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Frostley Oct 2015
She is the vindictive snow
Beautiful, cold causing her chilling touch to leave me numb
She creates an overload of dopamine for me
But like I said she left me numb
She compressed limerence upon me
The concentric feelings I have for her  linger
This contours her opaque heart
Leaving her pliable words lay rendering in my mind
She applies this solvent to it leaving me broken
Forlorn she left me
Yet, the tactile, numbing sensation keeps me going
For she is the one I love
Causing our hearts to be diptych artwork off our hinges.
Mote Dec 2022
i

following
angels
into the forest

ii

taking turns
with the ****
whistle
Mote Dec 2022
i
magic
in the
modern
world

ii
mars
and the
moon
their
birthday
date
Mote May 2019
i.

trauma prints
strange maps. braids my hair.


ii.

i tell god
i am his biggest fan.

lilac shinbones

shining.
needles slid through dimples

shining too.
judy smith May 2016
Arriving, I find her briefing three press assistants on her upcoming catwalk show while simultaneously rifling through her closet — a dressing-up box filled with animal print and lacy confections — to choose her outfit for our shoot, while Desert Island Discs plays in the background.

Tucked at the end of a row of terraced houses close to London’s Portobello Road, Temperley discovered the six-bedroom property was on the market two years ago through her close friend, the designer Jasmine Guinness. The unique two-storey villa has a studio-style extension on the back of the property designed by the Victorian architect, Richard Norman Shaw.

She moved in 18 months ago with her son, Fox, 7, and her boyfriend, Greg Williams, 43, a portrait photographer, along with his two children from a previous relationship. ‘I’ve always been a Notting Hill girl at heart. I love that it’s so green, I love the market and my offices are around the corner.’

Temperley cites the interior designer Rose Uniacke (the creative genius behind the Beckham’s Holland Park home) as inspiration for fashioning her own interiors: ‘Rose has beautiful taste, sleek, clean but still really soft.’

The house’s all-white interior provides the perfect backdrop for Temperley to hang her beloved antique cut-crystal chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling mirrors sourced from Golborne Road’s Les Couilles du Chien — famous for its historic bric-a-brac — and the Clignancourt flea market in Paris. The most striking of these is an intricately etched diptych of French brasserie mirrors that sits proudly over her living room sofa.

For colourful accents, she looked to her archive of textiles, which ranges from heirlooms from her great-grandmother’s travels around the Orient to remnants of past fashion collections: ‘I have big haberdashery drawers, which are used for storing my collection in a warehouse in Greenford,’ she says. Having such a vast collection gives her the chance to indulge in some serious upcycling; a Mexican rainbow throw livens up a plain cream sofa while a wedding cloak from Turkmenistan makes a quirky wall-hanging.

Despite the global influences, the Union Jack is a recurrent motif: ‘When I worked in New York [in the mid-Noughties] I was called ‘Little Miss English’. I loved using materials such as lace and lots of references to Victoriana — all very British.’ Look closely, and you’ll find red, white and blue accents everywhere — on teacups, Roberts radios and on silk cushions.

‘To me, being British represents being able to be individual, eccentric and not taking yourself too seriously.’

Temperley was born and grew up in Somerset on her family’s cider farm in Martock, before moving to London aged 18 to study fine art at the Royal College of Art. The countryside has an ineluctable pull for Temperley and she carves her time between her office — ‘probably 80 per cent of the time, 10 per cent of the time here, 5 per cent in Somerset at the moment, and 5 per cent everywhere else’.

But if her west London home is all breathy shades of Farrow and Ball, Temperley’s country pile — a sublime 5.6-acre regency property called Cricket Court that was once the media magnate Lord Beaverbrook’s home — is the opposite: ‘In Somerset my sitting room is dark burgundy, we’ve got black bedrooms and an ochre-coloured library.’

