Veteran fashion designer Tarun Tahiliani believes that the Indian fashion industry has become more organised and a little more professional.

Best known for his ability to infuse Indian craftsmanship and textile heritage with European tailored silhouette, Tahiliani believes that the Indian fashion industry has become more strategised and cemented over the last 20 years.

"India's propensity to consume is gaining an international audience and this is changing the competitive landscape," Tahiliani told IANS in an email interview.

"It has certainly become more organised and a little more professional, and obviously the market has exploded, but I think that we still have a long way to go in terms of being more business oriented and there's still room to get more organised and professional," the designer added.

Eulogizing the new and younger crop of designers, Tahiliani, who has over two decades of experience in the industry, believes that they are doing well in terms of the handloom and textile industry.

"What's really heartening to see is that there are so many younger designers who are going places and are doing so well in terms of the handloom and textile industry... it has become more organised. I think handloom was very localised in terms of weavers with a certain look from a certain area sold through certain channels," said the Co-Founder of Ensemble -- a multi-designer boutique.

"There has been a lot more creative freedom and other regions are experimenting with textile alien to their region, especially if they are more lucrative. As long as people appreciate traditional craftsmanship and embroideries, machine work will never replace the richness of hand embroidery," he added.

Asked if the plus-size models are yet to move into the mainstream industry in India?

"Well, they should have moved into the mainstream long back. But are not normally associated with very expensive high fashion and couture," Tahiliani said.

Having draped most of the leading ladies of Bollywood like Priyanka Chopra, Aishwarya Rai Bachchan and Madhuri Dixit-Nene in his creations, Tahiliani says that fashion is his muse, not a Bollywood star.

"Art, architecture, interiors, history, travel and maharajas... My inspiration comes from many things. Sometimes it's from beautiful inlay work that I've seen in a fabulous monument; other times my inspiration can be something as simple as a beautiful kanjeevaram weave," he said.

"Ultimately, however, my inspiration comes from India's rich traditions of craftsmanship, particularly when it comes to things like embroideries that we have in India. Nothing is more amazing than beautifully executed, intricate and fine technique. I don't design clothes keeping a Bollywood star in mind, but rather for the new age contemporary woman," he added.

Tahiliani is all geared up to showcase his collection The Last Dance of the Courtesan at the FDCI India Couture Week 2016 on Thursday here. He has artistically blended fabrics like cotton jacquards, cotton silks, crepes and cutwork jamdanis with Swarovski crystals for the range.

That's not all. He will next participate in the Vogue Wedding Show and then the prestigious Lakme Fashion Week, to be held in Mumbai in August.

"I will present my Ready to Wear Autumn Winter 16-17 collection at Lakme Fashion Week. It has been inspired by the works of Mrinalini Mukherjee (late sculptor) and the journey only gets bigger and better from here," he said.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney | www.marieaustralia.com/pink-formal-dresses

I'm not trending.
Have I lost my touch?
Has the flock departed my
exodus for greener pastures
or mountain testaments?
Do the rhymes not carry
the meaning like they used to,
like sailing ships in the steel ages?
I let the winds take me anyways,
take my life and scatter
syllable seedlings across the sites
of battles just old enough where
the ghosts are getting tired.
Maybe I need a touch of comedy?
A critique would be appreciated,
dear reader.
By the way, we made some mistakes
in the last issue you had with us.
On page seven, we established the fact
that I was confident. This was
proven false with a report card report
mailed to us by the fine folks in blue at the
Teacher's Union.
On page nineteen, there was a photo
made of words that sounded like
love song lyrics.
That romance is currently defunct and we
apologize to any soldiers and shippers who
attempted to invade that lost region
on the life map.
Page twenty-three had a mistake,
the byline citing a girl who died
inside.
Our apologies for installing her name on
the neon sign and reminding you all
of the casualties of existing in the first place.
Finally, there was an absence of malice
in the letter from the editor on the back cover,
his eulogizing of his overdosed career
hardly harsh enough a reprimand for
someone who will never listen.
Thank you for your understanding of
this, even if the rest is a mess.

Are you?
Propounding Pounds
Dealing in Dollars
Eulogizing Euros
Dwelling in Dinars
Rolling in Rupees
Enlisting Yens
Whose exchange value is nil
In honey combed heaven
Or horrendous hell
What so ever, whom so ever
Be it an empowered emperor
Or any contemptuous contemporary
Only valid currency in heaven  
Is pure Conduct and Character

Darkness, sing your song in quietness,
                         eulogizing departing light,
sad moon's silence,
                               and  your love affair with misty mountain heights.

