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judy smith Apr 2017
It’s the tail end of fashion week in Paris, the busiest week of the year for fashion buyers.

When I meet Clodagh Shorten, owner of Samui, the game-changing boutique that put Cork on the fashion map, she’s already been here four days and is on her tenth buying appointment — there’ll be at least another five before she leaves in a couple of days time.

These appointments, private bookings with designers, allow her to get up close and personal with the clothes that have just been showcased on catwalks.

She’s deciding which pieces will best suit her customers.

Today, we meet at Schumacher, the stunning German label known for its easy chic look.

A beautiful white space, with lush cream velvet sofas, bare walls and white rails (nothing here to distract from the main event — the clothes), this room, prime space in Paris, is rented by the designer year-round just so they have the right venue to sell at Fashion Week.

It gives some indication of the power Fashion Week wields.

Clodagh is here with her right-hand woman, Samui manager Mary-Claire O’Sullivan.

There are two rails — the keepers and the ‘ones that got away’.

They’ve already seen this collection in London.

Today they are here to fine-tune.

This is unusual, Mary-Claire explains — at most appointments, they are seeing the clothes for the very first time.

“This is a big spend,” they tell me, and they’ll stay as long as they need “to get it right”.

Piecing together a collection is something akin to a jigsaw puzzle.

All the items are photographed — later they will be analysed back in the apartment they rent during Fashion Week.

The mix has to be right.

So the coats, a sleeveless waistcoat, are moved to the rail on the right.

They won’t make it to Cork.

Coats were already picked up this morning at another appointment.

Like I said, a jigsaw puzzle.

Two models are on hand to try on clothes when requested — I hear ‘can I just see this on one more time’ a lot.

There’s no haggling over prices in these sales negotiations — it’s all too civilised.

The price is set, as is the instore mark-up. These lauded designs must cost the same the world over.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire share a language and a wavelength. They can finish each other’s sentences and, while I don’t so much as sniff a hint of tension, they tell me they can disagree on buys.

“Clodagh doesn’t want a yes woman,” Mary-Claire says simply.

From Schumacher, Clodagh leads the way through the Parisian cobbled streets, phone held aloft, Google Maps to direct her.

Her wheelie bag is constantly behind her — inside there’s the laptop for orders and a camera for instant access to photographs of collections.

Her calculator is another permanent fixture in the showroom.

Today, Clodagh is dressed in an Australian label coming soon to Samui, Ellery. The lush black fabric sways and moves with her body; an outfit like that makes you really appreciate her eye for fashion. It’s sensational.

For this 5.30pm appointment we are heading to see another new label for Samui — Paskal (Clodagh will wear a piece from this line tomorrow).

The Ukrainian designer is looked after by an agency so in this showroom there are pieces by a handful of brands.

Again, the setup is the same — private appointments, models on hand.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire have to be more careful here — this is a new label and it’s more fashion forward so black is prioritised.

Not every client at Samui will wear this line. Every purchase, I realise, is a gamble.

“We’ve made mistakes, of course we have,” says Mary-Claire though you get the feeling that could be a rare event.

Pieces bought by these two women rarely end up in Samui’s sales rack.

They know their customer, plain and simple.

There is so much trust there, some clients are simply sent collections each season, allowing Clodagh to make the call for them.

So much of their day is spent discussing various clients (never by name in my presence) — what they might like, the best size.

It is effectively the ultimate personal shopping experience.

The number of items and sizes are limited, so customers know they are truly getting one-off pieces.

As we leave, kisses over, the agency head tells them, “you’re our favourites” and you just know it’s not empty fashion talk.

People genuinely love Clodagh and Mary-Claire. And they respect what they do.

Samui is open 16 years now. Clodagh mastered her trade at Monica John before stepping out on her own. Mary-Claire joined her eight years ago.

It has been one of the few boutiques in Cork to not just survive the downturn but to positively thrive.

As the economy spluttered around her, Clodagh very masterfully decided to go high end.

First came Moncler — the top people here had to come and view Samui to see if it was the right match for their esteemed label.

It was — and, increasingly, doors began to open.