To bring a little of the country back to the capital, Temperley peppers her house with beautiful bunches of wild flowers, sourced from florist Juliet Glaves, who grows her own blooms in Shropshire: ‘I always loved The Secret Garden and as a child I spent hours collecting flowers and drying rose petals on every surface. I am a hopeless romantic at heart and I love British country gardens and their flowers.’

Another great passion of Temperley’s is reading and no corner, staircase or table in the house is complete without stacks of books and fashion magazines: ‘Sally Tuffin [the British fashion designer-turned-ceramicist] has got an incredible fashion library at her home in Somerset and my dream one day is to have a room lined in books.’

As for the rest of the London house? It’s very much a work in progress, ‘especially being a working mum. It’s more collecting things and putting them together in a very relaxed way. Like in fashion design, when it comes to interiors things either work together or they don’t. I have a good eye and don’t like to be constricted to just doing clothes — I’d like to go into interiors. That’s the next chapter’.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/red-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses
Pink Hat May 2022
I see waves of gold - water that traps a fading sun. I see a shimmer - a spread of fractured light that drifts like a net that no longer steals from the ocean. I see your feet - toes spread and curled into the sand - holding you in place even if it is just for a moment. Your eyes - blue as the angels on the diptych - gaze across to places that embodies our separation. You have so much in fragments of beauty. The vast empty spaces are filled by nature’s broken parts and you - embrace it all. I can only imagine where you stand; the air you breathe; the scenes that lift your spirits - and I sink further into the recesses of my mind. If only my salt water was that of the sea. Mine - is closer to home as it cascades and travels through the heart and blurs.
diptych is the Wilton Diptych
Mote Jun 2019
i


how to summon
back an admirer
like the trash i am


ii


his stare held out
to me   a gift bird
to my cats mouth
Mote Nov 2022
i
keychain
bible
pinky
ring

ii
the softest
you’ve
ever been
touched
1
Defined by an intense need to
apostrophize and to tether, dictated by nothing

but your definitive space’s lissome address,

when visited, opens up to a closing, or sizing a gap
if syndetic, and reaching out for a retreat a frail gesture
    meaningfully pursuing a link, a strain  that is

2
When you were alive because you felt it, subscribing
to a phenomenon, granted by a sovereign of our difference

     unconsciously at first it was statutory to a fault but then conceding
to it and accepting, fit in this meeting as if too relaxed

    that it may sleep   or  bear noise even – your incidence of me sees clearer
than any lens, and when fond of, you will
                           make out of my clenched fists, when put together, a diptych with

    your   hands  taken into, receiving constantly the burden  of days

3
As destination of a truth
   that is  if you listen that  there is  something  inaudible in  this
       reality – your dream will make an apparition out of   its   center,

said when it is too comfortable to even slouch at a constant day,
        setting this faculty tranquil the face of  a punctual  eve
  somnambulating through   towns triggered   by   dim  white light,

   forcing windows    to  contract,  the   body somewhere  afloat, contacting
         the precision  of something  as  rescue,

your   life  seen   with  value  when   peril  touches  your  deepest  parts,
            almost daily   in this location   as if  you  were shorn out   of
                           difficulty, looking   for   me  to   halve all of this.
Mote Jan 2023
i

sorrow near the surface.

ii

dark
now, the rippling bodies
of the fish.
Mote Dec 2022
i

ugly
the
popcorn
ceiling
of
heaven

ii

lake
of
milk
to
drown
us
all
Mote Nov 2022
1

miniature hell
imprint

2

belt loop
rabbits foot
Mote Nov 2022
1

blindfolded woman
humps a pillow

2

sad man licks
a sad spoon
Lawrence Hall Oct 2017
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

(This poem may be considered as a dyptich / diptych / dipstick with "The Dreariness of Dawn")

                                   The Dreariness of Dusk

Anticipated no victories today
Expected no letters to be answered
Or packages of life to be delivered
Not given even the hope of a hope

But…

But, no, the weary hours were unrelieved
The weary, dreary hours of near-despair
Plodding like a mule harnessed to the past
And given only the ghost of a ghost

As was expected, the teapot was warm -
“Yes, but there ain’t going to be no tea” 1

