now I, Anton, eldest and wisest,
I, nature-appointed leader by age and time,
I call this our first meeting to order
and each shall stand in silence as I read
out the rules and regulations
of this our BOYS ONLY order of OLD RUSSIA,
which I, as my first act as leader, shall name
the Anton Boys Only Group, the name obviously after myself…
And now, Artem stand still and stand at ease as Vladimir here is…
This pose with legs like a soldier's
and with hands at back, back in palm,
this is the way of the obedient follower
though I fear Artem may have a bit of Napoleon in him…
But Anton Boys Only Group we shall be
and in the streets we are destined to meet…
Now for the rules:
I am the leader and I’m always right;
you are the members of the group,
and you will always follow…
now, girls will not be allowed in this group
and no one is to come with any girls
here except me, with Galina once in a while
as she has recently been winking at me in class,
when I do attend class, that is,
and she has sent me notes
to meet her in the old shed past the fields
and once in a while, as I say,
she might be here on our way to said
location during which time
you will all keep guard
and remain as still as the Kremlin guards
or, as I’ve heard, the guards outside
****** England’s Buckingham palace.
Now, Viktor and Georgy, you are hereby fined five coins
for taking a casual attitude while I speak…
Artem, the tallest here after me,
you will be my bearer and cleaner
like carrying things I might have to carry
and dusting my coat before and after meetings
and for which I shall nominate you successor
should I run away with Galina to America…
We shall, however, always remain faithful to Mother Russia
and send you back information as and when necessary;
and also at each meeting, from hence,
each of you will bear gifts for the leader
(who, let me remind you, is myself)
like an apple, a tomato, eggs and sweets
and chicken pieces and such
as and when possible
but always at least one gift each
at each meeting as payment for the privilege
of my leadership;
and meetings will start promptly and be canceled as I wish;
and Vladimir and Bogdan and Andrey
you shall before each meeting, finish such field tasks
as my mother may have assigned me
and which I may then justly apportion to each one of you…
I do not anticipate any questions at this stage our first meeting
and so I announce this meeting over…
And Artem, you might want to dust the coat on my back…
but kindly do ensure your hands are clean first…

I squash ant that sinks teeth,
Biting my enormous otherworldly knee
Amidst fray of fleshy fingerprint
Most heroic exoskeleton betrays
A life ended,
Should i wail upon battlefield?
Come aliens forth on scale of mighty gods
What fire
What twist of fate they might bring
Upon silly little
Pink and squishy me
I shall name him,
Heroic Anton.

Adolf ******
Watch this page
"******" redirects here. For other uses, see ****** (disambiguation).
Adolf ******

Adolf ****** in 1937
Führer of Germany
In office
2 August 1934 – 30 April 1945
Deputy
Rudolf Hess (1933–41)
Position vacant
Preceded by Paul von Hindenburg
(as President)
Succeeded by Karl Dönitz
(as President)
***** Chancellor of Germany
In office
30 January 1933 – 30 April 1945
President Paul von Hindenburg (until 1934)
Deputy
Franz von Papen (1933–34)
Position vacant
Preceded by Kurt von Schleicher
Succeeded by Joseph Goebbels
Leader of the **** Party
In office
29 June 1921 – 30 April 1945
Deputy Rudolf Hess
Preceded by Anton Drexler
Succeeded by Martin Bormann
Personal details
Born 20 April 1889
Braunau am Inn, Austria-Hungary
Died 30 April 1945 (aged 56)
Berlin, Germany
Nationality
Austrian citizen until 7 April 1925[1]
Citizen of Brunswick after 25 February 1932
Citizen of the German ***** after 1934
Political party National Socialist German Workers' Party (1921–45)
Other political
affiliations German Workers' Party (1920–21)
Spouse(s) Eva Braun
(29–30 April 1945)
Parents
Alois ****** (father)
Klara Pölzl (mother)
Occupation Politician
Religion See: Religious views of Adolf ******
Signature
Military service
Allegiance German Empire
Service/branch Bavarian Army
Years of service 1914–20
Rank
Gefreiter
Verbindungsmann
Unit
16th Bavarian Reserve Regiment
Reichswehr intelligence
Battles/wars World War I
Awards
Iron Cross First Class
Iron Cross Second Class
Wound Badge
Adolf ****** (German: [ˈadɔlf ˈhɪtlɐ]; 20 April 1889 – 30 April 1945) was an Austrian-born German politician and the leader of the **** Party (German: Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei (NSDAP); National Socialist German Workers Party). He was chancellor of Germany from 1933 to 1945 and dictator of **** Germany (as Führer und Reichskanzler) from 1934 to 1945. ****** was at the centre of **** Germany, World War II in Europe, and the Holocaust.

****** was a decorated veteran of World War I. He joined the German Workers' Party (precursor of the NSDAP) in 1919, and became leader of the NSDAP in 1921. In 1923, he attempted a coup in Munich to seize power. The failed coup resulted in ******'s imprisonment, during which time he wrote his memoir, Mein Kampf (My Struggle). After his release in 1924, ****** gained popular support by attacking the Treaty of Versailles and promoting Pan-Germanism, antisemitism, and anti-communism with charismatic oratory and **** propaganda. ****** frequently denounced international capitalism and communism as being part of a Jewish conspiracy.