Are you?
Propounding Pounds
Dealing in Dollars
Eulogizing Euros
Dwelling in Dinars
Rolling in Rupees
Enlisting Yens
Whose exchange value is nil
In honey combed heaven
Or horrendous hell
What so ever, whom so ever
Be it an empowered emperor
Or any contemptuous contemporary
Only valid currency in heaven  
Is pure Conduct and Character

H-Hail! Hail! Hail!
  A-All cuddly aquiline butterflies
    L-Limbered and croon
      I-In the midst of Eden
        M-Mirthfully like the hallowed angels
            A-And soar high beneath the curled clouds

H-Happily the withered grass and flowers
   A-Awoken,and laid out their hearts
     I-Imperil before the rays at sunshine
       L-Languidly,to ink modish Ballads
         E-Eulogizing thy charm,thy steam and thy wit
           Y-Yes! Yes! Together the whole universe yodelled for thee

Halima Hailey
©Historian E.Lexano

Are you?
Propounding Pounds
Dealing in Dollars
Eulogizing Euros
Dwelling in Dinars
Rolling in Rupees
Enlisting Yens
Whose exchange value is nil
In honey combed heaven
Or horrendous hell
What so ever, whom so ever
Be it an empowered emperor
Or any contemptuous contemporary
Only valid currency in heaven  
Is pure Conduct and Character

I’d sing to you soft songs
If you walked along with me
By the sea, harmonizing;
Eulogizing each wave before
Ignoring the temptation
For libations and viands.
The sands would demand
Hand and hand we stroll
And roll with the moment,
The foment feet way
At the end of this day.

I’d revel in this with you
New waves making lights
That night tries to hide
While inside we create
The greatest love and joys
Toys for the fates, caress
And dress us as royalty.
Loyalty and gratitude transform
As we form into a pair.
The wind ruffles our hair.

I’d breathe in the sea air
Sharing the breezes with you
Doing nothing but strolling
Unrolling a memory for two
Who both understand this
Is what it is; a beginning
Winning a celestial prize
For eyes that celebrate
This date as only ours;
These hours our dedication,
A presentation to us both
And loth to walk away
We so want to stay.

I’d sing to you soft songs
If you walked along with me
By the sea, harmonizing;
Eulogizing each wave before,
Ignoring the temptation
For libations and viands.
The sands would demand
As hand in hand we stroll
And roll with the moment,
The foment feet way
At the end of this day.

I’d revel this all with you
New waves making lights
That night tries to hide
While inside we create
The greatest love and joys
Toys for the fates, caress
And dress us as royalty.
Loyalty and gratitude transform
As we form into a pair.
The wind ruffles our hair.

But clouds don’t talk out loud
And tell you all this about me,
Or rout me out of my dream
Not as real as they seem to be
These illusions often delight me
But rightly, dissipate in the breeze
Then, on my knees, I pray
There will be another day
That is just like this one
That has just begun.
Until then, I thank my luck
That what a buck can’t buy
Has just passed me by
Bringing good fortune
And a clear sky
To weary eyes.

I’d revel this all with you
New waves making lights
That night tries to hide
While inside we create
The greatest love and joys
Toys for the fates, caress
And dress us as royalty.
Loyalty and gratitude transform
As we form into a pair.
The wind ruffles our hair.

Never did I imagine love could work for me. After a few trials, I've learned that reciprocity should not be expected from someone broken, unable to love themselves, thus unable to love me.

You've shown me that beyond physicality, you were here, forever. Got comfortable, we embraced this cosmic journey together.

Our freedom rang and dusted away ruins untouched, and built. We aren't 16 anymore and haven't reached 30, but your heart was still tilted.  
Bruised with holes to many to count, my love would never fill you
so you chose to live without instead of in our love to heal.

when i look at you
to say something in pace of rafts
on rivers,

cadencing
claptrap swerve of wording
in tongue's avenue

         is its nature—

    spreading contagion of ill pride.
seeking diadems in fields of night larks
   singing heavily, unapologetic, eulogizing
   mornings none we could take,

  whirling inside our bodies like
     stirred poisons in vials. past the unreadiness of moonlight waxing
    stellified are the waters now, clear
in first light,
    
      like fish underneath our bellies.

