Valentino has its red, Versace its Medusa logo, Chanel the tweed that lines dresses and jackets and handbags each season. In the fashion world, these nuances of texture and color, in conjunction with shape, are what help define a brand's identity, what ultimately makes them feel familiar to consumers; they are fashion's version of DNA. Designers carving out their place within the industry will often land on their own set of signatures that are built upon with each new collection—but Patric DiCaprio, the 26-year-old designer of Vaquera, isn't interested in "buy-ability" or recognizable traits. "We are obsessed with keeping people guessing" he says. "We want that to be our thing."

In the three seasons since launching the New York-based brand, DiCaprio has infused Fashion Week with the sort of Dionysian energy once felt at early John Galliano shows. For his Summer/Spring 2016 show, staged at the Church of the Ascension in Greenwich Village, models walked the aisle to the Smashing Pumpkins in baptismal baby-doll dresses and ruffled bloomers, with DiCaprio's boyfriend closing the show in a wedding gown. In February, with new partners David Moses and Bryn Taubensee on board, a debaucherous cast of models dressed in Victorian-meets-club looks danced, lifted their skirts and put their cigarettes out in audience member's drinks at the China Chalet venue in the Financial District.

"Vaquera is about constant reinvention," DiCaprio says of his no-guts-no-glory ethos. "It's about the future; the future of style and clothes, but not in the cliche of futuristic spandex and metallics."

Much like his collections, the designer's path in fashion has been far from linear. Born and raised in Alabama, DiCaprio attended a private Christian school before studying photography at a public university in the South. An internship with DIS Magazine offered him a crash course in art direction and styling, and the opportunity to draw creative fuel from New York—a city that has very much proven to be his creative elixir.

"I felt like I had been underwhelmed for my whole life," says DiCaprio, who moved to the city five years ago and taught himself to sew through YouTube tutorials. "When I first came to New York it felt like I had finally gotten my head above the water and had oxygen for the first time. This place was overwhelming in the best way." DiCaprio spoke with PAPER about his creative approach, his unconventional path to fashion and his idolization of David Bowie.

What sparked your interest in fashion?

I think it's always been about clothes for me. When I was in middle school and high school I was always in bands. I was obsessed with Screamo and David Bowie—the groups that had such strong visual aspects to their work. But I think part of me always felt like I was doing that so I could assume the look. Screamo bands would let me wear the size zero, ultra-stretch white jean. With David Bowie, I wanted to wear the gold eyeshadow; it was always about the look.

How did studying photography lead you to fashion design?

My school was very focused on the craft—the dark room and perfect exposure—but I think I was on the opposite end, I was interested in what was happening in the photo. I left college to do an internship with DIS Magazine and because they're involved in so many creative avenues like photography and styling and art and video, I was able to get a realistic vision of things. The experience [with DIS] made me realize I was less interested in photography and more interested in creating these characters.

When school ended, I moved to New York and and worked with DIS again and then with VFiles in [the archives department]. I'd go through old issues of ID and Paper and Dazed and it taught me a lot about fashion history. I had been removed from all of that when I was growing up, there was no Chanel store in Alabama, there was no Dazed And Confused at the Barnes and Noble in Alabama. Coming to New York I was able to get my hands on the clothes and study these old magazines.

How did you get that initial internship though?

I'm obsessed with Tumblr. I got on it more than eight years ago, and it was a huge part of helping me reach out to people. People that I'm still friends with now—Hari Nef and Juliana Huxtable—I met through Tumblr; they moved to New York before me and motivated me to do the same. So I emailed the team at DIS, and asked if I could show them my photography portfolio—which sounds so funny to say now—and they offered to show me the ropes. They hooked me up with Avena Gallagher, who is an inspiration and has taught me everything I know about styling.

About two years ago I started working for her and became obsessed with styling. I styled Charli XCX for a year—and it was exciting, definitely closer to what I wanted to do but it wasn't exactly it. I wanted to pull specific things—1980's Issey Miyake, but there was no way a no-name stylist like me would be able to get my hands on it. So I bought a sewing machine and started sewing the things I wanted for photo shoots. Vaquera started as an art project that wasn't about wearing the clothes or making something for Opening Ceremony—it was about making clothes that I could then shoot. The final product was the look book.

What made you decide on the name Vaquera?

