1381

I suppose the time will come
Aid it in the coming
When the Bird will crowd the Tree
And the Bee be booming.

I suppose the time will come
Hinder it a little
When the Corn in Silk will dress
And in Chintz the Apple

I believe the Day will be
When the Jay will giggle
At his new white House the Earth
That, too, halt a little—

We found **** in the den that day
high on gas, giddy at the sight, it was inevitable really
and at half past three, sometime in July,
I slide along the living room wall
wearing chintz paper.

In my room I pirouette as a jewellery box *****,
Regal Kingsize, Butane and crushed grass
radiate like a Glade plugin (essence of rebellion).
Barbie snake eyes me “What have you done?
"Oh My God! You know how much trouble you’ll be in,
you shouldn’t have let this happen”
her voice is glacier planes and a million icicles form in my chest.
I tell her to shut her mouth while swallowing ice
before it melts into a puddle at my feet.

She never spoke again.

my naked bees are stinging knees and never dream more kind
the honey, black... they lack the knack of natural acts. they pine.
they surly fume. they bark at doom and dangle chintz and fiend,
they serve a nerve as raw as words that pinch a finch’s wings.

my wherewithal, with all your spots, are not my dots; but sod.
by all accounts, it counts for naught...but sounds a lot like god.
the absent one. the ubermensch. the lint i sent you, cracked !
a dagger’s mind. a hellish hive of worse than curse. a laugh !

la mort, petit. du jour, for sure the purest night to bleak... the white !
the eye:; it seeks to sink at least a league beneath the widening gyre !
fie !  and thunder pun my plums
of glumful dungeons, one by none.
and glory wrack my sycophants.

and ransom damage done and done

These pictures trouble sense: the abject walk,
A frontispiece of misery and dejection.
Just chintz and prints, my buddy Ray says.
We are supposed to be in Egypt, I guess.
But this Pharaoh, he’s, like, the king of all
The known world? I don’t think so. It’s beyond fake,
The faux Pharaoh, the ersatz Dynasty,
Put together in Las Vegas or something.
Then a picture of the Nile comes up:
Bulrushes, a felucca…could
That be Baby Moses floating down steam,
His head up, smiling at the camera,
A big toothy grin? Giving us the thumbs
Up sign? Well…
The last picture is a hollowed out log,
A ghost emerging from the stump, a fog
That is about to flow and coat the known world:
It seems to smell, foul and bog-like, like it
Would smell outside the frame, spilling off
The trompe-l’oeil, to fool the eye. And nose?
And stink up Pharaoh’s Pizza Emporium?
‘The World’s Best Pizza. This side of De-Nile.’
A groan from Ray, as he gets change for music.
And when the pie finally does show up…
After like 40 minutes of jukebox
—Wooly Bully and 96 Tears—
…my God, ambrosia, thin, crisp crust,
Just the right cheese…and real tomato paste…
Hey, no denial here. Pharaoh, my man,
This is great stuff, I say. Great pie. A pause.
Why, I could write a poem about this, I say.
You know, pyramid pies and Cleo’s calzones…
Naw, says Ray, don’t do that…
Besides, it’s late.

Tree and lights,
Shop window sights,
Frost and chill,
The presents bill!

Wrapping up gifts,
blizzard in drifts,
snow and gritters,
chintz and glitter.

Anticipation,
pupil dilation,
paper in shreds,
curiosity fed.

Turkey and trimmings,
mulled drinks brimming,
family and friends,
latest toy trends.

Hat and scarf,
children’s laugh,
snowman’s nose,
frozen toes.

Christmas Telly,
big full belly,
children tired,
the roaring log fire.


Offspring to bed,
all cosy and fed,
deepest sleep,
Not a sound, not a peep.

Snowflake falling,
Relatives calling,
Music and dance,
Lost in a trance.

The Festive season,
Always good reason,
To meet up and blether,
Whatever the weather
                                                          Aduain

Of all the things inside my head
I wonder which I’d choose
The shiny saucers on my wall
With patterns on them all.

Some painted by Susie Cooper
With dainty flower heads
And others Brambly Hedge
With hedgehog tucked in bed.

Then in blue and white china
And Churchill on the back
Picturesque moments of bridges
Willow chintz and that.

Finally the many flower fairies
Their delicate floaty wings
Sitting on a tree branch, Cicily Mary Barker
Who loved all tiny things.

Love Mary ***

The streets of Paris were clogged by rallies and demonstrations on the Sunday of fashion week. At the Trocadero, a pro-rally for embattled French conservative presidential candidate Francois Fillon, blocking the route between the Valentino and Akris shows; at Bastille, an anti-Fillon demonstration.