******'s **** Party became the largest elected party in the German Reichstag, leading to his appointment as chancellor in 1933. Following fresh elections won by his coalition, the Reichstag passed the Enabling Act, which began the process of transforming the Weimar Republic into the Third *****, a single-party dictatorship based on the totalitarian and autocratic ideology of National Socialism. ****** aimed to eliminate Jews from Germany and establish a New Order to counter what he saw as the injustice of the post-World War I international order dominated by Britain and France. His first six years in power resulted in rapid economic recovery from the Great Depression, the denunciation of restrictions imposed on Germany after World War I, and the annexation of territories that were home to millions of ethnic Germans, actions which gave him significant popular support.

****** actively sought Lebensraum ("living space") for the German people. His aggressive foreign policy is considered to be the primary cause of the outbreak of World War II in Europe. He directed large-scale rearmament and on 1 September 1939 invaded Poland, resulting in British and French declarations of war on Germany. In June 1941, ****** ordered an invasion of the Soviet Union. By the end of 1941 German forces and their European allies occupied most of Europe and North Africa. Failure to defeat the Soviets and the entry of the United States into the war forced Germany onto the defensive and it suffered a series of escalating defeats. In the final days of the war, during the Battle of Berlin in 1945, ****** married his long-time lover, Eva Braun. On 30 April 1945, less than two days later, the two committed suicide to avoid capture by the Red Army, and their corpses were burned. Under ******'s leadership and racially motivated ideology, the regime was responsible for the genocide of at least 5.5 million Jews, and millions of other victims whom he and his followers deemed racially inferior.

Contents
Early years
Ancestry
Childhood and education
Early adulthood in Vienna and Munich
World War I
Entry into politics
Beer Hall Putsch
Rebuilding the NSDAP
Rise to power
Brüning administration
Appointment as chancellor
Reichstag fire and March elections
Day of Potsdam and the Enabling Act
Removal of remaining limits
Third *****
Economy and culture
Rearmament and new alliances
World War II
Early diplomatic successes
Alliance with Japan
Austria and Czechoslovakia
Start of World War II
Path to defeat
Defeat and death
The Holocaust
Leadership style
Legacy
Religious views
Health
Family
****** in media
See also
Footnotes
References
Citations
Sources
External links

1.) tizzop introduced gangsta poetry february 2021
     no man ever before created a poetry genre alike
     gangsta poetry, robust melting *** of languages
     and ethnicities, as it reflects the united states

2.) the idols of gangsta poetry are rooted in the
      underworld, blacks, hispanics, italo- and irish-
      americans, asians, arabs, germans, kurds,
      yugos, albanians, afghans, northern-africans...

3.) multilingual are the core, heart and soul of
     a gangsta poem: glockz, rubix cubies, 31er
     salam, jebeš igru, habibis, brüder, fo' sho':
     rapid months, frozen silverfruit, whole ones

4.) every letter of gangsta poetry becomes the
     side effects of our brand's real-life greed and fury
      mourning the end of beloved baby mommas
      deaths caused by strayed bullets that vamoose

5.) gangsta poetry aims to be published among
      all ethnic communities of the 50 united states
      deadline 08/16/21 stresses american willpower
      gangsta poetry scandalously hits us's curriculas

6.) each of the 194 remaining countries is urged
     to promote and govern gangsta poetry for
     the neglected, weighted with glacial contempt
     these males and females discover their kind in us

7.) tizzop established a saying: "treat every being  
     with an open mind, but fight back, baby, if anyone
     disrespects you, the gps, or our hangarounds"
     at war, we remember our families before we blast

8.) bar none, each gangsta poet is free to connect
      affiliate and distribute with and for the gp's
      brothas and sistas -- gps create examples of
      social diversity and historical dimensions

9.) female gangsta poets are a quarter of us
      some keep it gal, united sisterhood, astute flow
      in memory of leery leyla, chalondra, kateyy,
      mountainbird, ivanka cociç, ashima abraham

10.) genderfree, gangsta poets are chosen
        undertakings composed by thugs & artists
        the spirit of a few meets strife of hood speech
        gp evolved from a movement to an own identity

11.) restrictions do not apply for written creation
        strategic outgrowth and unshaken cash flow
        gp embraces brainy ones, and our soldiers
        narrators in conspiracy, art nouveau trips

12.) gangsta poetry admires the following people:
        jeezy, killa cam, toni der assi, iron sal, dmx
        anton chigurh, sigmund freud, rashid stoogie
        larry hoover, elliot york hp, kevin of allpoetry

13.) taktloss, luis fonsi, blockmonsta, all bolivian
        and peruvian farmers, te amamos, our brothers
        187 strassenbande, senion mogilevich, nirvana
        john murphy, dem dudes alpha hotel frankfurt

14.) much love to all global units, poets, thieves
        traffic architects, hackers, true skippos
        german bakeries, all-black betting shops
        jews from brighton beach, hispanic halos

15.) benny da bandit, tony tarantula, gambino, brate
        hamza al-mighty, fat **** frank, jens, das brain
        fred merciless, familia escorpio, ruben and levi
        ali firefists, kimbo slice, scarface, oleksiy, dejan

16.) daim, loomit, dns 1up, **** my **** crew
        berlin kreuzberg 36ers, playboys hannover
        yard bird 1955, taki 183 n.y.c., basquiat, level
        dbl ffm-skychildren, bomber, city mission
    
17.) gangsta poetry overwhelmingly shaped by
       our ancestors who boosted the poetry of ages
       train bombers, rappers, trappers, taggers, cutters
       we descent from them, honor their names

18.) gangsta poets die for poems that struck
        gps, fans and critics in a possessive way
        limits of real talk and boasting are in flux
        trance batters the face of reason, at dusk


                                          *


Once upon a time at March 22nd, 2021
Kreuzberg SO 36, Berlin, Germany...
Dedicated to all Gangsta Poets Worldwide

Heaven and hell yeah, disciples outpace seconds
Greetings from Wondaland, a.k.a. The Magic City

Unsung Heroes

Although I stand on the shoulders of giants,
I fail to see much farther than the bridge of my nose.
The fault in mine. The shame is mine.
For I am unworthy of you, my beloved dead.