Carven, Marni, Rick Owens — people really began to sit up and take notice of Samui.

Now labels are often vying for space on the shop floor. Still though, it takes work to secure the big new names.

Clodagh spends a lot of time on planes, networking, meeting the key players. And it’s not as simple as a visit to Fashion Week twice a year either.

These days pre-collections are key too: these pieces will be on the shop floor for longer.

So Clodagh and Mary-Claire travel in January to Paris for pre- collections, Milan in February for Moncler, Paris in March. The same cycle begins again in June for A/W pre-collections, with S/S Fashion Week in September.

Clodagh is always pushing, always striving for new.

She was devastated to say farewell to Transit, the brand with her from the very beginning. It was simply time for a change she tells me.

They love seeking out new labels, nurturing them, sharing them with their customers.

The next morning we meet at 9am for Dries van Noten.

Clodagh stocks around 50 different labels, most exclusive to Cork. This Belgian designer is one of them.

Here again is a very fashion forward line.

There’s a minimum €20,000 spend here, and that’s the amount Clodagh and Mary-Claire can play with.

This is a much busier showroom, a slick operation. Buyers are everywhere, the models weaving between them.

They are assigned a seller and a table, laptop at the ready to secure the sale.

Sophie, today’s seller, walks them through the long rails and talks to them about the collection, the fabrics, the colour, the catwalk, the vision.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire repeat the process a second time alone, a third time again with Sophie.

There are little standing breaks for coffee — refreshments and lunch are provided by the designer.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire know to carry snacks everywhere. The buying process can be a long one; Dries could be an all-day event.

The price point is much higher here so, again, each piece has to be carefully thought out. Checked and checked again.

These A/W deliveries will land in store in July.

Watching them make their Samui edit on that March morning, I just know the Dries selection will be a show-stopper this Autumn.

I leave them to sign on the dotted line, wishing them success for the rest of their gruelling schedule as I head for Charles de Gaulle.

“People don’t realise what goes into this,” says Clodagh. And she’s right.

None of us can possibly grasp what it must have taken for one woman to put Cork on the fashion radar.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Carrie Ross Dec 2011
Bad *** MC
decided to play piano
when he saw the economy wasn't anything interesting
K Balachandran Jun 2013
Isabel sits on the rusted garden bench,
my heart misses a beat, yet again as I watch,
her eyes are downcast, it's late afternoon,
she looks **** tired, dishevelled, distraught.

The world is on a slide, going bad to worse,
believe me i could see premature grey in her coiffure,
she is fired from her job, I can guess,
it hits me hard to think she is inconsolable.
Then, we all are, who is secure these days!

Under a tree, with withered leaves, she sits,
climatic change, obviously is playing havoc with it,
the evening sun, just slanted westwards,
seems unusually cruel to this girl,
no cover of thick foliage, moreover.

I see children playing around Isabel,
even they are soon losing interest,
if mirthful they are, make some noise and
run around, she would have smiled,
I would have felt far better than this!

Well, I don't know Isabel, may be her name is different,
on evenings I used to watch her from afar,
with curious eyes, I admired her incomparable elan,
hoping to make friends with her,
such a gentle soul she looked.

