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judy smith Sep 2016
WHEN Kylie Minogue began the process of tracking down 25 years of costumes and memorabilia for an exhibition on her (literally) glittering stage career, she had one crucial call to make.

“There were a few items the parentals were minding,” laughs Minogue. “I, too, do the same thing as everyone else: ‘Mum, Dad, can you just hold onto a few things for me?’ It’s just lucky they weren’t turfed out from under their watchful eye.”

Kylie On Stage is the singer’s latest collaboration with her beloved hometown’s Arts Centre Melbourne. She’s previously donated a swarm of outfits to the venue, going all the way back to the overalls she wore as tomboy mechanic Charlene on Neighbours.

This new — and free — exhibition rounds up outfits starting from her first-ever live performances on 1989’s Disco in Dream tour. Still aged just 21 and dismissed by some as a soap star who fluked a singing career, Minogue found herself playing to 38,000 fans in Tokyo, where her early hits “I Should Be So Lucky”, “The Loco-motion”, “Got To Be Certain” and “Hand On Your Heart” had made her a superstar.

“From memory, I was overexcited and didn’t really know what I was doing. I just ran back and forth across the stage,” says Minogue of her debut tour.

Disco in Dream also premiered what would become a Kylie fashion staple: hotpants. “Those ones were more like micro shorts, not quite hotpants, but they started it,” she admits. “There were also quite a few bicycle pants being worn around that time, too, I’m afraid.”

That first tour stands out for one other reason: Minogue officially started dating INXS’s Michael Hutchence at some point during the Asian leg.

“I had met Michael previously in Australia, but he was living in Hong Kong [at the time] and I met him again there. The tour went on to Japan and he definitely came to visit me in Japan.”

Fast-forward from Minogue’s very first tour to her most recent, 2015’s Kiss Me Once, and the singer performed a cover of INXS’s “Need You Tonight”. She remembers first hearing the song as a teenager. “I don’t think I really knew what **** was back then,” notes Minogue. “But that’s a **** song.”

Before the Kiss Me Once tour kicked off, the Minogue/Hutchence romance had been documented in the hit TV mini-series Never Tear Us Apart: The Untold Story Of INXS. Minogue said then it felt like Michael was her “archangel” during the tour — “I feel like he’s with me.”

Her “Need You Tonight” costume was also deliberately chosen to reflect what Minogue used to wear when she was dating the rockstar. “It was a black PVC trench coat and hat,” she says. “I loved that. It just made so much sense for the connection to Michael. I literally used to wear that exact same kind of thing, except it was leather, not PVC.”

By 1990, Minogue’s confidence had grown, something she’s partially attributed to Hutchence’s influence. Before her first Australian solo tour, she performed a secret club show billed as The Singing Budgies — reclaiming the derisive nickname the media had bestowed on her. It would be the first time her success silenced those who saw her as an easy target. Next year marks her 30th anniversary in pop; longevity that hasn’t happened by accident.

Minogue’s career accelerated so quickly that by 1991 she was on her fourth album in as many years and outgrowing her producers, Stock Aitken Waterman, who wanted to freeze-frame her in a safe, clean-cut image.

On 1991’s Let’s Get To It tour of the UK, Minogue welcomed onboard her first major fashion designer — John Galliano. He dressed her in fishnets, G-strings and corsets; the British press said she was trying too hard and imitating Madonna at her most sexed-up.

“Of course those comparisons were made, and rightly so. Madonna was a big influence on me,” says Minogue. “She helped create the template of what a pop show is, or what we came to know it as, by dividing it up into segments. And if you’re going to have any costume changes, that’s inevitable.

“I was finding my way. I don’t think we got it right in some ways, but if I look back over my career, sometimes it’s the mistakes that make all the difference. They allow you to really look at where you’re going. I’m fond of all those things now. There was a time when I wasn’t.

“Now I look back at the pictures of the fishnets and G-strings I was wearing ... Maybe the audience members absolutely loved it, maybe they were going through the journey with me of growing up and discovering yourself and your sexuality and where you fit in the world.”

As the ’90s progressed, Minogue started experimenting with the outer limits of being a pop star, working with everyone from uber-cool dance producers to indie rocker Nick Cave.

Her 1998 Intimate And Live tour cemented her place as the one thing nobody had ever predicted: a regular, global touring act. Released the year prior, her Impossible Princess album had garnered a credibility she’d never before enjoyed. But more credibility equalled fewer record sales.

The tour was cautiously placed in theatres, rather than arenas. Yet word-of-mouth led to more dates being added — she wound up playing seven nights in both Melbourne and Sydney, and tacking on a UK leg. All received rave reviews.

The production was low-key and DIY: Minogue and longtime friend and stylist William Baker were hands-on backstage bedazzling the costumes themselves. The tour’s camp, Vegas-style showgirl — complete with corset and headdress — soon became a signature Kylie look, but it was also one they stumbled across.

“I remember the exact moment: the male dancers had pink, fringed chaps and wings — we’d really gone for it. I was singing [ABBA’s] “Dancing Queen”. I did a little prance across the stage and the audience went wild. I thought, ‘What is happening?’ That definitely started something.”