Emilio (Maternal Grandfather)
Your crime was literacy,
And the possession of a social conscience,
That made you yearn to see your beloved Spain remain free,
And prevented you from suffering fascists lightly.

You did not bear arms,
For you abhorred all violence,
You did not incite rebellion, though you
Rebelled against the foreign and domestic enemies of freedom.

As best I can tell you were an idealist who,
In a time of darkness,
Clung passionately to the belief,
In the perfectibility of the human spirit.

You would not abide the lies the regional papers carried,
And translated news from American and British newspapers,
About the gathering storm,
Sharing the truth freely with all who would listen.

You gave speeches, and wrote speeches delivered by others, in support of a doomed
Republic collapsing under the weight of its own incompetence and corruption.
You were warned by friends of your imminent arrest and offered passage back to the U.S. or to
Buenos Aires where so many of your friends had already found refuge.

But they would not get your wife and nine children out,
And you refused to leave them to their fate.
They came for you, as always, in the middle of the night,
These cowards with stern faces hiding behind machine guns.

They took you prisoner, not for the first time, to the Castillo de San Anton,
A fortress by a most beautiful, tranquil bay,
Where they tore out your nails, one by one, and those their
Gentlest caresses while they asked you for names.

You endured, God knows what there, for months,
And were sentenced to be shot as a traitor at La Plaza de María Pita.
But the Republic had friends, even among the officers of the fascist forces,
And one of them opened your cell door on the eve of your execution.

You had contracted tuberculosis by then, yet, according to grandmother, you
Managed to swim miles across the bay in a moonless night, to safety in the home of
Another patriot who risked his life and the lives of his family to hide you in
His root cellar and made a trip of many miles on foot to find your wife.

He found your home and told your wife of your unexpected reprieve,
And asked her to send some clothing and some shoes to replace your ***** rags.
You eldest daughter, Maria, insisted on accompanying the stranger back on foot, taking
Clothing and what provisions she could quickly gather and carry to you.

From time to time you accepted the hospitality of an overnight stay
In the attic or hay loft of a
Republican sympathizer as these were not hard to
Find in the fiercely independent
Galicia under the yoke of one of its own. But mostly you lived in the woods, with active guerrillas for years.

You lived with all the comforts of a hunted animal with others who would not yield,
Your only crime consisted of being on the wrong side of a lost cause.
I hope it brought you some comfort to know you were on the right side of history.
It brought none to your wife and none to your youngest children.

As you paid the long penance for your conscience, once a month or so, after some
Time passed, you visited your wife and children. You were introduced to the little ones
As an uncle from afar. They did not know the bearded wild man who paid these visits
In the middle of the night and left wearing dad’s old, clean clothes.

The older ones, Maria, Josefa, Juan and Toñita, all in their teens, told the little ones
That their “uncle” brought news of their dad. The younger children, still wearing the
Frayed cloaks of their innocence, accepted this, not questioning why he stayed in
Mom’s room all night and was gone before they awoke the next morning.

Your grief at playing the part of a stranger in your own home, of not embracing your
Children on whom you doted, one and all, for their protection and yours, as there were
No shortage of fascists who tried to ply them with pastries and candy,
Seeking to use their innocence as a weapon against you.

Your parents were relatively wealthy business owners who farmed the sea but
Disowned you—perhaps for your politics, perhaps for choosing to emigrate and
Refusing to join the family business, or perhaps for marrying for love in New York City
A hard working girl beneath your social station in their eyes.

You lived just long enough to see Spain delivered from war,
Though not freed of her chains.
You were spared the war’s aftermath.
Your wife and children were not.

No books record your name. Most of those who knew you are dead.
Yet flowers have long perpetually appeared on your simple above-ground burial site in
Sada that holds your ashes, and those of your eldest son, Juan, and second-
Eldest daughter, Toñita, who died much younger than even you.

Your wife has joined you there, in a place where
Honor, goodness, decency, principle and a pure,
Broken heart,
Now rest in peace.

Just why?
Tell us why did you do what you did?
Are you on the run or losing it?
Why did you ruin everything we’ve worked to keep?
You always ruin everything!

Alright, here it is.

Just why, why’d you cut us off after everything that we’ve been to?
Just think, if I made the decision to cut y’all off I had reasons to.
And what was that you posted when you have all that anxiety?
Well, to update y’all, it was just me tryna please everybody.
I ain’t got beef with anybody and I ain’t a vegetarian.
I don’t spill blood battling with my haters, instead I bury ‘em.
I don’t let intrusive thoughts affect my decision making.
I do turn on a whim, but I ain’t lost, I got priorities.
I could’ve been a savior, hell, I could’ve been a hero.
I could’ve been a full-time villain but got better ideas.
At first I gave y’all complications only so I could spite ya.
Now they’re making compilations that I ain’t even a part of.
Never skype ya.
Never talk to ya.
I ain’t buying what you selling.
Before y’all criticize that too, listen to what y’all  been saying.

So I won.
So I won.
Anton?
Why that name?
What you on?
I thought
it could be
a fresh start.
So I won.
Yeah I won.
Uh-huh.