We'd become friends, by and by, I had hope,
I saw her smile and loved her sunny side,
but before I could meet and ask her out,
it happened, even without a notice,
I am fired from my job, today.
They said the downturn affected us bad, it showed,
What can you possibly say,
other than, just accepting the pink slip
Although she didn’t use these exact words,
What it got down to was:
“My **** hurts!”
Your age-appropriate **** buddy
Experiencing a profound lubrication deficit.
Vaginal dryness:
A legitimate topic these days for
Baby-Boom conversation.
“65: the New 30,” the slogan rings.
A Mel Brooks clarion call,
Harvey Corman doing Count Da Money:
"Don't get saucy with me, Bearnaise!"
For all our good friends at
KY, Vaseline & Astroglide--
As recommended by female OB/GYNs,
(Should there be any other kind?)
Sales projections are rosy for
Ottmar’s Coconut Cooch Oil,
Despite the economic downturn,
So, naturally, you commence your
Search for a young, wet—sopping wet—co-ed,
Running the risk of bumping into
Some UC Berkeley ****
Who digs older gentlemen, and
Knows your daughter, Gwendolyn.
Ellyse Amelia Oct 2011
.to have gained so much through a process of loss is a meandering truth to my life. the relationships i build, manufacture..become processed. an unreal version of the way life was supposed to be. for me anyways. where has the real "grit" gone to. the granules of momentum in mind and heart. to be willing to overcome the self pity, to go the distance, to be you. i look around, peer into the eyes of others and see a smog. a stream of tar. thick with loathing and disdain. for what reason do we allow ourselves to become these wandering entities? we do not deserve this life, this body, this chance if we are going to let it become stagnant, flat, static. i much rather let reclusive acts take me away, than to be consumed in the negativity, the natural downturn. don't grasp onto the cruel aspects of life, live through them and continue by appreciating the grace that has been given to you through such turmoils. love whom you choose to love with all of your sacred heart. you have an endless pit of this emotion as long as you are strong enough to witness the miracle of forgiveness. be one with you. be you. dont leave pieces of you lying about. you are the morning the after noon, the evening and the night. the blossoming sun, and the face in the moon. you are eternity if you wish upon it. wish.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.wasn't it Wittgenstein who said: you can write a work, considered to be philosophy, purely by an insinuation of comedy, i.e. peppered by jokes? so... what's "reason" "logic" have to do with anything? then again, for all of Wittgenstein's "wisdom", i always thought he was a constipated thinker... perhaps he could have written more if he was blind and wrote Braille, or deaf, and appeared as a mime... i don't deal with reason, reason is already apparent in the unfathomable will, some term freedom, while logic is, it just boils down to sticking to 1 + 1 = 2.

i don't know exactly how they've done,
but they sure as **** have...
i'm having my Marquis de Sade
Bastille moment,
you know, when he was cheering on
the mob from one of the few
existing windows of the Bastille...
funny moment:
my parents visited Bastille,
went to the Bastille Sq. and said:
'where's the Bastille?'
    ha ha...
            never gets old, like Family Guy...
humor, but only pulverizing humor...
like... getting ****** by a ***** machine
after dropping some MDMA...
(which i've never taken,
so... no wink wink implication...
just the gateway ****...
  English gateway ****...
skunk...
               which, if you know...
could turn you into a psychotic rogue,
cut your testicles off and ****
your mother...
    come to think of it...
i was diagnosed as psychotic...
still am...
          and look me...
          your happy sailor!)...
England is the new Bastille,
last night i watched Channel 4 news
make a comeback and cover
the Rotherham "incident"...
god, the ditto-heads looked so uncomfortable,
that i started feeling doubly uncomfortable
for them...
       when the words dropped like
shouts into a cave, the echo did
a vladimir klitschko punch-back...
asian... **** gangs... of pakistani origin...
better than watching a boxing match...
a shout into the cave...
   and then the echo back...
          faces worse than the faces
associated with ******* a lemon,
eating raw garlic, or eating a heap of cinnamon...
and yes, drinking is the way,
a responsible drinker, makes food,
cleans the house,
writes ******* against a "punching bag"
of pristine white...
             point being...
what was some weird downturn in the media...
but to think that we would have
to come to this,
to make news, of the actual news...
feels like the mainstream has
come full circle...
   who was is, Kenneth Rexroth?
maybe... he lamented...
           these days we only write about reading...
besides the point,
if the genre of philosophy is not
your happy go-to genre of literature,
and you prefer self-help books...
sure...
          but do me a favor...
if you're interested in philosophy,
are ready to think in between reading
said genre, for a period of three years,
with interludes whereby reading
some other genre...
              but philosophy is not your
"thing"... just start off with
        thomas mann's novel
           doctor faustus...
            believe me,
                  that book is on par with anything,
by any other, German.
oh no... it's not that people do "stupid"
things, like my parents and the Bastille
incident...
                 it's that they do unpredictable
things that is the funny part.
R Saba Feb 2014
“where do we go from here?”
a line that haunts a million songs
like a small, aching insect
creeping in through the cracks in the lyrics
and spreading its wings to infect the expanse
of music that reaches my ears

do you ever feel like there’s a theme to your life?
some familiar collection of words, some thought
that pervades the space around you
and finds body in the world that follows
your every move
some chord, bright or dire or dim
that resounds in the echoes
in the tunnels you pass through
and sings silently after each word you speak
ringing softly beneath your footsteps
colouring the air you exhale

