finger is protected from ******, when sewing a passionate garment. Yet the blood of a tailor, is a blessing in dark garb. Discard metal and thread carelessly. My skirt is wine red and parched.