I changed my name, like I reinvent myself yearly.
I check marked LA, shut your mouth, it is way too early.
To complain like that, wish I ain’t made it work, really?
I got my haters’ backs so I could stab them hoes there, easy.
What you talkin’ ‘bout? What the ******* mean by hoax?
Darkness in your basement, catch a light no wonder it looks sus.
I am on a level you ain’t dreamed of seeing, let alone reaching.
Your brains’ ain’t been lucid thinking, shoulda stuck to preaching.
Suits you.
Suits you, make you look more silly than you are.
If you can’t beat ‘em join ‘em, but I think I’d rather die.
I didn’t pave this road for ‘em to muddy it back up.
I’m a blueprint to myself, hate I take as a compliment.
Fruity and rocking Gucci, I’m an edible arrangement.

So I won.
So I won.
Anton?
Where the hell
‘d you get it from?
We thought
you were running
but you aren’t.
Yeah I won.
The marathon.
But I ain’t running.

I used to fear dentists, planes and social interactions.
Now I floss, I’m sky high and receive standing ovations.
These hoes oily, extra ******, when I eat I do it raw, stare.
These walking failures getting oral checked but at a dentist chair.
I sleep under palm trees *******, summer body done.
I can see y’all hoes are *******, acting downside up.
Before I let y’all disappear, you’ll see what you passed up on.
Give me a heads up, cover my ears before y’all wax on.
Wax on.
Wax on but as in y’all ******* babbling.
Still like bayou water but my jacuzzi bubbling.
I’ll send y’all postcards from vacays in countries round the equator.
Make y’all **** hurt, get y’all a good buttache alleviator.
If that doesn’t help, why don’t y’all get off my D?
If you so against me, why you fools stay fooling with me?
I keep it straight with me and I didn’t always do.
If it benefits me then that’s what I’m gonna do.
I thought they would like me if I changed a thing or two.
But that wasn’t me and I ain’t liked who I turned into.
I would leave them hanging if I felt so inclined.
For when I wanted realness but y’all ******* declined.
I’mma release poems on all my exs’ birthdays too.
Give me a fortnight,
I’mma make it too.
Starting now I should know that red and green differ.
Be this hot and I never signed a deal with Lucifer.
And next time y’all wanna kiss my ***, just say you need a ride.
I’mma pass, here’s a disclaimer, it’s me now I prioritize.

So I won.
So I won.
Anton?
Why that name?
What you on?
My prime ****
to be exact
and ain’t no act.
So I won.
So I won.
Wax on, wax on.

Get me on that walkie talkie and for ******* what?
Sick of your fucky wucky so shut the **** up.
On a brighter note, I’mma dearly thank all of my homies.
Twenty years you’ve given me support through all of my wilding.
I’ll make sure to leave y’all my address in Rosemead when I finally go.
I’mma wrap this up now, catch you on the flipside, this is Bella Goth.

The librarian walks around.
I look to my right and see a classmate watching videos on youtube about boards of canada, if she looks to her right there's a girl looking at her cellphone, the video has bicycles.
The people in the main hall can be heard all the way on the other side of the library.
I took no pictures today even though I brought my analog photocameras, there is no visual recording of this day.
I look to my left and see a large flatbed scanner, it says EPSON in big capitals and in smaller capitals it says "GT-20000".
The artworks behind the window looking into the hallway look partly improvised and partly thought out.
The reflection of a grey sky can be seen when looking up.
I think it should rain but the clouds seem reluctant to do so.
I will try to write a song today.
The brown artwork is a tree with roots.
I think that is a bit much.
The clicking subsides.
The librarian remains silent, with a sporadic amount of mouse-clicks to break up the quiet atmosphere.
I don't know what the song should be about, in fact I would like it to be about nothing which is something not easily done.
The silvery-blue artwork is made of old plastic bottles.
I liked it, it was great though I am not a fan of the cgi blood used in some scenes.
I can forgive them for it.
I am anton, I am a man in my late twenties.
The large television in the library is turned off.
The noise in the background is noticable.
The door of the toilet is opened and a girl with heavy dark make up steps trough and makes her way back to her work.
The scarf is plaid, red.
I rode my bicycle to my university, the road was broken up and I had to be creative in my driving.
I remember that my classmate records the traces of people trough frottage, it's interesting.
The fingers of students on keyboards seem to tickle my eardrums, they are a bit intrusive.
I will stay in school for dinner.
The white artwork is skeletal and weblike at the same time.
The words are on the wall and on the glass window.
I visited my personal coach who helps me in school, we discussed my plans for the weeks.
The amount of sentences should equal 26.
The noise of typing shortly intensifies.
The words released onto youtube spell titles of songs. 14
I am wondering what to do next.
I am wearing Adidas shoes, they were considered cool when my ex's uncle gave them to me as a present; I felt reluctant to take them.
I visit a university where I study arts.
The head of the author is filled with chaotic thoughts.
I think my classmate has a funny way of typing, she seems to be talking to a friend on facebook and I am not creepy at all.
The internet seems slow.
I think about the amount of documents that must have been scanned on the machine, there are scratches on it.
The voices can be recognized.
I saw monkey heads.
The cables of the computer hang against my feet and are slightly irritating.
The girl next to me changed between videos.
I signed up for a few courses, my academy requires it's students to do so.
I eat and drink at breakfast, lunch and dinner.
The library is lukewarm.
I notice that my fingers already hurt from typing, or maybe from sending text messages from my phone.
The radiator makes a low rumbling noise.
I record stories and poems on casette tapes, they find their way into simple installations.
The garbage bin is empty.
I watched the first episode of Ash VS Evil this morning.
I am warm, I am wearing a leather jacket and a fleece vest over a brown t-shirt.