The French elections — and ever-increasing security — were providing a tense backdrop to the autumn-winter collections, much like Donald Trump, Brexit and Matteo Renzi did on the fashion circuit of New York, London and Milan this season. Politics and the changing of the guard, women’s rights and diversity may make fashion seem irrelevant until you add up the value of the industry to the world economy. In Britain it is £28 billion ($45bn) — and that is small fry next to France and Italy.

Perhaps politics and social change have influenced the French designers for there was much less street style this season and a lot more tailored, working clothes on the catwalk. They used mostly masculine fabrics but worked in such a graceful way. You need only look at Haider ­Ackermann, Chanel, Alexander McQueen, Christian Dior, Lanvin, Akris and Ellery to see this — lots of great wearable clothes.

Karl Lagerfeld wanted to fly us to other worlds (to abandon the mess here perhaps) in his Chanel space rocket. There were checks, cream, silvery white and grey tweeds, for suits and shorts and dark side of the moon print dresses that cleverly avoided the 60s’ ­futuristic cliches. Silver moon boots, space blanket stoles and rocket-shaped handbags were as space-age-y as it got. There was quiet, seductive tailoring at Haider Ackermann — tapered silhouettes in black wool and leather softened with a knit or the fluff of Mongolian lamb for a blouson or skirt. At McQueen the asymmetric lines of a black coat or pantsuit were ­inspired by the fluid lines of ­Barbara Hepworth’s sculptures, whereas David Koma reclaimed the soaring shoulderline of Mugler’s 80s silhouette for pantsuits and mini-dresses for the brand.

Christian Dior’s uniform-inspired daywear was produced in tones of navy blue with 50s-style navy belted skirts suits, long pleated skirts and some denim workwear. “I wanted my collection to express a woman’s personality, but with all the protection of a ­uniform,” explained Maria Grazia Chiuri before the show.

There was more suiting at ­Martin Grant with voluminous trousers, cummerbunds and men’s shirting. The cut was more mannish at Ellery and Celine with ­Ellery balancing her masculine oversized jacket looks with feminine bustier tops with giant puff sleeves. The mannish look at ­Celine was styled with sharp ­lapels, slim-cut trousers under crushed textured raincoats, whereas ­double-breasted jackets (a trend) and peacoats over loose-cut trousers appeared at John Galliano.

Checks jazzed up the tailoring at Akris where there were more sophisticated double-breasted jackets and swing coats, and at ­Giambattista Valli from among the flirty embroidered dresses a dogtooth coat emerged with a waspie belt and a suit with a peplum skirt.

Stella McCartney displayed her Savile Row skills in heritage checks for her equestrian-themed show. Of course, she is crazy about riding and her prints featured a famous painting by George Stubbs, Horse Frightened by a Lion. It turns out Stubbs was another Liverpudlian, like her dad Sir Paul.

Of course Hermes’s vocabulary started with the horse and there were leather-trimmed capes and coats that fitted an equestrian, or at least country theme worn with woollen beanies and big sweaters, offering a different way of tailoring, in an easier silhouette with a soft colour palette.

The highlight of the week for Natalie Kingham, buying director at MatchesFashion.com was ­Balenciaga. “Great accessories, great coats and great execution of ideas,” she says of Demna Gvasalia’s off-kilter buttoned coats, stocking boot and finale of nine spectacular Balenciaga couture gowns reinterpreted in a contemporary way. “It was wearable, modern and the must-see show of the week.” It was also, she pointed out “the must-have label off the runway with every other person on the front row decked out in the spring collection”.

Although tailoring worked its subtle charms on the catwalk, there were flashes of brightness, graceful beauty and singularity. Particularly bright were Miu Miu’s psychedelic prints, feathered and jewelled lingerie dresses and colourful fun fur coats with furry baker boy hats. Then there was the singular look evoked by Austrian-born Andreas Kronthaler in his homage to his roots, with alpine flowers, Klimt-style artist smocks and bourgeois chintz florals worked in asymmetric and padded silhouettes for Vivienne Westwood — some of it modelled by the Dame herself.

Pagan beauty, the wilds of Cornwall, ancient traditions such as the mystical “Cloutie” wishing tree led to Sarah Burton’s enchanting Alexander McQueen show, which was another of Kingham’s favourites with its unfinished embroideries inspired by old church kneelers and spiritual motifs. “I loved the artisanal threadwork and the spiritual message that was woven throughout,” she says. The artisanal and spiritual she considers an emerging trend around the shows. “It had a slight winter boho vibe but much more elevated.”