“where do we go from here?”
the first time i heard those six words
i have no idea where i was
or when
but i remember the thought that came to mind as
desolation
and it made my heart hurt
and i was happy
because i now i could prove its existence

“where do we go from here?”
one day i heard those six syllables
as i often did, above me
tinny and abrupt from the speakers
hidden in public places, among the plastic clouds
and spiderwebs
and i, at the precipice
of some great beginning
felt that thought beneath my step
and my soul sang, it breathed in deep
and i was happy
because now i could prove its existence

“where do we go from here?”
one day i found those words
etched into the notes of some electronic
heartbeat or sellout tune
and i, in the middle of a slow tumble
towards the realization of a loss
of a feeling i had worked so hard to find
felt the emptiness between my fingers
and the ground pressing into the soles of my feet
and the ache once again in my mind
and my heart and my soul
and i knew now the existence
of the feeling inspired
by the downturn of that phrase, six words
that speak to us all

“where do we go from here?”
i thought of this line on my own time
and never knew how to use it
until today, aware of a familiar scent
in the air, i sat down
and faced the six words haunting my ears
and embraced their meaning
closed my eyes and breathed in their truth
felt the confusion and desolation and joy
that seeped into my bones the harder i tried
to join myself with the forever aching phrase
that i now know was written
to describe the way i move through this life
and today, as i walked
with false purpose along the real lines of the road
i felt words pressing sharp into my cheeks
and i turned to you but could not let them free
six words, a simple door
into the patterned floor and closed curtains
of my untidy mind
and so i let the sentence be
swallowed it whole, let it sit in my lungs
a while longer
and i still have yet to ask you

“where do we go from here?”
has there ever been an answer to that question?
it's true, that is a forever aching phrase
Shaded Lamp Nov 2014
Lurking near the brown ***** river
a soulless beast with hollow heart.
Its contaminated red and blue blood
is directed by its masters flowchart.

The Westmonster's hearing is defunct
it can not detect the public frequency.
Tuned in only to enormous corporations
attracted to the stench of their currency.

The one eye of the beast is almost blind
its corporate master must lead the way.
Feeding off the labour of honest souls
discriminately choosing its next prey.

We, the slaves of this twisted deformity
must rise up against it and its master.
But for now we should just organise
and wait for the next financial disaster.

So prepare yourselves and ready others
we strike at the next financial downturn.
How we will rejoice when we slay the beast
as we sing *"BURN PARLIAMENT BURN!"
Dedicated to The Artist Taxi Driver
Judgson blessing Feb 2015
This night the wind grew so chilled as a moist rainy season.
the air no stopped thrashing haggardly in an awful spray.
the suspended leaves are hovered and folded up and down .
as a hellish decorum .
as sorrowful sea rendering a sinister reminisce .
of furrow war that she is trying to get the golden sea pebble laying upon its edge .
deemed into red liquid fade and sullen as dead,
to be cleaned ******.
i felt this horror night deep down my vein in painful response and wander.
  i remembered that i have been targeting in somehow ode way.
with revengeful knack.
i never been beguiled.
but i trusted the shimmered night, as a night for my foe.
still moving in me with similarly of dulling and no dawdling.
dragging me out of the course then and now.
and i felt my struggle going down a mop.
though i have a heart full of courage and action .
i never spoke of that tragedy yet.
but my heart is submerged of the sad decay.
and my front head is red of the rays gleaming of its span.
this is downturn .
it gave me nothing but nightmare for company.
flinging in any while at me the uncovered ground.
and cheating as the real saprophyte way .
oh... horror ..
Poetnumber7 Oct 2018
If I told you I miss you will you take it as game
If I told you that you had my heart still would you see me the same.
I told you that you're more than good looks but you take it as game.
I tried sparking your brain but all of sudden things started to change.
Now out of depression you constantly drink and pop pills.
You want that feeling of being out of your body to the point your life you don't want to feel.
You find yourself laying on your back for the wrong guys.
Believing anything they tell you just falling for the lies.
Mayofficial Jul 2016
When I’m overwhelmed with tears at night..
Emotions are an ocean that consume me.