A few different reasons. I was reading a book by Tom Robbins called Even Cowgirls Get The Blues and it was really informative for me at the time. I was also working in a kitchen as an expediter with a bunch of Mexican line cooks and they had a lot of pet names for me, like "el pato" which is gay slang for f—got, and "little baby doll." They knew I was from the South so they'd call me "La Vaquera" because that's Spanish for cowgirl—even though cowgirls aren't Alabama, it's more of a Texas thing. So I just called the project Vaquera. It seems so arbitrary now, I'm stuck with it for better or worse.

What's been one of the challenges of keeping things future-focused?

I've had criticism from people that it's such a bad business model to reinvent yourself each season, that no one's going to know what to expect from you. Buyers are going to be confused, you're never going to make any money. And I've just been like, "Well, I think we don't have any interest in that." We are obsessed with keeping people guessing—we want that to be our thing. I try my best to keep it a secret until the day of the show and then just let loose.

So we're going to assume you won't be giving any clues about next season's show.

Oh my god, i don't want to give it away! I think people want to see billowy-sleeves but that's out the door. We're doing something completely different. Romantic but a whole different definition of romance.

How has working with David and Bryne changed things for you and the brand?

Last season it was like a whole new brand. We came together through Avena and it feels like we're progressing, which is exciting. I got sick of doing everything alone. For the Spring show I sewed everything, produced it myself, got the location, cast it myself.

And did you collapse after the show ended?

It was a serious problem, it became impossible. I realized I was either going to have to plateau so I could get my life together or I was going to have to find a way to expand the vision. I trust Bryne and David with my life and they understand my vision but have their own ideas. It was a necessary change.

So many designers have expressed concern about the relentless pace of the industry recently.

All these different seasons—pre-fall, couture, designers showing things that are going to be available for purchase the day after the show. That's so scary for people like us who are on our hands and knees in the living room cutting the clothes and can barely get them made in time for the show.

Do you want to stay independent? What are the benefits and detriments, in your opinion?

I think we want to stay independent. I want to make money but I don't want to feel pressure to do certain things. I'm already so sick of that show we just did—already on to the next one. It's like with Demna Gvasalia getting the Balenciaga job: I was so disappointed to see him doing the same thing he did at Vetements at Balenciaga, but then I realized, with all the money that's involved and when you're working with these huge offers, there's contracts. Money complicates things in a way that I think can hurt people's creativity. Maybe you'll make a lot of money for a few years, but you might forget how to make exciting things because you're stuck with the designs that worked well one time. I want to make money, but we want to find different ways of doing it.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-melbourne | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide

I sat there before the man puzzled in a loss for words now I finally understood how most people dealing with me felt for a change.
So what do you think?

The man asked with a gleeful look in his eye minus the ****** gay *** musical covers of once kickass music .
Looking at the cover of what was supposed to be my master work A Cold Beer Beats A Warm Heart yes a shameless self plug really if that's the lowest you believe I have sunk in life I feel sorry for you.

I viewed the cover looking for a nice rational response to my publisher let's call him **** for brains ******* I wish would die!
And you thought I hated the like button.

It ******* ****'s **** amigo.
What ? ,Are team spent hours designing this it's catchy and edgy
it screams you .

I knew this man without a doubt was on far better drugs than I had ever tried in my life once told me one thing.
I really needed to figure out where this guy  hid his drug's.

Okay what don't you like about it?
Duh who wants a picture of Leonardo Dicaprio  on there cover of there book.

What? The man looked at me stunned then looked at the cover again
that acid must really be kicking in for he kept doing this several times before finally breaking his odd silence.

It's a picture of a water bottle next to some swiss cheese .
Duh ******* I said in a respectful manner like I said who wants a picture of that ****** bag Leonardo Dacaprio on there cover .

What the hell are you talking about this cover is brilliant we have been working like almost  one whole day to put this together  now what's the ******* problem with it?

The publisher said this to me in his outside voice and being it was indoors it led me to believe the stuff he was on was wearing off .
I had to try another approach I had to  get down to his level and this couldn't be achieved with any store bought whiskey so I broke out
my trusty mason jar and took a big hit of some good corn whiskey.

After finally catching my breath and when my vision slightly returned I broke my silence.

Look my friend it's simple when selling a book with my name on it
the reader expects a few simple thing's
One bad taste and bad spelling.
Two long writes of total ******* with lots of mentions of ******* .