1 Katherine Mansfield
Mote Feb 2023
i

sacred, the silence
of little religious figurines. they have old jobs

ii

wendigos and thunder and wendigos and fog
Mote Nov 2022
(she likes watching herself cry, it’s hilarious)

i
found the mirror stage
in a fireplace. alone

-

god lives in my bathroom

-

abjection
devil gaze

existence                 as a form of
violatory

-


(you’re, like, so exotic)

god

i am this close
to vomiting my
classic impoverished american
upbringing
all over this
classic impoverished american
room

-

poemform
bodygenre

nobody understands
masochism

hands
or deep water

they will say they do
don’t listen

[diptych]

i
the women
in my fiction
are always
taking off
their shoes

ii
how strange
to find
a chick
in a frying pan
how strange
to find
two

-

(“spider goddess, needle boy”)

really god
are we all just your love letters
to the universe

the ****

-

[who is forgiveness for]

man who took a belt to your
four year old face

sends you a birthday card
every year

still spells your name wrong
you wonder when he’ll die

you know what you’ll bring
to his grave


[my grandmother said she saw jesus]

so, what does someone do with a stolen ******?

fire, maybe?

and then further
                                                                   back

but not really

that far?

there must have been so much fire   when jesus

got here.

-

from

[sleep studies/ or dogs for metaphorical rapture]

braced against a demon
like the last tree on a flooded plane

the dream changes

-

god isn’t in the dreams, but that’s because god is the dreams. if that doesn’t make sense it’s because i’m a waitress. anyway, chaos. but, also not so much chaos. math, migratory patterns, circadian rhythms, menstrual cycles, lunar phases. god. can’t get it out of my head. i need to sleep. i sleep so much. sleep is the last thing i do. wake up tired. where did you go last night. what did you do
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2020
perhaps the repenting drunk is more
monstrous than
the unrepenting one...
no... the repenting drunk is more
monstrous than the unrepenting drunk...
if the latter is still...
killing flies and the former is
making confessions to sore thumb...
                          
    currently they are laying new tarmac
outside my house...
    it is nearing midnight and they might
be finished come 5am...
    it's so real
that there's no need for painters...
or... it's so "surreal" that the scene
can be translated in my mind as...
the same men... manning a U-boat in
world war II...

a massive road paver...
   like a dinosaur / whale...
   and skidding road rollers
  of finishing details...
                shovels... bright lights...
a sedating volcanic scent...
a romance of:
        not working in an office...
therefore not needing to invest
in hamster-wheel fetishes of a gym...

but i'm not out there... i'm...
      Homer was also a man... Dante...
was also a man...
               Horace...
                what is gender dysphoria...
in the context of:
a man writes the divine comedy...
a man is... laying a road...
   well so much for writing these words...
and hoping to not feel
a ghost pair of ******* from
being castrated...
           as a man's man...
        or as... a woman's man or...
              the other the it the lobotomy oops...
by comparison
each muscle in my body is by now
a mollusk or an oyster...
   my phallus is in a pickle jar...
my **** is screaming: vough-vah!
pretending there's a titillating L
in there somewhere...
          but i am all for playing
this cascade of "piano"...

     mrs. america starring cate blanchett...
2nd wave feminism...
i guess the 1st (wave) invokes
the suffragettes -
                     yes... since the women
the vote: there haven't been any wars...
well... no heroic wars...
no pride ownership wars...
just collateral this... collateral that...
    but work as such...
            beside the harsh grit...
this... aesthetic ******* in between...

no man of a disposition such as i
should write words to paper...
it doesn't help the digestion of oats or rye bread...
hardly a boast of 6ft1 115kg
   and... hunched over this doodle...
that i wish my fingers were dancing
in my mind...
this softcore presence of life...
hardly a feature of:
    how bone can mingle with stone
and wood... how the muscle can be strained
and worn into a tearing...

but a poet is less than a tailor...
          grumpy fool... dealing with the feminine...
i detest having the sort of youth
that had me inspect philosophy...
by now: it's very unreasonable to have to...
it's not like being literate is
anything spectacular...
          