Soft waters flow down my cheeks as I reminisce about us and our brief memories..

It was a year ago..
Remembering your soft blue eyes slowly closing on a plane.
Your shakey hands would lay so softly in your lap, slowly drifting away…

You finally had some time to rest.

I loved the mornings when you would turn over and hold me.
A still warmth.

In my indecisiveness you took control,
in my want for nothing you gave me your all.

Just by tugging your hand, your eyes would soften and your voice more calm.

You're raging storm silenced..
Darling I’m here now.

-
I knew you..
Well, just the part of you revealed to me, of course..

I remember when you would downturn your lip and look across when you were unsure..

Yet twist your hand up to say ‘come on lets go!'

I remember when I unhung the turquoise dress from your wardrobe..
I chose it because it matched your eyes..

If only you knew how beautiful your eyes looked under an Italian sunset..

I remember us climbing on top of the old town, watching the sun go down..
The glazing orange skyline blessing your angelic face.
All I could ever want was here.

With you.. there was no pain.
No sadness, no war and no violence..
With my resting head on your shoulder.
No words, just peace.

My memories are a clear water..
Climbing the church tower and cycling the city.
Reaching for my hand up the stairs to make sure I was safe.
I could never catch up to you.

In a room full of art, *all I could see was you.

In a town full of blessings, YOU were mine.

While my body was broken, you were my healer.
How in a brief moment, you loved me and let me go.

Intoxicated nights,
but a blazing fire as soon as the front door shut..
The balcony doors opened..
The night sky saw our passion, only the stars knew our secrets..

How in a short space of time you became so impressionable on my soul,   my inner being.
A feeling.. a place I didn’t know existed within me.. awoken.

I’ll never forget how happy you made me, and still make me when I replay those memories.

Yet memories are just memories..
I pray that I find a way to put to sleep..
The fire that burns within me.

*When I’m overwhelmed with tears at night..
Emotions are an ocean that consume me.

Memories.
topaz oreilly Mar 2014
Iris and Blanche,
retired West end Usherettes,
Joint treasurers to the benevolent society,
their own Christmas story flickers ,
fearing  poverty, melted candles
for  6d - they buy the job lot,
worn, threadbare carpets cover the hallway.
Seemingly unmoved, they try to forget
this turn of fortune.

Upheaval is now the perpetual downturn.
They’ve availed themselves to
missing out on life's gravy train, 
and been met with gas light frugality.
The sunken mattress tumbles across the  wooden floor,
casting shadows over,
yesterday's hubris.
Edna Sweetlove Jan 2015
A fat young woman sat reading her graphic novel
(don't you love it that they call comic books graphic novels
nowadays so as not to offend the mongos who read them?)
- apologies apologies I digress from my narrative I fear -
her eyes followed the words slowly one by one
and her lips very visibly mouthed each syllable
as though such a pathetic process might help the meaning
to sink in at least partially to her poor addled half-educated wits
(in case you haven't worked it out by now I should explain
she was a bit stupid in fact much thicker than two short planks,
but I suppose that's an unkind thing to say really
but what the hell this is ******* free thought association
and stream of ******* consciousness isn't it?)

Bearing in mind that the poor fat cow had a brain
only marginally more adroit than a bluebottle's
she was doing quite well as she had after all
reached as far as page five after only two hours
when something marginally untoward occurred
as she suddenly felt a nasty pain in her tummy
and in some atavistic sort of way that realised she was on
the verge of having a miscarriage which was quite
a shock bearing in mind she didn't even know
she was seven months pregnant at the time
having been unable to read the birds and bees manual
she had been given as a present by her mummy.