And most important a cover with some hot half naked  strippers duh
what doesn't say poetry like hookers ?

Okay and your point is this strange man who signed me to a contract
yet thought for some reason the crazy **** I spoke of was simply a act.

My point is you can't put a picture of Leonardo Dicaprio on my book.

It's not a picture of him it's a water bottle next to some swiss cheese .

Shh I told this delusional man, far worse than myself .

I motioned him to lean closer and in a whisper I said what about the curse?

What ******* curse he said once again in much to loud of a voice I swear this man was far harder to train then one of my barley legal girlfriends  course I didn't have my whip or coyotes I'm kidding I don't have any coyotes what do I seem like Lily Mae ?

Look sir everyone knows  about the Dicaprio .
The what ?, Are you ******* insane  ?
Well yes but that's not the point here sir by the way what's that sent your wearing?

Oh it's axe do you  like it's broke back swallow lighting.
No actually I was going to ask had you ran over a skunk or a French *****  .

We rambled on a bit and after couple of hit's from Mr Gonzo's  family recipe.
Then just to drag this ****** out we spoke about how axe body spray is great if you want to smell like a French ***** not that I know any but hey message me I'm always here cause I have no life .

But enough with the foreplay children.

I told my ever so high and drunken pain in the **** friend the legend of the Dicaprio and how if you said his name four time's in the mirror after the fourth time he would appear  and then take you hostage while torturing you with the cruelest act possible .

Making you watch all his boring *** movies while jerking him off on the couch till you were bored to death.

Oh my God ! ,The publisher responded in terror !
We have to stop this book from getting in the hands of young people everywhere !

The publisher knowing just how serious this matter was called the publishing house slash back room in a Atlanta **** theater .

But it was to late the books had already been sent out .

And soon something far worse than a zombie outbreak would take hold of the world one city at a time .
Dear Lord what had I created ?

It all started off so innocent just like a **** movie with script really does anyone care to have art direction in there ****?
Some little hamster would buy the book in some bargain rack thinking why is that ****** bag Leonardo on the cover ?

Then they would show it to a friend the book I mean whatever they do in there private life is up to them I'm not judging but if there hot chicks send me a pic or two I'm just saying throw a dog a bone  .

But then the two hamsters would always mention hey have you ever Dicaprioed?  
And as always that heartless ******* would strike again dam you James Cameron  what did you unleash upon this earth.

I would go in hiding in shame for my creation of course I still spent my royalty checks on hookers ***** and *******  but although I seemed happy inside I was hurting .
Duh I'm kidding  hell anyone dumb enough to summon the dark lord of boring *** movies gets what they deserve.

My publisher would hang himself well I can always wish .

And as all ten of my devoted fans scratched there heads as to why is there a pic of a ****** bag on the cover .

The answer was simple .

Cause publishers are stupid and more high than I could ever be so
don't sign **** kids or you to will be driven into the depths of further madness much like yours truly .

Stay crazy.

Gonzo

I wish I could party with Leonardo DiCaprio
We'd be crazier than "The Wolf of Wall Street"
Johnny Depp would be there, too, riding in the backseat
He would come up and sit with Leo and I, at the party on the couch
And say "Arnie stop it, you're doing too much coke. AHA, just kidding now scoot over and let me have a blow."
After we'd wipe our noses, up we go
To dance, dance, dance and drink drinks that glow
Hours on end we would spend our money brutally
Because our money basically speaks english fluently
Yeah, Leonardo DiCaprio would be a badass friend
Johnny Depp too, we'd have too much fun in the end

My heart goes numb
And my stomach turns sour
When it becomes apparent
That best male actor
Has been won by a man
With an alliterative name
And I still have
The same number of
Oscars
As Leonardo DiCaprio

And just like that, the two most impossible things happened.

1. We were over
2. Leonardo DiCaprio won an Oscar

Rock this boat with your weight,
sink us to the ocean ground,
the emotional baggage was too much,
we took on one to many pounds.
So as we sink down let us remember,
how we were so light once,
flying through the sky,
now I am your dunce,
and we say goodbye.
But while you continue to sink I must let go,
like that cheesy moment with Leo DiCaprio.
Because this isn't the titanic,
we were not as beautifully indestructible,
so no need to panic,
this should have been predictable.