I first saw John sitting in the third desk of the first row.
I sat in the second, my new jeans cracking,
No curling iron-on patches as of yet.
A pin from my baby blue shirt pricked my neck.
I stepped in red ball Jets, before the soles became flapping tongues,
And the insignia peeled from the ankles.
Our well-used, wooden desks had pull-out drawers for stuff,
And always in need of re-arranging.
We invited our Guardian Angels to sit there, on the wooden drawer.
John sat, with black-rimmed glasses, on his pull out,
Graciously giving up the well-worn seat for his angel.
I liked him already.
His specs fit my sight. I could see the alphabet above the blackboard.
My first friend. Not a brother or sister. Someone who heard me.
Someone I listened to.
He was the oldest of six.
Had grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins in Canada.
He had instinct. Knew my lacking, shared his relations.
We studied the Catechism, had Confessions, First Communion, altar duties, patrol boy corners, sports, jerks and girls.
We learned to smoke and drink, drive and thrive.
We were Best Men, fathers and grandfathers.
I am not eulogizing John,
But celebrating while alive.
If all goes well,
I'll die before losing him.
But then,
Why would I do that
To my life long friend.

I will see you on the day of the levee breach.
I will see you when my sinful green dreams
       break the fourth wall.
I will see you when every instance of your
       breath envelopes me like an atmosphere
       of ecstasy and poison.
I will see you when your face still hasn't  
       aged, so perfect in your mastery, and
       you'll glance back on me, seeing clearly
       my eyes of penury.

You will see me—veiled until the flood, washing over, just us two, the prophecy completed, and the realm of death finally demolished.

When will we take the time to cry for the time we've wasted, and when will we start spending the time to correct this?

Tell me if you're built on the same lithium and helium that I am, or if I've been formulating you out of my own ignorance.

Deeper now, into my depression.

You. You have the lingering qualities of a ghost, and just as well a ghost that I haven't seen you in ages.

Perhaps there will be a seance to your memory but do you hold it in Seattle? In a Kerouac, run down, for sale bed in Denver?

Don't tell me you wouldn't like the highs of a streetlamp sonata... But still you'd tell me that the good stuff is really highway jazz, and that cool songstress who gave you the first bites of LSD in your throat.

I can't wait until this America looks like rubble, and is exposed for the **** it's standing on, collapses like the Berlin Wall, and we start letting love back in.

Such a drop in communication. Such a lackluster, government barn burner, and I can't get any telegrams anymore. I used to wish you'd write me a hundred times a day, and now I see where all that greed got me.

So sad. Scared to death in your presence! Am I eulogizing you now, or are these my parting words?

Originality—who's buying?
I wish that ***** would forge Picasso or Matisse.
Give me something better to worry about.

Thinking thoughts of honorable ******,
Terrible though—
You can't **** structure,
You can't **** rhyme,
You can't **** the governor,
You can't **** Ayn Rand,
You can't **** Jackson *******...
They're all doing fine.
Vitals stable.
Restored this morning.

Mystic within Catholic depression, holy roses wrapped about a room of adultery. All I could think of was Jack Kennedy, and the irony of how I cried at his tomb.

You disrupted my balance.

You walked like Aphrodite over my fixed set of morals, into my collection of a million words, onto my bookshelf... And had no idea.

Because I was too late.
Because I did not know.
Because the world would consider this all
       immoral, but morals are bourgeoise
       constructs anyway.
Because you have an aerosol heart.
Because you have that face of diplomatic
       change, free of charge.
Because you might be God.
Because you soul walks across Atlantic City.
Because you hold a pen like Whitman.

I'm curious.

Homily in dueces, wrecked beyond comprehension.
Half starved, swelling throngs of disbelievers,
Half true eulogies eulogizing the still-living, undulating ghosts that whip to and fro between one righteous thought and one sin.
Undaunted in fear do I stand before thee.  
Unheard do I scream a name that can never answer me, as the human attached to it has nothing more to give.
Haunted by my own self.