Then came the “Spinning Around” hotpants. Minogue couldn’t wear the same gold pair from the music video during her 2001 On A Night Like This tour — they were too fragile — but another pair offered solid back-up.

“That was peak hotpant period,” says Minogue. “Hotpants for days.”

After the robotic-themed Fever 2002 tour (featuring a “Kyborg” look by Dolce & Gabbana), 2005’s Showgirl tour was Minogue’s long-overdue greatest hits celebration.

Following a massive UK and European run, her planned Australian victory lap was derailed by her breast-cancer diagnosis that May. Remarkably, by November 2006, Minogue was back onstage in Sydney for the rebooted Showgirl: The Homecoming tour.

“I look at that now and I’m honestly taken aback,” she admits. “It was so fast — months and months of those 18 months were in treatment.”

Minogue now reveals her health issues meant she had to adjust some of the Showgirl outfits: “I was concerned about the weight of the corset and being able to support it. I was quite insecure about my body, which had changed. For a few years after that I really felt like I wasn’t in my own body — with the medication I was on, there was this other layer.

“We had to make a number of adjustments,” she adds. “I had different shoes to feel more sturdy ... It was pretty soon to be back onstage. But I think it was good for me.”

The singer’s gruelling performances involved dancing and singing in corsets, as well as ultra-high heels and headdresses that weighed several kilos.

“A proper corset, like the Showgirl tour one, is like a shoe,” she explains. “It’s very stiff when you first put it on. By the end of the tour it was way more comfortable. The fact it made it quite hard to breathe didn’t seem to bother anyone except for me. But it was absolutely worth it. I felt grand in it.

“It took a while to learn how to walk in the blue Showgirl dress,” she continues. “I had cuts on my arms from the stars that were sticking out on pieces of wire. You’re so limited in what you can do. You can’t bend your head to find your way down the stairs.

“Whether it was the Showgirl costume or the hotpants, or the big silver dress from the Aphrodite tour [in 2011] that was just ginormous, they all present their own challenges of how you’re going to move and how you’re going to do the choreography. There are times the costume can do that [figuring out] for me; other times I really have to wrestle with it to do what I need to do.

“But you’re not meant to know about that,” she adds, “that’s an internal struggle.”

Minogue has spent much of 2016 happily off the radar, enjoying the company of fiancé Joshua Sasse, 28. She gets “gooey” talking about her future husband, whom she met last year when she was cast opposite him in the TV musical-comedy series Galavant. He proposed to Minogue last Christmas.

Just like the “secret Greek wedding” that was rumoured but never happened, reports of summer nuptials in Melbourne are also off the mark.

“I hate to let everyone down, but no,” she says. “People’s enthusiasm is lovely, we appreciate that, but there are no wedding plans as yet. I’m just enjoying feeling girly and being engaged.”

Minogue will be in Queensland next month filming the movie Flammable Children. The comedy, set in 1975, features her former Neighbours co-star Guy Pearce and is written and directed by Stephan Elliott (The Adventures Of Priscilla: Queen Of The Desert ).

“It’s Aussie-tastic,” laughs Minogue. And she is also planning a sneaky visit to check out her own exhibition when she’s back in Melbourne.

“I’ll probably try to move things around the exhibition,” she says. “And they’ll probably tell me off: ‘Who’s that child playing with the costumes?’”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2016
Helen Dec 2013
Before you start reading this I feel I must tell you, this is long and very possibly, very very boring but, so very important to me and hopefully to my dedicated*


I sat back upon cracked heels
that represented, simply,
just a good place to sit
Somewhere close to the ground
where I could trail fingertips
in the dirt, drawing pictures
of deserted castles
and skeleton butterflies
with wings of fractutured glass
and fairies
with silken headdresses
of thorns
and Unicorns,
missing their horns
and other creatures
of similar ilk

Staring at the fence,
Fifty million years high
I sigh
because beyond the fence
in a babble of voices
they whisper of
Contentment
The underlying sentiment
of precocious antic dotes
spilling precious needs upon
any slight breeze
drifting like glowing dust motes
fills me with a resentment
that is voraciously ferocious
because they
spoke to each other
while all I had was dirt
beneath my fingernails
and partially deformed nightmares
that blew away
on the slightest exhale

As I cleaned the slate
with a flick of my wrist
Rain turned to mist
my dust board of memories
became a mud pile
I couldn't smile
I could hardly even frown
I was still as close as I could ever be
to the ground
I was now no longer kneeling
I was laying with one cheek
against my impression of Calliope,
who is carvorting silently
with rucked up skirts and lute in hand
but not longer in motion
just a muddied mess of dirt and tears
capturing all my naked fears
erased beneath a spirit
that hides in the dirt
on the other side of the fence

This is where he found me
All ragged and breathing stale air
All gasping for solace
trying to wrap myself in warmth
of the voices
from the other side of the fence
It was not blanket sized
more just a crocheted square
enough to cover my heart
which needed the warmth
I swear, I went cold so often
that the dirt that remained
under my fingernails
was the only thing
that kept my fingers warm

He crouched beside me
and said softly
What have we here?
Oh baby bird with broken wing
but whose song I did hear sing
Little Callista, mute from your screams
Broken from your nightmares
that started as dreams...
I saw you through the fence


As I stared into tapestry eyes
and followed the outstretched hand
that didn't try to touch me
sensing my fragility
He pointed to a pinprick space
devoid of concrete and mortar
Just inches from my dirtied face
in the Fifty million year high fence
he graced me with a weary look
I heard you ask once
while chasing skeleton butterflies
if they came from over fence...
Would you like a look?