I couldn't figure why she left
so I killed her

killed the memories cut feelings-- severed;
Dismembered in these compositions, decomposition
skeleton's wish the fishes
she was swimming I could her listen,

how her waves are getting colder
silent as the ink turns to water.

drown in my notebook
choke like my love did,
no trace missing person drown in my hatred

drown you are baptized, opposite, soulless,
drown you just capsized, titanic,
roses
decapitate her DiCaprio
even playing all the roles I only get one Oscar?

you left me all alone babe,
so I safely took the safety off
like you,
safely made my core soft sole cause of secrets sore cause I keep them

no

I won't die with you Juliet,
slaughtered by a ball point to you I will be Shakespeare

and lately,
it mattered how I showered you with care
maybe
but it mattered how I showered you I swear
you left me you tempt me this weapon my intent
my motive, now I indent-- rarely but clearly this death will be punctual
Capital
punishment to you in my college ruled,
my hands electric

black attire
funeral-- my ivory dinner jacket,
remember you said it's a crime to fall in love
and I plead guilt to your probable cause

now the pigs wouldn't find her
not in mud,
not in dirt,
I'm on drugs,
not on earth,
still in love,

she,
vanished
the reality set in, even though you left I'd marry the poem that I killed you in--
I'd marry the words you left me with.

He's accosted Kim Kardashian, Brad Pritt and Ciara, but red carpet prankster Vitalii Sediuk tried his luck with a much fiercer face on Tuesday.

The Ukrainian journalist approached US Vogue editor, Anna Wintour, outside the Chanel show at Paris Fashion Week.

Wearing a black headdress and glittery sequinned glove, Vitalli broke through the security barriers and ran up to the notoriously icy journalist as she exited the show.

With a microphone in his hand, Vitalli could be seen attempting to get her attention - but nonchalant Anna kept her cool and dismissed the prankster, striding straight past him.

Anna's security stepped in immediately and removed the prankster, who made a peace sign with his hand.

Anna is by no means the first star that Vitalli has pranked.

He famously targetted Kim Kardashian in September last year in the huge crowd that gathered around Kim and her husband Kanye's car as they arrived at the Balmain show at Paris Fashion Week, in which her sister Kendall Jenner was walking.

In bizarre scenes, Vitalii - the prankster who accosted Brad Pitt at the Maleficent premiere in Los Angeles earlier last year - was reported to have pulled Kim's hair [which he denies] and almost knocked the then 33-year-old starlet to the ground, in front of Kanye and her mother Kris Jenner.

Security quickly jumped in and escorted a shocked Kim into the building.

This was just one of the many times the former journalist has had run-ins with celebrities including America Ferrera, Leonardo DiCaprio and Jennifer Lopez.

Brad Pitt recently spoke out about the infamous run in with the now-notorious Sediuk at the Malificent premiere in Hollywood in late May.

The movie hunk said he was forced to defend himself after the Ukrainian television personality tried to 'bury his face in my crotch.'

Brad said he was having a great time mingling with fans on the red carpet, but things soon turned nasty when Sediuk sparked a melee that left the heartthrob with broken sunglasses.

He told People: 'I was at the end of the line signing autographs, when out the corner of my eye I saw someone stage-diving over the barrier at me.

'I took a step back; this guy had latched onto my lapels. I looked down and the ****** was trying to bury his face in my crotch, so I cracked him twice in the back of the head – not too hard – but enough to get his attention, because he did let go.

'I think he was then just grabbing for a hand hold because the guys were on him, and he reached up and caught my glasses.'

The Moneyball star said he likes people to have fun, but argued Sediuk's antics could end up spoiling glamorous Hollywood events for everyone else.

He said: 'I don’t mind an exhibitionist but if this guy keeps it up he’s going to spoil it for the fans who have waited up all night for an autograph or a selfie, because it will make people more wary to approach a crowd. And he should know, if he tries to look up a woman’s dress again, he’s going to get stomped.'

Sediuk was sentenced to 30 days in jail after attacking Brad at the Los Angeles premiere of Maleficent.

He was already on probation for jumping on stage with Jennifer Lopez when he jumped over a crowd barrier at the opening of Angelina Jolie's new film Maleficient and struck Brad

He was charged with assault, battery, unlawful activity at an exhibition and delay of an exhibition, received the jail sentence plus 20 days community labor, 36 months probation and a $220 fine.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/cheap-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/princess-formal-dresses

Everyone was getting drunker by the minute,
with the models beginning to fall all over themselves.