there is violence
at flash points south,
a time of marches and indignation,
of martyrdom and mayhem,
a young man tearfully eulogizing:
"i am tired of funerals,
i don't want no more funerals..."
and there is a war somewhere faraway
mushrooming on
a half-buried map

a friday in november.
a motorcade proceeds
under an endless texas sky,
then gunshots are fired -
there's a fleeting glimpse of death...
shock...distress...
time leaps and lapses,
reality struggles
while the brain chews fiction,
unwilling to process,
unable to comprehend

the widow's clothes change
from blood-stained pink
to somber black

she radiates dignity,
strength, character...
gliding into history
with her veiled grief,
her purposeful stride

we bow at such majesty,
such inner grace

we are transformed

Those that rake the meadow sweet with hay, embrace the land’s gift ‘till end of ray/
Toil, shadow hunting long, greeting sun with grin, and night as friend/
Hands chafed, lips chapped, skin kissed, shoulders leant, legs bent, chin high/
Eyes down, mind stretched out to the world beyond the valley walls of the lea/
Honest work? Perhaps.  Captive to what might be versus what will be?  Truth.
What happens to the rimrock hand when clouds of the west carry weather foul, blowing through swale, clearing chaff from air; A whirlwind of change and fragments, wrack and foam/
of the world, our world, your world swept down a path of less than least resistance/
Like trees razed on a hill, laying down to the wind, there is no choice in the matter/
Eulogizing change to change is staring at the sun and waiting for a wink/
There is no changing trajectory in flight, winds send to where they send/
Few still rake meadows sweet with hay, and never dream of what might have been.

Furious gusts of air
mightily blow bestirring anchored poet
sitting comfortably numb
securely strapped in his hard to maneuver
easy bath chair
while all around him debris
strewn helter skelter everywhere
heavy objects unmoored
pirouetting topsy turvy

defying laws of physics
cue Adam Smith
courtesy his invisible hand
eulogizing, kickstarting, and regulating
unseen cogs and gear
in order to avoid being plucked up
analogous to whirling dervish
ye dear reader best don
top of the line name brand ironware

to fend off soundcloud
analogous to webbed
whirled wide rooky banshee
hounding kingly bishopric
inducing royal knightmare
whereat pawns called play
as damage control representatives
ultimately linkedin to medicare
for ****** harm suffered

and property destruction
doled out courtesy Nationwide Insurance,
nevertheless yours truly
experienced heightened anxiety
cuz I accidentally, casually, easily,
et cetera eavesdropped,
though a polite gentleman (boot no scholar)
loud talking policyholder
anyone could easily overhear

their strident vocalizations
and they owned chutzpah to queer
re: me for listening to conversation
threatening with abominable language to scare
living daylights, which nearly caused
writer of these words
to soil his underwear
such vociferous threats
wrought quick thinking defense posture,

whereby my ordinary shy demeanor
empowered after downing
powder milk biscuits
(cuz heaven's their tasty)
and declaring warfare
against being bullied
versus suffering as token scapegoat
most every year
from boyhood until emerging adulthood.

After crafting above lines
current generated via whoosh;
I sat mine hind quarters
(otherwise referred to the ****),
which signalled to Doctor Quackenbush,
(id est Groucho Marx)
not deficient with quick wit
whose hook, line and sinker
word of the day namaycush
helped one environmental ******
high (fish) tail to Hindu Kush
where removal from madding crowd
spiritually inoculated one
with a profound hush.

After experiencing a severe,
albeit violent near lethal bout
of irritable bowel syndrome
(yesterday night August 30th, 2023)
triggered courtesy dulcolax caplets plus
healthy portion of lentils,
I (a beatle browed, foo fighting,
night ranger needing nirvana)
imperiled me to twist and shout
as a whirling dervish analogous
to F5 tornado bread a deep purple
to kiss earth, wind and fire
hopscotching across terrestrial plain.

Irritable bowel syndrome
in my pinion wracked
lower abdominal area (mine)
bubbled, gurgled and ballooned
sub stomach gastrointestinal tract
vis a vis flatulence crooned
in tandem with subsequent expulsion
explosively eliminated ***** waste
witnessed this scribe forcibly
zipping, sprinting, jetting to bathroom,

self propulsion (a race against time)
nsync with contraction of sphincter muscles'
spasmodically, desperately braced
body electric of mine hurled
at light speed across the universe
courtesy unpleasant symptoms
that mimicked anxiety/ panic attack,
which tortuousness, odorousness, insidiousness,
horrendousness, gaseousness, arduousness...
played mean game of (gastrointestinal
knick knack paddywhack havoc.