~I remember...*

~For my two sisters

Future lovers
Are not knocking on my doors,
No line ups
Around the corner
Of my house;
The ladder to my window
Lies injured
On yellow
Lawn
Not nurtured,
Down bellow.

On the Queen Anne arm chair
Ashes of my
Fabulous years,
Wireless affairs,
No strings
Unattached
To my violin.

Sketches in the ****
Of lovers past
Are shivering,
Longing for my tapestries,
Trying, in vain, to hide
Under sad sepia.

Portraits, I promised
To paint
To Dorian Gray.
May still age
Given just a little
More time.

On the stage
I, Manon Lescaut, die,
Only sixteen -
Poor Knight De Grieux

Just another year,
please,
That I have not for sale
Anymore.
Pastels and aquarelles
Turned monochrome;
Chronos
Doesn't stop here
For a single moment -
Walks all over.

In the middle of my chaos
23/7
(What's an hour glass
Or more?),
Sleeps
Master Behemoth.

His fur coat
Once luxurious black
Has specks of grey,
One white whisker;
So are three of my hair.
Wise
Sybilla?

I don't think so.

It's not what
It used to be, my Master
Let's go out
To the open
Let's breathe,
Let's see new cats.
On the chopping block,
Let's lose our heads
Let's get lost.

Let's elope together
The weather
Should be
Just rainy-fine
For the Requiem,
For the funeral.

Tree Sisters gone
To the Cherry Orchard,
Uncle Vanya, again,
Left alone on the estate.
Seagull, before rain
Flies over my head
For the last time.


Author Notes
Two of my sisters are gone already.

Anton Pavlovich Chekhov's plays:
Three Sisters
Cherry Orchard
Uncle Vanya
Seagull

...To name just a few. Manon Lescaut by Abbe Prevost, two operas as well, one by Puccini, one by Esprit Auber. "A woman like Manon can have more than one lover."  The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde

Paul Andrew, Scott Schuman, Anton Magnani, Frank Charriaut
Paul Andrew, creator of his eponymous line; Anton Magnani, chief executive officer of Sutor Mantellassi; The Sartorialist’s Scott Schuman, and Carvil artistic director Frank Charriaut packed into Colette on Saturday afternoon to debut their collections for fall.

“They’re very different,” said Sarah Andelman, creative director and purchasing manager of the Paris concept store. “The only thing they have in common is ‘made in Italy.’ You have the American brand, the Italian brand and the French. We don’t want shoes that are too classic. We’re trying to find our feet.”

Andrew was debuting his first shoe collection for guys during Paris Men’s Fashion Week. “Before I started my own brand four years ago, I designed shoes for 15 years for several other designers. I was doing men’s shoes for [Alexander] McQueen and later for Calvin Klein, so I have experience in men’s shoes and I loved it. I remember that time so fondly,” he said.

Colette stocks 12 men’s styles from his label. “This shoe, which may look like a classic shoe from the bottom, [actually has] four layers of leather to the sole, which makes it more aggressive, but still in a very refined way,” he explained, also pointing to sneakers bonded with neoprene and deer skin, “which is super luxurious leather – very light, but it’s also breathable.”

Following Colette, Andrew’s line will roll out to other stores, including Barneys.

Meanwhile, Magnani and Schuman presented their collab0ration — a chic sneaker style in four color ways.

“I really wanted to have something that would have interesting color combinations because, you know, I wear blue, gray, black, taupe a little bit [when it comes to clothes],” said Schuman. “I don’t wear like crazy colors. But for shoes you can do something a little more interesting.”

“Scott really came up with the good idea of making the stripes without seeing the stitch. You can see it’s all folded,” said Magnan, referring to the sneakers priced at 425 euros, or $471 at current exchange.

The duo just unveiled at Pitti Uomo spring 2017 styles, which are white but with “more summery color combinations,” explained Schuman.

Will the pair doing more collaborative projects? “We’re not just dating, we’re married for a little while. No Brexit between us,” Schuman said.

Charriaut presented his first collection for recently revived Carvil. “Carvil is a Parisian brand that was back in the day very chic and hip, for elegant men,” he explained.

Marc Jacobs, who was at Colette Saturday for the launch of Lorenzo Martone’s new eyewear range, purchased a pair of Carvil boots. Charriaut noted they were the style designed for Bob Dylan.

Meanwhile, downstairs at Colette, fans were lining up to get a signed copy of “Undercover Jun Takahashi,” published by Rizzoli. “There’s 25 years of history in it,” explained the designer.

The book, whose release comes following the retrospective dedicated to Takahashi at the Tokyo Opera City Art Gallery last October, is chockablock with his sketches, graphic work, pictures and essays. After a stint at the specialty store, the tome will roll out to bookshops in July. It’s priced at $65.Read more at: www.marieaustralia.com | http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses

he sits in that diner and he is
two point five decades' worth of emotion
compressed into a single, nervous point:
the relentless tapping
of keratin kissing linoleum.

he hears everything:
fingers curled round coffee cups
money whispering out of wallets
his thoughts clattering around like ice cubes
in the lemonade he asked for.

(his glass sweats, and so does he.)

one down. there's ice on his tongue, melting, and
he's feeling the weight of it
like the boxes crammed into his rattle-trap car,
like a pin pressed into a corkboard map,
like his signature at the bottom of a new lease.

(like a warning, and a hand on his wrist:
"you ain't gonna like it there, anto.")

last sour, pulpy sip as he decides
to pay it no mind and to play it
by ear. even now the distant city bustles
and he'll do ninety on the highway to catch it,
metamorphic in his fragile metal chrysalis.