I spotted Leo DiCaprio,
ask him about his island in Belize.
“What are you going to do with your island man?”
“I don’t know bro.”,
Leo replied,
“Well you should let me run it.”,
I suggested,
Leo laughed with eyes as red as wild fire,
he tilted his head back,
his temple changing color,
from the combination of the club lights and the mushrooms I was on,
to my surprise he accepted my suggestion,
“Okay you can run it,
but what do you want to do with it?”...

from

The H Trilogy
Volume 1
7/7/16
∆

Hello, old friend,
whose semi-permanent smile
laces my vision like toxic ranks of pearly whites.

Hello, old friend,
whose sparkling eyes blaze
like the funeral pyre of my pride and prejudice.

Hello, old friend,
whose apparent ineptitude melts like happiness
as your name burns in black on that page.

You signed my yearbook like a death certificate,
wrote an affectionate note in the shape of nothing
worth knowing.
The lines bleed, multiply, crackle and shine
in the dull light of this most tiring expanse of computers.
Their brains function better than mine.

Hello, old friend,
whose pen now swirls across the work you were assigned,
work you pursue less like a lion
and more like a cougar,
if you get my message.
(There’s no taking the jungle out of you, Amazon.)

Hello, old friend.
Keep snapping pictures with your iPhone,
like it’s New Years and you just kissed DiCaprio in Times Square,
wearing a dress with all the greens of envy
splattered across the fabric.

Hello, old friend.
Keep telling me you hate it when I act like this,
when your eyes turn to four points and your skin to letters
from colleges begging like a forgotten lover
for you to take them and make them home.
The home you’re leaving for next month.

Hello, old friend.
Today is now solemn in so many new ways.
You achieved higher than the skyscrapers in the photograph
next to your eight-line submission.

Hello, old friend.
No.
Revision time.
Revision like the backspace key and the scribbled lines
over inadequate things I wrote
to try and climb your Olympian pedestal.

Revision like the eraser on the pen,
revision like the keys thumping as though this machine
had a heart,
as though mine wasn’t broken
because I’m never good enough for anybody.
I write my best poetry when I’m angry.

Ironic that poetry made me angry.
I can taste the paradox spinning like the clock hands
that tick, tick, tick until the day when you sit in a car
on top of a thousand suitcases
and a few well-wishes from your confederates in college.
I can taste it like a toxin.

And now,
now you’re going
and there’s only time to say:
good-bye, old friend.

I live for sunrises down south and late nights under city lights.
For the smell of french fries in the air conditioning.
I live for mornings where I'm driving home to the sun rise
and school buses pass me by
and passers by are making a routine stop to their local drive thru.
I live for the mornings where I spread awful news in a pleasant way
throwing on my sweatshirt that encourages my surrounding
engaging in long phone calls with a relative, my best friend,
and spicy coffee with an elegant design in a large glass mug.
I live for days where I lay down on my bed with a fan in my face
after being leaned over the couch burying my face in the air conditioner
cause its ******* hot outside and the air conditioning isn't doing enough.
I live for the days spent on the front room floor with gifts galore because Santa came the night before;
the five of us gather on to the couch and floor and wait our turn to hear our names called
while we shoo'd the dog out of the middle of the floor.
Oh how I miss that dog.
I live for nights where we visit the coffee shop
and we sit around for a bit not knowing what to talk about
but we end up kissing at your apartment anyways.
I live for other nights at the coffee shop when its winter and we're on a date
where we order our tea and coffee and we hold hands like lovers would
and we walk and sit by ourselves and you sing to me songs that you've written.
That's the only time I've lived for nights like those.
I live for the first day of school and those unpleasant ice-breakers
the time-wasters
the 'tell-us-something-interesting-about-yourself' even though I don't give a ****-ers.
I live for first encounters with a new face
the before-you're-officially-together chase
that part of the relationship where you reach second base
and the end where they tell you "I need some space."
For the sight of skyline on I-94.
For the smell of crayons and wooden floor boards
perfectly tuned guitar chords
soft pretzels at the shopping mall
and Jack White's voice.
For the sounds of a skateboard hitting concrete
for busy feet on a city street
and excited gasps when we stepped foot into our unexpected suite.
I know this sounds cliche, but I live for another person's embrace
pulling into a front row parking space
receiving your first gift to me, a turquoise cigarette case
longing for the day I'll touch Leonardo DiCaprio's face.
I live for torso-pressing-into-the-lap-bar roller coaster drops
the season of tank tops
travel brochures from truck stops
drunk stumbles to the pizza shop
watching re-runs of Wife Swap
and collecting shot glasses from gift shops.
I live for nights of "real talk" with close friends
dreaming of studio apartments full of odds and ends
and writing a poem with an odd end.