But it was just as well taking everything into consideration
bearing in mind she was unmarried (surprise! surprise!)
and had no idea who the father might have been
as (how oh how can I put this delicately?)
she was totally the village bicycle having been ridden by everyone
including most of the teachers at the ******* folks home
where she lived in some squalor at state expense
but never mind as all's well that ends well
as her staggeringly brutal low-iq daddy would have killed her
for bringing shame on the family escutcheon
and because the downturn in the economy
meant that there was a three month wait for a bed
in the nearest mongo maternity ward
so she just kept on reading and would you believe it
she had reached page seven by the time
it was all over apart from the mess on the upholstery.
jeffrey robin Oct 2011
cant take it no mo'!
....
i cant
(really)
................
hallucination's song's
become a dememted vision with skulls
and bones
.
laughin and cryin like children
and mad women who were meant
to be mothers you know
..
..
..
yea
..
an "economic downturn"
my ***!
.....
******!
******!!
that's what it is
...

the cool winds of new york city
and the guru dreams live on
in warrior rags and starving lovers
in alleyways
of light
and
images containing you and me
before we believed
the wrinkles and sad lines
on our broken faces
was us!
(fools!.....simply fools!!)
-------
only the dance with death is real we now know
all our pretense !
calling "F__KING"
loving!!!!!!
.

**!  **!
(kiddin no-one)
....
only a tiny ember remains
but the eternal wind
(our breath)
is strong perhaps
and perhaps "who knows"
may thrill us again
into a true sense
of humanity
....
cant take it no mo'!
(our lyin to ourselves)
.
COME ON!
.
*** wit it!
NOW!
...
AINT NO HIDIN
no more
no where
To Whom it May Concern,

My blood begins to burn
and I’m compelled to spurn
the current plans to turn
our mascot to a worm.

The members from my firm
cannot stay taciturn
when our alumni learn
that strangers overturned
the past we had governed
because they’re all stubborn,
seeking to be modern
and spread, exploit and churn
their folly and their germs.

I urge you to discern
the consequence you’ll earn
unless you can confirm
our legacy long-term.
We will not adjourn
until it’s reaffirmed
that history is stern
and keeps our old pattern.

If you do not concur
and submit to our terms,
then surely you will yearn
for courtesy interns
as funding will downturn
and we will watch you squirm
like spiders in an urn
at the point of no return.

Sincerely, Dr. Kern
monorhyme about the influences of funding on schools' decision making

for peace in solidarity.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ojleMU9rZ4k
ConnectHook Feb 2017
OR: Benchmarks for Bench-Warming

The author, after recently publishing
Working to Frame Approaches Towards Approaching Frameworks: Contextualizing Systemic Interventions as an Interventional System in Context
collaborated with himself and co-wrote
Granting Greater Rights to Grant-Writers:
Turning Down the Echo in an Eco-Downturn.

Both papers were well-received and build on the strength of the author's initial work, published in 2018, entitled:
Speed-Dating the Data: Progressive Measures towards Measurable Progress

The author's third paper examined day-by-day data deterrence as a strategy to enhance documentation of impact towards tracking the implementation of benchmarks. The main thesis of the author's 78-page analysis was that out-dated data, when out on a date, flirts with obsolescence by trying to ford the current affordability when instead, it could be out-sourcing data while invoicing clients in adolescence—rather than dragging the river for dead data. All three publications are recommended and underwritten by overwhelmed authorized ghost writers.
Duck the Fata !
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Jamie L Cantore Dec 2014
A  brisk  gale  wind
     blows  thru  my
clanking  gears-
thunder  shears-
and  my  riven ­ ears
then  hear  nothing:
but  thru  clairaudience
I  will  ever  be ­ a
master  of  everything
that   ravishes  the
world  beneath  your
feet.

The  pompous  skies
dri­nk  up  the  seas,
to  drop  thus  upon
my  eyes  in  beads;
and ­ as  I  pen  my
muse's  advice,  the
ink  disappears  from
the  s­heets;  and  watcher
dieties-in  the  third  choir
of  the  celes­tial  hierarchy-
now  have  useless  wings.