The bus roars on
With blinding speed
Sparing nothing behind
Crushing each object on its way
To where it goes?
No one knows.
Passengers sit
Going along
Towards futility
Pockets heavy
Like never again
Expressions dead
Like never before
In a trance
They were not so always
When kids,
They'd never known of the bus
Till while growing up they heard about it
And till it finally made
That perilous halt
Right at their doorstep!
Yet they wanted to keep away
But were stealthily enticed
Led!
Forced!
Pushed into!
Driven!
Inside the bus....
On the bandwagon
And once inside
The noise and shine
All shut their eyes
And blinded their eyes
Froze their brains
And now
They became one of them..
Them travellers...
All in vain to be...
If only I'd stayed behind
away from all this show
I'd have had so much more!
Who wants the comfort of these seats
Or the delicacies they serve here
Niether the coins of gold and silver
They keep stuffing in our pockets
Making them heavy
So I can't get up
And run out
And I guess
No matter how much i wish otherwise
I have to stay
So that each time I pass my house
I can throw all coins I've collected
And yet
Each time my pockets feels light
I wish to go out
But!
More coins
Bigger and shinier
Would be stuffed in
And the weight
Would anchor me down
Ah!Life!
I miss all of it!
All of what is out there
I can see
See... but do nothing
I look around in the bus
Eyes with fulfilled hollowness
Yearnings
Wants
And underlying concealed longings
So devoid of joy
Or any emotion
Blinded by ever increasing ambitions
Yet decorated
With memories
That slowly drain away
Desires....
When did they last sit with friends
On a careless bench in the park
Laughing.
Talking.
Mocking.
Enjoying.
Living!
When did they last stop
To feel the air all cool and comforting
Dance around them?
When did they last feel
The joy of the innocent raindrops
Hearing it pitter patter on their umbrellas
See it skip in the water
And then feel it dissolve in their skin.
When last did they sit with their mothers
And cried their hearts out?
Or just talk with her
Thank her
And tell her how much they love her
When did they last spare moments
To forget all world
And get lost in old photographs
Remains of the past
Of time that was the sweetest
And that which never again would be.
When last did Anton who sits all faded at the back
Paint with his beloved brushes
Coloured the canvas
Coloured his world
When did Raghav
Who now lies beside me like a lifeless carcass
Last flirt with his romantic guitar
Wearing music
That made him look so full of life
Their fingers are all decayed
Stiffened
Under the load of crude machines
When did that old man
Last hug his son
And kissed his daughter
What was the last time when
That woman danced
To her favourite songs
Not at a party
Not for concerts
But for herself
To give her that joy
And the sheer euphoric high
Oh!
We have missed out so much!
Stray walks in the parks
On cold grass
Thousands of sunrises and thousands of sunsets
Gazing at the ever changing clouds
Dancing with the winds
Talking to friends
And family
Who are real and not just some animated strangers
Who appear each night for an hour
And then ravish
We have missed out on those walks in the sends
Barefoot
Just staring at the opera of water with ripples and wares
Admiring the night sky
Watching those many birds
Fly high
Carefree
Unbound
We have missed out on those unbeatable flavours
That mothers conjure.
Those rides on the bikes,
Away from worries.
Those strolls with the beloved.
Those heartiest of laughs with siblings.
Those cleverest of pranks.
Those sweetest of quarrels,
The sheer enigma of accompanying silence,
When we sat with ourselves.
Oh! We have missed it all!
Now the world is this bus
Where each one travels
Willingly or otherwise
Passengers keep adding
Once in,
You cannot go out
And the slightest of attempts
Raises so many brows
And all stares are on you
And so you have to let go
Just continue sitting in the bus
Lying there like a prisoner of our own law
And what you get in the end is nothing
Just pass on the legacy
To travellers who come
Keep coming.
I know how much I've missed
I know how much I've lost
Oh! How I'd give anything to get out
Where i could have all that i really want
This world with its ways
Constantly suffocates me
Darkness smuggles around me
My tears are all drained out
My voice lies buried somewhere within
And emotions have long extinguished out
Driving me mad
As each second counts ahead
I see the bus marching gallantly
Destroying all dreams
That are strewn ahead
Some of them are mine
Or were....
And more of them will come
And be destroyed
And can I do just nothing
But sit here hopelessly
Be led
And driven
To empty glory
Away from all that I have?
From all that I steadily lose?
From all that I care for?
From all that I want?
Oh! Enough!
I have had a lot of this ride
Now make way for me
I am done with this confinement
And now I reclaim my life.
Ah! They stare at me again
Raising their brows
Horrid expressions
As if I am wrong!
Who cares what they think!
I am now going back
Some of them want to come with me
But are scared of others
But I have seen a lot!
Take these empty coin of yours, I say
Throwing them all away and rising up
My breath is returning and so is my voice
I'm going back to where I'll be free
And happy!
And be able to live and not just drag on!
And so the bus slows and I shout to the driver
Stop this world!I want to get off!

People attending the London premiere of a new film about Nelson Mandela were told of his death as the closing credits rolled, on 5th December 2013. My new poem is written in honor of the anti-apartheid icon and I invite you to read it here https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lights-Madiba-Action/345492948926266 .

Like it, share it and get privileged access to my writings.