While the light faded from the windowpane,
I tried to encourage and push you
like a door swinging slowly on its hinges;
But nothing ever made you happy,
nothing ever satisfied you--
as the cool air grew thick and muggy with warmth,
you stomped on top of the floorboards,
which concealed my wounds, my scars, the bruises
I would never let anyone examine.

We struggled to get on the same page,
couldn't even reach the same sentence.
So when you screamed at me, aggressively and loudly,
I gave you the silent treatment,
your threats unable to rattle me.

Why can't I stop thinking about the way you'd
dry the wet off your back with a bath towel?
Don't you miss how I would blow your belly button,
or how you would moan softly as I scratched your back
with my guitar pick?

The cinema plays homevideos of the two of us
laughing at the drunk girl who wrecked her bumper
on the parking space concrete, and the two of us
holding each other's hands at the John Mayer concert.

A nook, a camera, a pair of sunglasses,
a Michael Kors purse, an emerald bracelet;
gifts to show you I cared, to show you I wanted
more than just one night cuddling in
your younger sister's apartment.

F. Scott Fitzgerald died in his forties,
holding a wine bottle in his hand like a newborn,
as his wife Zelda built a fire pit
and burned his stories, page after page, until
the characters twisted and rolled into ash and charcoal.

Are we the writers?
Or are we the characters?

Tell me you don't love me anymore,
so I could finally close the door shut.
Don't leave me voicemails, or send me text messages
with emojis and memes.

I remember we would cruise around Maryland
and Virginia, in my dad's silver sedan,
blasting music and smoking *****.

But now we're swimming
in the deep end of the swimming pool.
You're wearing a life vest and I'm trying to keep afloat,
as the strong water hits my chest,
and the cold chills my bones.

You are Kate Winslet,
and I'm Leonardo DiCaprio
giving you the inflatable killer whale,
so that you could stay above water,
as I slip under the current of our decaying memory,
the years we've lost,
and the time which we'll never regain.

The door is closing on me
and everything darkens from the lights
to your face.

And I know now, that a piece of my heart
sits at the bottom of your mason jar,
like a corroded anchor
dug deep in the floor of the ocean.

Keep it,
and whether you come inside the house,
or walk out to the driveway,
close the door
like eyes
shutting for the last time.

Sometimes the sky knocks on your window
and you have to admire her persistence
in the face of all this deafness.

Hello Angel
Let me tell you somethin'
You're my love
You're my life
You're my everything!
Can I express my love
with a kiss like Robert Pattinson
Goin' wild and get into
your attention
Can I propose you
with a drink like DiCaprio
Runnin' fast after you
like a Romio
Can I show it in a romantic
way like Rahman
Singin' out loud sayin'
Im gone
Can I express it in song
like Chris Brown
Searchin' for you in this
Hyderabad town
Girl, you're my choco bar
be with me;
I love you like justin bieber!

----de3pak

Here’s to scrumptious nights.
cats and boots and cats and boots
We went clubbing last night, to recalibrate
ourselves on the dance floor, where magic happens.
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots
To focus on sensory experiences, the beat,
and share in the fun and tangible sense of freedom.
cats and boots and cats and boots
Feel the wave, show your energy, be the wave
cats and boots and cats and boots
be disheveled, swing your hair like a weapon
abandon, silly, self-protecting vanities
cats and boots and cats and boots
flashing lights on dancing figures
make it all seem slo-mo and extreme.
cats and boots and cats and boots
It’s been too long since we’ve done it like this.
Work-worn, I’d lost my lucidity and stumbled badly on a quiz.
Lisa pushed my books onto the floor, declaring, “Get UP, we’re grabbing some bliss.”
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots
failure has a reality, a gravity and pull all the more shocking in relief.
I’d started out the evening gloomy and ashamed - a figure of regret -
but I’m better now, buoyed and recharged and soon I’ll have a plan - hopefully.
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots
There was a guy there, on the dance floor, who looked like a young Leonardo DiCaprio.
We made eye contact, nodding and smiling at each other in motion.
We gyrated, together, sort of, for a second, in our separate orbits - no conversation
I just watched him for a moment or two, sexualizing him like eye candy.
Just seeing him was sensual fun and I wondered what he smelled like.
He had a gritty, sweaty, idealized beauty, like a dancing ‘David’
that no Michelangelo could ever capture in stiff granite sculpture.
The music ended - momentarily - we knew it would start up again
and we were there for it - til 1 or 2 am anyway - then it recranked.
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots and..
Lisa grabbed my hand, jerking me onto the dance floor almost
before I could set down my drink. Eeek! “Slow Down!” I yelled,
but my complaint was lost in the din and my involuntary laugh.
cats and boots and cats and boots and cats and boots and..
.
.
Songs for this:
Dance To This (feat. Ariana Grande) by Troye Sivan
Good Time Girl (feat. Charlie Barker) by Sofi Tukker