          to have replaced playing the guitar
with stroking my beard...
  is also a premeditation on the nostalgia
for shaving...
         impossible this scrutiny of
psychology... perhaps at best being:
riddled by letters...

i try to fathom the concept of masculinity
in the guise of the alchemist...
or the astrologist...
    but it's somehow impossible...
too impossible to quake at the prospect
of the masculine plethora of experience:

that i could... somehow...
make my body a potential...
                  and leave it as only a potential...
that there's this grey bureaucratic murk
of: that's enough...
  or... that's the constipated zenith
of all that was ever necessary...

  when there was a time of economic marxism:
i.e. there never was...
but to fend off this 20th century ghost
of a marxism: culturally speaking...
it's impossible to begin...
from the french revolution...
       from the russian revolution...
notably: because of the serf-emancipation...
prized african bulls...
while the sorry sods with
siberia in their subconscious...
prized african bulls:
                 slavery and genocide...
            because it's not like...
                   it's not like...
                        that's a paralysing dichotomy
of concepts...
          a people enslaved are not...
   a people made subject to genocide...
                       slavery is not negation...
                   the current grievance list of arguments
is so impossible to stomach...
       i find no sympathy in my heart...
between being kept alive... sought out
essential morbid crosses of exploit...
   but then... to be teased with life...
                     to be teased with any sought-after...
an african bull is... a lanky leek of a sorrow
of a pupil at a yeshiva school...
             it would be "easier" to run a marathon...
than read a nugget of hegel's oeuvre...
                    the phenomenology...

the viking culture: to be treated as wholly
masculine... had... a respect for the poetic...
no poetry when all is a half-baking
of journalistic integrity...
                 how the vikings loved poets...
by now: all are solo projects...
all is a democracy of solipsism...

     i could come around full circle: bilingual
"schizoid": de facto contradiction - squared...
                    this language is hardly recitation
material... where is the rhyme?!
                  it's not supposed to be ice-skating...
sharpening a knife...
           language complicates itself...
         should i wish to simplify it...
                i could if i didn't allow it to press
forward with automated purposes -
mind its own master...
  somehow comparable to a knee-**** reaction...

otherwise: to do something as convenient
for the tax-consciousness of the overt-wordly...
as to acquire skin drafts of roughage
from kneeling: stub spectacular
circus cameo: endless this constipated
barrage of words...

             like an imitation of colour:
that grey is a shared hue
of having invested in a plop of genesis:
either black or white...
               that there are enough
adjectives to hide a noun...
and that nouns behave like layers...
           and how one noun can't conflate
another noun...
           and how almost all concerns
for misnomers are adjective prone examples...

is that vinyl can be compared
to rock liquorice?
like cookie crumble is the *******...
wild exaggeration of ******...
         nothing is agreed upon...
           all is being riddled with a juggling
act... notably a sway to invite...
a "critique" of: the cure's siamese twins...
or: a short-term effect...

in Istanbul / Constantinople the old
world powers congregated...
talked and resolved their griefs with yawns...
the forest people of the north
made demands for the saharan bicycle
only-boys club...
                       the Hagia Sophia
was reminded of blood: brick by brick...
       the forest people had enough
timber for solving the toothpick conundrum...
while the camel jockeys served
a privy for... time encapsulated
with the usage of sand...
  and a riddle of a trickle...
                   because the mosquitos
required the advent of moisture...
and either hot... or cold...
the camel driver disinfectant managing
tool...

           it's a worded painting:
a word salad... or the very most debilitating
first concern...
last served...
                            hues of revised red and
purple... accents of colours...
demanding over-reach of what could
otherwise stage a solid proof of
geometry...

                     diptych spec-ocular...
                        a chicken drumstick not
riddled with angry teeth...
                     some disused nouns...
   otherwise the remains of prepositions /
conjunctions instilled with
an in-vogue presentability...
                          how does a word
beside itself to become out of fashion...
yet retain... it's etymological grant?