Chitose Abe shared that mood for undone beauty with her Sacai collection of hybrid combinations of tweed and nylon for an anorak, and deconstructed lace for a parka, and puffers with denim re-worked with floral lace for evening.

There was more seductiveness at Valentino and Issey Miyake. The latter’s collection shown in the magnificent interiors of Paris’s Hotel de Ville, shimmered with the colours of the aurora borealis and used extraordinary fabric technology to create rippling movement as the models walked.

Valentino was a high point. On a rainswept Sunday Pierpaolo Piccioli cheered us with high-neck Victoriana silhouettes and long swingy dresses in potentially (but not actually) clashing combinations of pink and red in jazzy patterns of mystical motifs and numerology inspired by the Memphis Group of Pop Art. The sheer loveliness of the collection was enough to drown out the world of politics only a few blocks away.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/blue-formal-dresses

Through and through the hollow
i must go. till the breach is a chasm to swallow
and the fall complete and looming.
Through and through, i follow
but don't know. till it fills me with a spasm of sparrows
and the all and all is succinct and brooding.
chintz in the blank stare
and glint in the dark
where i assume the shape of things to numb
and feel diluted.
my solution is not the void, but it's sister.
a cookie in my callous
nailed to a stormfront
behind me.

where the hole is the whole
through to you.

Thinking of
Mulled wine and a tired moon
The edges of things
A slammed telephone
How people whisper
Gossip
Thinking of
Scratchy clothes, cornflakes
Waving goodbye
Thinking of
A chintz sofa, the five o’clock news
Never thinking of you

Inwardly I am regal,
like a satin swathed
silent film star
starry eyed
rain on my bed
no more stars
stricken by my
weather
inside
My teeth shall remain
lodged in my formerly
pretty face
It's all done up
in chintz
(myself and my
deathbed)
Set the radio to
Frank Sinatra
Pour a tumbler
of scotch and
swallow the
pills
the only thing
missing is my
coffin

Who knew, then
I would have to
*****, crawl on
my elbows toward
a not so well appointed
toilet?

Not at all ready
for my close-up

There is nothing for me to think, there is nothing for me to cry
and feel sorry for yourself.
I should have admired the pink sunset
and the sunrise to wait.
In a dress made of chintz as in a favorite fairy tale
listen to the song of the bird in silence.
Day after day ... on the right ... the prince wait, on his immortal, chosen horse.
And after waiting ...
Together we study in the distance, where everything comes true, fairy tales or dreams.
And with our fairy tale, we will live a life.
In the meantime, I will not think about anything,
but for now I will believe in miracles
and pray quietly and quietly the heavens.

the day came without the full sun
with only a speck of flame in the iron chintz of the sky
and towers of dust, hovering above the low glories
where the rabbits hid from the fox
and strewn jewels were spent
on shadow coins... and all the worlds between us
clung to the husk of joy and kept vigil
in the stillness of our ungolden
pond.

but one river became two, and fed the placid pool
that slake the thirst of lost men.
a woman there, was standing
and the moon removed
no star.

I was sitting at my desk, gloomy,
I  had sent out my CV.
I wanted to be Santa's apprentice, you see;
's long as I remember, that's what I yearned to be,
And unintentionally, my words have come out all rhyme-y.

Suddenly there was a loud bang and a clang
And I toppled off my chair.
I  whipped around expecting to see
Father Christmas or at least his deputy
Come to take me up on my offer.

Instead of the gold, red and green glow,
I saw black and grey smoke curling
around my room; and out of it
Rose a sinister scythe and holding it
was the last person you'd want to see.

"Ah, the last person you'd want to see, eh?"
He said, reading my mind.
"For most I'm also the last person they would see."
He stood there, his head cocked
as if expecting me to get the joke.

"Am I going to die? Is it my time?"
I asked, all the things I've yet to do
rushing through my mind.
Especially all the swear words
left unsaid to some special people.

"Nope," he said in a dead tone,
"I'm here on official business.
North Pole is overstaffed,
So they forwarded your CV to me.
I've come to take you as my apprentice."

I stood gaping at him, my eyelid twitching.
He looked at me and I looked at him
And there was a grave silence.
"Well, giddy up," he said, "say your goodbyes,
Pack your things. Chop Chop!"

"But why you?" I asked morosely,
"Why not the Easter bunny?
Why not the Tooth Fairy?"
He snorted in derision
And looked around my room as he said,

"The Bunny doesn't take on help,
Doesn't want his precious eggs smashed.
And the Fairy has pixies to help her.
Cheer up, you'll see more action with me.
My previous helpers used to die for more."