It's like
you're an Oscar
and I'm
Leonardo Dicaprio.
No matter how good people think I am,
I'll never be good enough to have you.

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In the last night I lie awake
I won't question my life’s wake
I'll leave my heart's garden a few less weeds to rake.
I'll try to plant a few flowers,
Replace ones that died in my dark hours,
Sprinkle some seed and grow a few trees
Amidst the fresh wet grass dancing in early April’s breeze.

I hope the scene is serene providing shade from the sun
For my son.
I told that man he could have the world
He may not be in this world but I feel like he’ll be my world

Lately in my world I’ve been a bit otherworldly
On the moon pondering, are these thoughts just coming too early?
What if I have so many years still in me to live,
Filled with so much good will still left in me to give?

My prodigal son could come to fruition
Or a daughter, too smart, scholarships to axe the tuition
Someone a vivid image of all I wanted to be
A recurring dream of what my younger self said I would be.
It feels like I blacked out for several years without shame
I parted ways with so many people I couldn’t list names
And raised by certain people that I’d place claims
Of abandonment treating my childhood like a game
Or a waged war between battling armies
I swear to god my offspring would never feel this raceless apartheid
That it felt like sometimes, nothing seemed to be worse
Than growing up stuck wondering if your gifts are a curse.

I wish someday I either guide myself or my child
Into the warm light brought upon by hope and a smile
Cast upon them by my potential and graceful reconcile...

I’m one with my actions; past, present and future
Knowing regret is simply just a useless venture
So all I can do is be good for now and teach to be better later
While I try to shun the demons of my past that cater



What I insisted I would be—its never in doubt.
Either make a difference myself or bestow it on someone else
So they could end my journey if I fail,
Conduct my train of thoughts, turn them to actions that I derailed.

I’m stuck in accepted limbo unsure of what I can accomplish
Leo DiCaprio incepted spinning a thimble in anguish
To see if someday I’ll dive through a clouded finish line
Million feet up with my thoughts of how it worked out in due time


If I see or create the beautiful soul that I wanted to be
If I’ve given all I can to someone else to be a better me
There’s nothing left for me to give, nothing more you can take
In the last night I lie awake.

Leonardo Di
Caprio, Leonardo
DiCaprio, yeah

Leonardo Dicaprio has won an Oscar
The midnight stars shine bright.
Maybe everything will actually be alright,
...

I can finally be ok after half a decade.
Has been long time coming.
But I can feel everything changing
For the better.

I seen them come and watched them go
and I know
not one of those spoke of Michelangelo,
it was all about the latest date,
the tricks of men and fate
the risky business, foreplay for the
afternoon,
Spotify,
don't come too soon, but never
Michelangelo.

When and what brings me to
this junction of people,
this queue of
lonely,
this hunger monger looks into space and
he looks at himself and his face doesn't fit,
mirror
mirror
on the wall
*******,
****,
but that's childish and so I edit childishly with lipstick from My Auntie V, which was short for Vivian and Viv died back in '74, not sure why I kept her lipstick but I also kept lots more.
(sore points make for scabby wounds)


And if I cough again I'll wet myself,
jeez,
you'd think the body could hold itself intact.
I only lack the know how and I know that now
and I know that no one talks of
Michelangelo,
just Bieber and Dicaprio,
time to go?
I guess it is and somewhat so
touching on
Michelangelo
because no one else does.