Oh,  mold  my  verna­l
features  into  a  candle
effigy— watch  them  gleam—
then  gro­w  so  low  by  high
degrees; and  the  wax  melting  by
the  heat  of  flame  -to  once  again­
downturn  my  merry  cheeks.  So  if
you  please,  masquerade  a­s  a  blessed
princess  -before   I  am  consumed  completely-
and  I  will  play  both  parts  o­f  the  duelling
princes.  One  a  man, the other  a  machine.

Go,  rendezvous  with  my doyenne madness!

Indeed  the  tryst  could  cause  my  discarnate
ghost­  to  scarper.  I  will  wrap  a  cloak  around
my Joy  and  Sadn­ess   
—pleased that I  might hide  my  spare  character; or  at  least  proclaim  thee
dressed  a  bit  sharper.
Rea Nov 2021
the news from the telegraph is bittersweet today.
they say they've found a way to take out the pain
of forgotten memories and blocked pathways in the brain.
i wish they would've cleared the road a little sooner.
swept off the loose branches and debris just a little faster.
because... what if it could have saved you?
what if you could've been the one i hugged at my graduation?
what if your letters were the ones waiting for me at the post office?
i can see it written in the corners of my mother's face
as i tell her the discoveries.
it doesn't take long for me to uncover
the bittersweetness she tastes too.
nothing is said but
i see it in the downturn of her eyes and
the ends of her lips, how they don't quite lift up.
that's how i know.
life has moved so fast since you've been gone, hasn't it?
and i know that she would've remembered the pain
of loss, of grief, of loneliness.
but maybe she wouldn't only have to live on
in film pictures and old grocery lists.
maybe my essay wouldn't have ended with a hope and a wish.
i have to trust that it's better off this way because
i know she is in a place with endless beaches and
not a single stone to weigh down her pockets
and that has to be enough.
i still think about the roses and red cardinals in the backyard
and it is enough.
topaz oreilly Aug 2013
All is not the same as I learn,
the hunger to disengage.
To give a  wide  berth
these battling  contrasts.
Only took a  photograph in medium  format
a glimpse a shutter's worth,
to  share in this  ovidian  downturn
and then walk away.
Keith Ren Mar 2014
It was on our lips.
(And) the downturn was everything.
'why wouldn't you think rocks could be green?'

You turned from the ships like a foam-latent cold.
The snaps-onlooked couldn't believe.

'stop wading, my love,
we're not here to understand'

We're here to look.
We're here to love,

and then leave.
noah w Nov 2015
You would have said, seeing the thoughtful reflection of his eye, that he had already...been through the revolutionary apocalypse.*

I live in fear that I will die and meet him;
Liberty’s marble lover who once proudly proclaimed that
the nineteenth century was great, but the twentieth century will be happy.
I fear that I will meet him,
that he will ask if he was right with eager breath and waiting smile
and reach behind my eyes to scour my memory for the world he left behind,
for the happiness he prophesied from his makeshift plinth.
I fear that those burning eyes will dull with the aroma of burning flesh,
with the din of anguish and horror,
with the cold fingers of disillusion and resignation that pushed themselves into the minds of those still living,
with the happiness that he foretold overshadowed by the horrors our age has cloaked itself in.
I fear that I will have to apologise (or worse, that I will be able to say nothing)
I fear the downturn of that haughty lip
I fear the cracking of marble
Allyson Walsh Nov 2015
Afraid to drive north;
Highway leading home.
To my mother's porch,
Food I can't ignore.

This time late last year -
Planning for the flood.
The torrent of tears,
My throat red with blood.

Attempting to hide
My light-headed days.
Mother mortified
Of my dark gray haze.

The carpet soaked through;
Salty tears the cause.
The growth of mildew,
Over my clenched jaws.

Fearful to return
After the downpour.
A second downturn
Leading toward the war.
For myself
Hadrian Veska Jul 2017
Feathers lift my downturn head,
Carrying me to the land below.
Solemn sky and crumbled stone;
Remnants of the Underearth.

The ground of tangled sinews,
The forests of marrow bone,
The heavens of moonlit blood,
The very air; slivers of ice.