Ofttimes in the past
irritable bowel syndrome
affrighted, afflicted, and affected me,
hence yours truly no stranger
to making light of offal plight
and even managing to craft poem
else my alias not mister rhyme stir,
who found himself held hostage
self barricaded in the water closet,
where thoughts about mooning

did not crack a smile,
more explicitly baring derriere
tubby more exact
humor did little to cheer me up -
matter of fact
no source of laughter manifested,
(despite usual presence of chuckles
from this fan of good humor) hijacked
for what seemed a maternity leave
from all mothers tub be

thus envision, a bevy of pregnant gals
aching with cramps heave
ving (times square of the hippopotamus)
with ****** fully dilated key
ping alert, when mother nature ready
to pull out all stops (via umbilical cord)
to deliver bundle of joy followed
in quick succession with after birth re:
placental sack, hence
said effort to expel newborn

the closest scenario
experienced ill suited
to Saint Vitus dance
afflicting this anxiety prone
lovely bones, an all expense
paid (seat of the pants)
accursed bane of proletariat grants
no truce to attend
found me pampered doubled over stance.

Modus operandi to distract
against acute pain crisis
yielded impossible mission
exhibited courtesy haphazard poem  
awaiting unsolicited feedback
across rock of ages woke
beguiling ghostly ***** spectre
courtesy Marie-Antoinette,
(i.e. bride of France's arty choke
King Louis XVI) bespoke

let him eat cake, and (sic)
send back the ****** bloke,
aye suddenly begot idea rye
Jack Corner of zee desk
didst impale and provoke
moderately painful injury
right side rib cage
analogous to intriguing
unfortunate circumstance
mysterious secret shrouded

as dagger and cloak
(think Alfred E. Neuman,
viz MAD Magazine), yes no joke
lovely bones of me body electric,
(particularly right side rib cage)
severely traumatized, nailed, injured...
crucified oft told umteen times,
yet omitting key mirrors and smoke,
significant Dorian Gray parallel,
when former antique,

viz secrétaire looking glass reflection,
spider hairline fractures radiated
resembled bay of pigs in a poke
ham handedly oinked,
quaked, shattered... broke
into bajillion pieces
deafening, exploding,
glowering thunder stroke
jagged shrapnel size shards
unleashed cosmic force
lacerated, gnashed, beribboned...

impeaching flesh with
one engulfed masterstroke,
no rhyme nor reason aiming to choke
off promising poet (ha) of corpse
resembling scrambled egg yolk
posthumous fame besmoke
salvaged mine besmirched reputation
courtesy humble cartoon character
bugs bunny and kinfolk spoke
daffy fully goofily
eulogizing humor did evoke.

Antiestablishmentarian inherent malevolent violence
wracks human species, a most brutish and nasty beast
case in point Vladimir Putin the population
constituting country of Ukraine he fleeced.

An embittered nihilistic teenager
grown haggard and old,
hence not surprisingly yours truly
crafts pseudo dystopian reasonable rhyme,
to dissociate himself with human species
blithely wreaking havoc
courtesy genocide of flora and fauna.

An evangelized atheistic adherent,
I aver evolutionary theory
posits prelapsarian Eden
of astonishing plentitude
gone to hell in a handbasket.

Ever since human species stood *****
exhibiting prehensile appendages did allow
cupped fingers upon brow,
whereat vista unveiled to succor chow.

Dawn of consciousness begat
superstitious vagaries daunting
present day Democrat
and/or Republican to issue fiat
denouncing extremist militant uprising
raging across Capitol Hill habitat.

Though 2021 presidential inauguration
occurred nearly thirteen months ago
(president broadcast his 2022
state of the union speech)
which still cast a pall
upon commander in chief.

The National Commission to Investigate
the January 6 Attack on  
United States Capitol Complex
repercussion reverberate across
Washington District of Columbia,
where hoodlums ran amuck
eulogizing, lionizing, patronizing violence.

Lawlessness bled constitution white
marauding bands of hooligans
bombarded, desecrated, fueled,
harmed, jackknifed, leveled, nailed,
pummeled, rioted, terrorized, vandalized...
bedlam with glee and spite
yielded windfall regarding

headline grabbing newsnight
motley film crews recorded
gangsters scaling storied height
(cue spiderman/woman)
think rescuers quick
as greased lightning they did alight.

If only real and/or
fictional life action heroes/heroines
came to the rescue
to avenge forces of evil,
where virtue dispensed,
and trumpeted courtesy better angels.