Iulian-Anton Brudiu

There I sit,
On my beautiful Nel,
The big girl that always lights my world.
A Russian Don by blood,
But she’s a Texas cutter to me.
Here we sit,
Watching this wonderful West Texas sunset.
She grazes on some prairie grass;
I chew on a cat-tail.
I wish we could have ridden,
With Jesse and Bill,
And become legends,
Here in these hills.
The canyons would echo our youthful cries,
Of excitement and joy,
While we just ride, run, Live.
Maybe in those days,
Nel could have run in the pastures,
of an old Texas myth,
and I could have wrassled some cows,
to earn the spurs of my grand-father’s,
father.
If we were on the trail,
Drivin’ some Angus and Belgian Blues,
Up north to Kansas City,
And maybe one night,
The boys and I could sit around the fire,
And stare up at the stars,
Wondering which stellar painting,
Looked most like our horse.
I want the times,
When Grand-dad and Nana Ma,
Would sit on their porch,
And gently swing another night away,
Like they had done,
For the last 50 years.
Nel would be my company;
My loyal bride;
While I rode south towards San-Anton’.
And we would meet up with,
Travis and Bowie,
To fight Santa Anna,
As he rushed the ol’ palisade,
Of the mission where I would die.
The Bexar province would weep for we few,
Who stood for the ideals of a noble, new nation.
Yet,
All ideals eventually come and go.

Well, me and Nel,
We ain’t never seen a cattle drive.
We ain’t ever been outside this here pasture.
So our dreams remain dreams,
And our hope remains void.
My Cowboy Dreams,
And her beautiful mane,
Grow faint and grey,
Every Single Day.

Dear Ian
The First always tastes like honeyed-sunlight on cheek and windowpane:
first kiss, first cigarette, first rooftop.
I never wanted to come down.

Dear Greyson
Beautiful and empty.
Our hands didn't fit right.

Dear Anton
Thank you for kissing prayers into the crosses on my forearms.
It wasn't enough.
I'm sorry I kept you on your knees.

Dear Eli
*******.

Dear Wyatt
We were high and you were there.
Your mouth tasted like sour milk
and I was lonely in the morning.

Dear Ian
Snorting coke off my naked body was all you needed.
I think I caught you too late.

Dear Cody
Thanks for the ****.
I'm sorry I made you leave--
I couldn't stop looking at the orchid petals falling on my windowsill.

Dear Howard
I never realized my power
until the day I let you finger me in the seasonal section of a CVS.

Dear Sky
Loving you was like loving river currents.
I lost myself in the way you looked at me like
you were looking past me.
I'm still learning how to let go of dead things.

Dear Jessica
I was high on painkillers for the 6 months you tried
to bring me back down.
But if you had a condo on a cloud
I'd have stayed at your place.

Dear Robert
I just needed a prom date.
Don't read into it.

Dear Sarah
You and spring rains are synonymous.

Dear Vanessa
Venus.
Someday I'll come back.
We'll paint piazzas into dusk.

Dear Maya
Your lips were swollen honeysuckle and I was all hummingbird.
I wish you could've held me after.

Dear Alyson
We never met in person,
but the way you glittered behind my phone screen
fogged up the glass with light-hot possibility.
Our timing wasn't right.

Dear Amélie
"On n'aime que ce qu'on ne possède pas tout entier."

Dear Izzy
I would've sewn stars down your backbone.
That night at the End of the World, we held eternity in our fingertips.
or maybe it was just the *****.

Dear Brendan
Drunken lapse in judgement.
I'm not "experimenting", I'm actually gay.

Dear Sara
I wish I was looking for something casual.
The Washington Sq. Park fountain will always be holy.
Bless my forehead whenever.

----

Dear Jesse*
It's time to fall in love with your palms.
They fit together perfectly.
Plant chrysanthemums in your abdomen
and let yourself bloom again.
Like it's the first time.
Like you owe it to yourself.

Halloween:Truth or Tricks??
Halloween evolved from "All Hollows" Eve. It originated from the pagan holiday honoring the dead. On All Hallows Eve, the veil between the world of the living and the world of the dead was thin. It allowed the souls of the dead to come back to earth and walk among the living

Halloween is a religious holiday belonging to the Roman Catholic Church. ... The holiday is “All Hallows Day” (or “All Saints Day) and falls in Nov.

Jehovah's Witnesses: They don't celebrate any holidays or even birthdays. Some Christians: Some believe the holiday is associated with Satanism or Paganism, so are against celebrating it. Orthodox Jews: They don't celebrate Halloween due to its origins as a Christian holiday. Other Jews may or may not celebrate it

While the Bible doesn't mention Halloween specifically, it does, of course, have lots to say about the forces of evil. ... Scripture is full of stories where good and evil are pitted against each other, as well as Bible verses that offer wisdom about facing darkness, deception, and fear in your own life.

Samhain (pronounced 'sow'inn') is a very important date in the Pagan calendar for it marks the Feast of the Dead. It is also celebrated by non-Pagans who call this festival Halloween. ... Samhain has been celebrated in Britain for centuries and has its origin in Pagan Celtic traditions.

A few observations:
HALLOWEEN is the most important day of the year for Devil worshippers, according to the founder of the Church of Satan, and everyone else has been urged to avoid celebrating this “dark” day

Anton LaVey founded the Church of Satan in the US in 1966.

He was the country’s most prominent Satanist up until his death in 1997 and authored several books, including The Satanic Bible, The Satanic Rituals, The Satanic Witch, The Devil's Notebook, and Satan Speaks.
In the Satanic Bible, Mr LaVey wrote: "After one's own birthday, the two major Satanic holidays are Walpurgisnacht (May 1st) and Halloween.”

Walpurgisnacht, or Saint Walpurgis Night, is a German annual event which is known in German Folklore as Witches Night.

Even today, the Church of Satan recognises Halloween as an extremely important day for evil.

The occultists’ website states: “Satanists embrace what this holiday has become...