Something beats among the feathers,
A pitch black mass; ungulating feverishly.
The many limbs and eyes
Of a thing long forgotten.

Where it leads me I do not know.
But I have no doubt any longer
That from the place I am going,
I will never return.
Svode Nov 2017
To everyone who has spurn,
to every hater who has made me learn,
to every despot who in hell will burn,
thank you.

To my desires, which I yearn,
to the men and women who barely earn,
to everyone whose lives have taken a downturn,
thank you.

For persisting in night and day,
for keeping this land free, I have to say,
that life isn't fair, you will sometimes go astray,
but the best thing to do is to work and stay.
SN Mrax Jun 2014
In the middle of the night, she wanted me to
feel her belly—I forget if there was a tumor there
or the gap where a tumor used to be or
just a gap, a mysterious gap in her belly.
And old skin ripples and softens—now mine does though
nobody knows, I look only a little different,
and only I see the downturn in my mouth in the mirror.
I don’t say anything to you because I don’t want to talk about
the gap in my belly, the sags, the hardness that shouldn’t be there.
All I have to say is about pain, pleasure and poison.
So I wait for the good days to speak, I avoid answering questions
and try not to be too much myself as I am.
I wonder about your quiet days, though,
what dismal truths do you keep to yourself?
And do you have moments like these,
reaching through the lonely velvet dream
towards the scintillating shadows of someones,
only to fumble and go slack, exhausted
before having touched the other end,
to find if it’s an inky vibrating projection
or an ephemeral, delicate reality?
Nathan Pival Apr 2016
Never asking life to be easy
Knowing that everything will be tough sometimes

Being patient
And waiting and waiting

How long with this downturn
Of this rollercoaster ride take?

Waiting and waiting
Because things have to get better eventually

I keep working towards it
Doing what I feel is right

Being patient
And waiting and waiting
Telling myself tomorrow is a new day

Waking and wanting
A fresh start and another take
On this so called life

Some of us are destined for difficult lives
Because we feel pain and care
When others don't

If that is my role,
I accept it
In the meantime
I am being patient
And waiting and waiting

For tomorrow's fresh start
Unstoppable is the Aires
Whose pride held high she carries
Don't anger the Ram
Just tell her, "yes ma'am"
Or end up as smashed berries

Stong as the bull is the Taurus
A heart that remains adventurous
His only downturn
He can be stubborn
Don't bring out his inner Chuck Noris

My brother is a Gemini
Whose limits bound past the sky
When you see the twin
As his true kingpin
Kiss your arguments good-bye

Cancer is a fancy crab
Hosting parties that are fab
Not part of their clique
You're just a fish stick
A friendship you have to grab

A lover is the Lion
Affection you can not buy in
wouldn't you know
I'm talkin' of Leo
A shorter mane he is tryin'

I've never liked a Virgo
I'm sorry if you're a Virgo
You claim you're the ******
I claim I'm a surgeon
I still don't like the Virgo

Libra represents the scales
Whose beauty and love prevails
In search of balance
Finds silence
When equality and justice fails

Handsome is the Scorpio
A heart as cold as icy snow
With a body, aesthetic
and a voice so magnetic
He'll flirt with any schmo

Sagittarius the Archer
Gives honesty by nature
Reckless arguments,
Preaching documents
Can leave you on the floor

Ambitions is the goat
Whose public image they will gloat
A strong Capricorn
Is never torn
For loyalty they tote

The Water Bearer Aquarius
Of her friends she is gregarious
Guarded and detached
Her heart can be unlatched
And I find her hilarious

Pisces is a mystery
Who lives a life of fantasy
Represented as a Fish
A face you cannot miss
With a long romantic history
Jeff Teasdale Oct 2017
Tears so cold felt like snow
Just happy they aren't mine
Selective advantage
Can I steal your life to stay young?
Want to ruin yer lipstick, not yer mascara
Lips downturn & eyes asking why
Say something, say something
Thoughts run through my mind like an hour glass
Brooding clouds bring premature darkness
No sunset today
On yer knees difficult to face your fears
Follow your fears, you know where they are then
A promise of a playground in the rain

The mammals that became Gods

— The End —