Meanwhile indefatigable defenders
of human rights
dole out just desserts
upon the heads
of self styled lawless brigands
militaristic thugs hell bent
to wreak havoc
upon cradle of liberty
including complex edifices
linkedin and embody

blood, sweat and tears
of freedom fighters
arrayed against merciless
demonic forces upending
foundation upholding enshrined
nearly divinely inspired principles
quantum leaps since
early man/woman trod
across terrestrial firmament.

I experienced exhilaration
upon witnessing confirmation
genuflection, liberation, restitution
espoused by Joseph Robinette Biden Jr.
forty sixth president of United States.

I'm moving
Compartmentalizing
Sorting

I'm moving
Counting down the days
Crossing the notches on a wall

I'm moving
Eulogizing
Saying Goodbye

I'm moving
And

I'm never coming back

I trumpet the withdrawal
of democratic contender from out the presidential race.

Breaking headline news story
courtesy rumor monger premieres
showcasing emphatic groundswell
against feeble minded incumbent.

Extraordinary turn of current events
immediately enlivens the United States populace
injecting much needed lively discussion
about gerontocracy deliberating for the electorate.

Though ill suited for any storied role in American government
yours truly (a sexagenarian) could vouchsafe for entrusting the
beleaguered state of the union in the hands of a qualified female
or male candidate born within Generation X Born 1965–1980.

Upon growing national groundswell of alarm
agonizing, capitalizing, eulogizing, galvanizing,
initializing, jeopardizing, polarizing...
voters (née namely citizens) of United States
plus capital one, buzzfeeding learned folks
linkedin courtesy webbed wide world,
an earthshaking crisis emboldens an erstwhile
average joe (biden his time) suddenly
chose to loose his humble opinion
across the Internet to affect

an immediate emergency session
of government officials
to address inexorable lurch
toward absolute zero democracy,
which liaison of Democrats and Republicans
necessitates closed door session
to resolve and allay the shear madness
lurking within the outer limits
of the fast approaching twilight zone
where dark shadows

creep toward utter chaos,
cuz our country tis of thee
teeters on the brink of
the astute heads of state,
and even popular stars
in the limelight beseech, implore,
and knead the malleable consciences
of sensible sons and daughters
genealogically linkedin to storied personalities
fomenting the American Revolution.

Outright riots promise to spill blood
and sacrifice the lives
of at least one anonymous worthy wordsmith,
(who might possibly
be an English Major incarnate)
in tandem with militant posses submerging
the land of the free
and home of the brave into anarchy
already terroristic subterfuge

rallies quintessential pronouncement
hinting quacking ducks lined in a row
where progostigation of dystopian future
impossible mission to detail
a scenario one cannot even conjure
from an overactive imagination
such as mine flirtation
with the Brave New World
already reflecting the absence of freedoms.

Not much effort required
to hypothesize severe limitations
and even harsh measures
taken against me for merely
sharing a what if scenario
barely even approximating
fallout from writing something
so passé as the following.
Haint no walk in the (Linkin) Park
(like back in the day
during the twenty fourth year
of the twenty first century),
I remember fondly as a sexagenarian -
shooting the breeze
on many a temperate
mid summer nights dream,
or later at four after midnight
nodding off to sleep
listening to deep sleep music

courtesy scouring youtube
then mostly free
from the electronic eyes of the government,
cuz soon sophisticated spyware -
linkedin with augmented/
virtual reality and microchips
incorporating sensors record
critical nodes' details traversed by each bit,
where computer hackers given free license
to explore weaknesses within system of the down.

Afterwards rigorously tested apps courtesy
south of the borders penned up
(think veritable sweatshop) preschoolers,
or applications put thru their paces
by kindergarteners similarly encaged
laboring with their collective cute button noses
to the grindstone sunup to sundown
exception made for little fingers reprieve
come holidays or birthday of product tester
prior to software being installed
on every machine sold for personal use) -
ultimately allowed (rather mandated)

by fiat and enabled a self declared autocrat
to obtain covert information
about another's computer activities
by transmitting data covertly from their hard drive -
espying websites visited
accumulating treasure trove of data -
possibly unwittingly hitting the bullseye
when subtly targeting and ingeniously
lampooning agent provocateur
cleverly communicating hidden messages
subsequently courtesy from said wiseacre.