my dear sir / madam evans...
            no cute cue toward... being employed
by kew gardens...
   since! the house is in disarray...
                   best kept secret... a bone tomahawk...
a cave... some cannibals...
a whole litany of secrets...
that make... creepy-crawly talk
a foundation for: a butter extraction
from... jerking off milk...

more hollow than hallow jerusalem -
some said: build low...
others said...
give 'em the playground...
high tier raise and tow:
wasze ulice... nasze kamienice -
your streets... our tenements...
   the notable jews of poland...

there's a prestige at the nibble...
governing the prized palette fetish...
nearing the bones...
it's not enough to just... gorge with
a mouthful at the mere protein...
it is... mere... protein...
somehow butchered twice...
once at the actual butchers...
second when it was being cooked...
a meatloaf extravaganza...
       an amputee tossing giggles...

excruciating return-to narrative offers...
          because picking cotton was
not unlike... a potato harvest...
or coal-mining: leave that to the irish...
or the ****** slav enclave...
unreasonable spectacle of nostalgia...
a u.f.o. meteor replica
of awe...
             given... there's a propaganda
leisure concerning:
all are presumed innocent...
     of those that can do no wrong...

a very anglophile creation...
      if one were to speak french in africa...
one wouldn't want to claim
a return to the native talk...
    why... if i were not ******...
if i had to be made weary...
subsequently to be negated in such
a way as to... inquire... what prior
to... given a "hypothetical" lesson
in either german or russian...
                      of my "own" people...
                                  such that this is
written in english...
                it's not the english of a currency
of protest...
         it's not... hitchhiking...
it's not stealing the narrative...
it's... i want the narrative of a clerk...
                     in my mind i want:
ławka to remain... a bench...

         but in the realm of english-speaking...
french is somewhat: m'eh...
spanish is contested...
german is ignored or simply reviled...
arabic and mandarin have to
be acknowledged...
  the remains? either negated outright...
or beside a concept of concern
via "being" neglected...
there's only the riddle of gaelic or welsh...
if one were to find a locality
within the confines of english:
and a geography and a fake of
the cross-continental diaspora...

i only write in english because...
   there's a comforting concept of irish...
a sort of hebrew synonym parallel
contending with the egyptian hieroglyphs...
cocktail of:
it's hardly a contest...
to have to heave...
a borrowing...
                   of having attained...
         a status of: being conquered by ancient
rome...
   most notably the english...
who spell a latin letter by lettter...
unlike....
      the fwench: who applied some adventure
in the detail of: a diacritical marker...
  the S i.e. kedilla...
     or the iberian folk... blah blah blah...
borderline... where rome didn't arrive by
sword... the greek arrived at with quill...
but that's still... contested territory...
this "central" and "eastern" ESTONIA /
LITHUANIA...
       and the borrowed tribes of mongol / mongrel
polacks of... silesia is
the new sardinia /                  sicily...

otherwise to partake in the ****
of assurances of those born into
a "*******" to mere speaking english
this leash like not other...
and some muzzle...

a gargantua of the not displaced...
failed city adventure
economics...
              i have to bestow
an agony of jealous worship for
a people: beside a concern for the individual
as having the nomad bestowed
upon them...

this ideal crux of a welcome day...
and this abiding by a synchronicity
exhaustion of the night with
the ideal of minding sleep...
towing my inability to fake...
dream-world architecture...

                       to be made necessary...
beside a concern for "love"...
to have enough of a worldly affair as
any man should even perhaps ought:
to begin a prospect of an aching
breath with...
                
          what a daydream!
           what! anyman's tittle and...
that there will never be...
a myriad of a reasoning with doubt;
choicest...
my once prized peacock: doubt...
a sacrificed fixation on sharpening
a discard of loitering emotions...

    now this outright:
              having to compete
with the forever unnecessary...
a walking abortion...
                         glide over gimmick...
and... forever towing that
best kept inhibition, spectacular.

— The End —