Psychofuck America
Drive to San Anton
The Mercan Night is Dark
Throw a Rolling Stone

Lay in bed and lonely
Psychology so sad
Friends for the boys
Peace for my dad

             Please.

The heart is but the microcosm

      of the universe's macrocosm

      which holds it in its gladsome *****

      where love is,  there's the richest blossom

Perhaps I’m addicted to the darkside within my internal landscape, display in false veil of happiness, though it’s the poverty that got us trading places, now there’s nothing but hate in bitter harsh terrain, with no healing hands that guide us to Zen and a moment of peace. I don’t hang around much, this grind got me out of touch. In quiet times got me thinking of what we could of been, I ****** around and got attached to you, the only thing I did good was write poetry, because it’s the only thing that you noticing & settled on self-made false conceptions of anything else in regards to me, it brings violent threads of emotions inside my private life that those conceptions seem right to you. With no hope in the future, there's bitterness when I speak, maybe I’m too ignorant that won’t change from now until the end of time. For I pray for my soul to rest & anything to come down & take me away. I’m feeling used, still I am consumed by you, all this time is passing, it hurts my soul everytime I’m reminded of you, I hate myself for allowing my heart to be attached to yours, I hate that I want you, I’ll never be him, I see you when you’re not around, still got images of us of times when you don’t remember, anyone can break your heart, I’ve grown tired of humanity, but never of you, I have my own feelings & love, but you never made an effort to be apart, there was alarms in my life, but I continued, now everything is a ******* mix & the hate inside is taking over my entire being. Everyone I do right by, ends up doing me wrong. I have Muse, meet Deities in my life, travelled with gypsies, meditated to Zen, smoked ancient Heavenly, meet Mystics & talked philosophy, I went from ****** in homelessness to writing poetry & fiction, never finished school & made my own movies, been to Europe & went to lodge with royalty & instead all my memories are filled with you. For the only thing I can give my right hand to is yours. All I got is hate, no I don’t owe you, no I don’t know you, I lay back with this bag of magic dust, gives me the strength to deal with bizarre **** in my mind, for I have returned back to evil, just to destroy, I have grown sick & tired, stop with the thinking, Demons are my friends & have meet in this life before death. Becoming so hateful I can glare & burn you into Hell where Baphomet lives. Jealousy is love & hate, my rare breed can have you bleeding in vain, your future is in the same place as you are now, besides the despair is more intense, no love lost, no love found. Oh fate in life, don’t hurt me no more, I have given up, on the silence given to me, while I still worry, is this hell? I married to myself, devoted to myself. Open Bibles burn. Anton Lavey is my hero. Grinding pills into dust, than I volunteer at the nursing home. I wake up with the intentions to spread the Devil’s message, after all, strapped to me like a bomb, willing to live is the willingness to commit suicide,  I’ve meet him in person, even without believing, before the act of dying. You know why my hand is numb? My sister ****** me off & I didn’t ***. Put it back Sisqo, you know where it belongs, **** your love songs. Than I smacked my sister for speaking ****, she said I couldn’t write poetry, so-what she’s handicap. I’m here to save generations of babies. Because in a Biblical sense, I am a ******* witch. Judas is my virtue & forgiven me. Hey *****, I ******* hate you. I’ll **** you before killing you, than film afterwards of sloppy seconds, I know some Serbs that will finance my retirement for that tape. Next time you see an Outlaw, pay him respect or get shell-checked. I’m taking back what belongs to me, the only way you’ll see me again, is by Machiavelli. My life is mine & is too Holy for another. It is way I’m so closed up. Screams of the Musing world. Denied, cause I’m too much for you, never to think that you’re too small for me. Sell my your soul & I’ll **** in your ******* sleep.

mottled bookmarks pin  
     tiny fragments of mine.
       pages unfold from within
   and resist to curve behind the time.
       grimaces fade into memoirs.
         suit coats on petit bourgeois
     wink at my shredding guard vest of tin.
           to wipe off those band-aids,
             to slim my baggage sutcase,
       to bury the laundry in silk waters is to see
             it's lifting aloft no casting aground
               so I murmur aloud shunning the clout.
         a biting leech tot under battings of the brick.
               me overlooking my hot spice of a boy
                 is cringy to mimic a sickening coy.
           seems like I'm a worm and blood I eat and drink
                   to transmiss leukocytes all over the globe
                   when my maw is stuffed and my bulge bobes.
         two sides of me rubbed along are two poles.
                 I bite far and I link two organisms
               meds' substitution with itchy feelers
       and a deep chested sweetheart, him I fret.
               when to run my slabber in his blood
             is to dehydrate and self-slenderize me?
     awe-eyed lover man slim'd my tube in size.
           me be loved for a healer then be dumped
         but it's in my cytoplasm and in my blood
   to bottom the gutters as if by dirt under the fingernails.
         a biting thot inside the bloodsucker ***
       seen by people as a nocuous germ.
they may wash their hands with a laundry soap
       everybody is no island, I unrobe my cloth.
     to cut sheets from life diaries isn't tougher any more.
© 4 days ago, Anton   nature  • humor  • personal  • societ

I read lots of Russian lit (in translation, of course) while in Viet-Nam

I understood poor, young Raskolnikov
And read all I found by Anton Chekhov
Remembered nothing about Bulgakhov
Heard naughty whispers about Nabokov
Thrilled to the Cossacks in old Sholokov
And then I learned about Kalashnikov –
This, I decided, is where I get off!



Moc Hoa (pronounced something like “mock wah”) is a now-prosperous town on the Song Vam Co Tay near the border with Cambodia.  In 1970 it was rather down at the heels and was a center of military activity, including mercenaries presumably controlled by the C.I.A*.