He gave me an ominous smile.
Not entirely reassured, I packed my stuff,
Went down to bid adieu to my parents,
Left a letter to my friends,
And posted a spring punching fist to my ex.

He was sitting on my chair, one leg crossed,
his foot jangling to the death metal
blaring from my stereo,
smoking a cigar while
reading 'The Book Thief', when I returned.

"Alrighty then, let's leave," he said.
Thick smoke whirled around us
And the next thing I knew, there was another
Bang! and a curious Clang!
and we were standing in a town square.

"I get the bang, but what's with the clang?"
I asked, curious, following as he strode off.
"I pulled a prank on Santa once,
popped up behind him much as I did in your room.
Thought we'd have a laugh," he said sourly.

"The fat guy didn't like it at all,
And ever since then, every time I travel,
This bang and clang follow me.
Ruins my style, it does.
I'm usually all for silence and smoke."

"Where're we going?" I asked as we
turned into a deserted street.
"We're going to ***** out a tough old idiot.
He's escaped me for too long.
I'll have him this time for sure."

And from the folds of his robes he drew
A black saucepan and handed it to me.
I looked at him perplexed and he explained,
"We don't give out scythes to newbies.
This is the standard Reaper's 'pprentice's weapon."

Armed thus, he with the scythe and
I with the oddly reassuring saucepan,
We passed like vapour through a closed door
and floated to a bedroom upstairs.
Pretty impressed so far, I took a look at our prey.

He was a bald, thin, old man,
sleeping in this chintz armchair,
hands clasped around a rifle on his lap.
He was snoring, oblivious to the terror
that was us - the fearsome death dealers.

The Reaper's robes slithered over the carpet,
His step soft and graceful,
His eyes glinting with power.
And suddenly, the old man woke up
and started firing blindly.

I rushed for cover while the bullets
went straight through the Reaper
and got lodged in the wall.
I crept up behind the old guy
and banged him on the head with my weapon.

He crumpled, his body falling prone.
His spirit started floating up
and yet it tried to get back into its vessel.
The Reaper stepped forward and swung
the scythe, cleaving the spirit from the body.

He caught hold of that phantom
and brought out a large pouch.
Promptly stuffing the spirit into it,
he said, "A portal to Purgatory,
Hassle free way to deal with reluctant spirits."

We left the house and walked on.
We looked at each other and shared a smile.
Acknowledging with a nod the head rush,
the thrill, the coolness of our job,
We set off into the night for more.

Boy :-

deep beneath the veil
behind creaking songs of mouth -
felt fragrance of love

Girl :-

nah! torpor dreamer
fret over your own fancies -
stars won't shine the day

Boy :-

rain sweeping over
pall of clouds hiding the sun -
still I waits the smile

Girl :-

before thunder knocks
lightning burns the tweet of love-
not the right day out

Boy :-

burned pile of ashes
blown by the low moaning wind -
shines the fire of love

Girl :-

fling of youthful love
swayed faded chintz of my mind -
stony heart melted

If I Were King Of The Forest not queen, not duke, not prince
My regal robes of the forest would be satin, not cotton, not chintz
I'd command each thing, be it fish or fowl, with a woof and a woof, and a royal
growl
As I'd click my heel all the trees would kneel and the mountains bow and the
bulls kowtow
And the sparrows would take wing, if I were king

Seal this poem in a sheath of black and red lurex.
Attend a Hamar bull-jumping and seek whipping. Preserve scars in honeydew and kykeon.
Walk your familiar for at least an hour. They’ll be tired and won’t try to eat you while you sleep.
Drink a brew warm and entheogenic. Leave space in the morning to feed visions that may have spent the night.
Listen to a soft but attritional piano to wear down the centers of ennui. Satie works best.
Assemble a snack of pomegranate and snow. Shun sleet! This atrophies the gyri and leads to flower amnesia.
Arrange one’s hair into a Fresco.
Follow the pentagram of Venus through a telescope of Zeiss lenses the colour of blood.
Recline on a sofa upholstered in chintz patterns of Low's pitcher-plant.
Settle all debts in this life and the next.
Light beeswax candles and let the moths in.
Unsheathe and read this poem aloud through a conch dipped in soy paint.
Note the hour of Saturn's return.
Burn this poem.

sulphur rose petals
tumble in defiance of
the ghost breath breeze
suburban chintz fragments
red browns and
stained glass lead black
waltz together

shameless trees refuse
naturally dutiful blushes
cover their nakedness
with still dull echoes
of verdancy

Funa bask in the river
shadows beneath
what distortions
vague weather weaves

somehow my footsteps
seem too heavy