He stood up over ten feet tall,
simply clasped his hand together
With eyebrow raised
and a twitch to lips
he invited me to stand
with a nod of his head
and a flick of eyes to the fence
I simply unwove all my dreams
and delicious unfantasies
stood, put a hand on his shoulder
a ***** foot in his palms
and he hoisted me

What I saw over the fence was
Magical, Mystical
a complete break to my reality

A simple garden of verdant green
the sublime shade of an unspoken tree
a single little girl
with ten thousand voices
spilling from her lips
from her I caught
just a small crocheted square
on the other side
but it still made no sense
what I saw,
hanging from the fence
until I looked back down
into taperstry eyes
that smiled
with a knowledge of Soloman
having pulled apart
and put back together
a struggling humanity
He simply grinned at me
and trumpeted
She is you, she writes Poetry
You are her and I, We, believe
in both of you.
As you can clearly see
there is nothing beyond the fence
that you cannot be


And he simply bent his knees
and lifted his hands
to the Sun
and toppled me over the fence
so I could, again
become one
I don't know if I said anything as I sailed over the fence to land the right way down but, thanks for the leg up :)
ConnectHook Feb 2017
Drums in the darkness: a jungle clearing
fetish masks and gibbering lips
grass skirts, headdresses, face-paint leering
nocturnal trances, gyrating hips.

A medicine man, by spirits possessed,
grunts while the powers invade his mind;
the dancers shriek, as if distressed
by a presence in shadow not yet defined.

It’s only Rock’n’Roll
REVOLUTION  BABY!
Up against the wall, burn all it down girl, smash the state, armed love, light my fire, here comes the new order, impending chaos, a new dawn, when all is one and one is all, etc, etc.
Oh yeah, man. Rock’n’Roll is so REVOLUSHUNARY ! It’s all about, like, Freedom … and Change…  and – uh…

But let us pause for a moment and consider: spoiled sons and daughters of the upper and middle classes, children of the land of plenty gyrating in the psychedelic sun or cavorting in nocturnal cavern-clubs; masses of ****** teens chanting in arenas, banging their heads to guttural nonsense – raving narcissistic drugged-out youth, flaunting their rebellion and paying good money to confuse their brains while they do it in the road, mocking the ****** standards of anterior generations while projecting bad attitude and donning costumes of calculated shock-value – self-anointed anarchist prophets, metal-head barbarian wannabees and metro-queer Gothic prettyboys… these are certainly interesting cultural phenomena (symptoms?) to study. But PLEASE don’t call it revolutionary change. Revolutionary change would mow down these bourgeois decadents and ridiculously-attired hipsters with machine-gun fire and then herd the rest into reeducation camps. Revolution is organized death at the hands of tyrants, thugs, and bureaucracies… Rock n’Roll is about – uh… downloading tunes to your i-pod, getting high and disobeying authority figures. To hell with Rock and Roll. It’s just a lot of syncopated slave music at its “get your groove on” heart. (I mean “slave” in the greater Greco-Roman and Nietzschean sense of the word – not in the recent context only. Think Hellenistically for a moment). Rock’n’Roll and all of it’s “shock the bourgeoisie/anti-patrician” offshoots is music of the lower chakras, gut-music, 3 or 4 chord fuzzed-up anthems to carnality punctuated by ******* grunts, plebeian hoots, hillbilly yells, ****-strutting shrieks, lecherous leering slavering animality, and undulating serpentine harlotry. Ooooooh – how revolting it truly is – because it commodifies revolt, repackages the same old inarticulate teenage rebellion OVER & OVER & OVER, intensifying it slightly each time, tweaking it for each distinct youth subculture and acting as if it actually had more significance than it does (remember – I also love the music – bear with me -we’re analyzing here…). Rock music is an opportunistic infection – and a power-aggrandizing freak show. It monopolizes your attention with its pounding adrenaline-rushing excitement but then can’t figure out what it wants to say to you. You mistake its verses for Wisdom and Truth – especially when you’re high or drunk or tripping. But in the end, it’s just words and rhythms with a lot of “ooh yeah” and “woah baybeh” and “c’mon now child” – or worse. It messes up your diastolic cardiac-rhythms and induces slight panic and disorientation that you mistake for liberation and enlightenment. Then you go out and BUY the GOODS ! Lucifer is reliving his glory days as the instigator of an abortive coup attempt against Heaven and God Almighty. He is mumbling in the *****-blocked tracheae of dead false prophets and departed drummers. He is strutting on the glittering stage amidst cheap pyrotechnics at a show where no one gets in for free – and no one gets out alive. The Prince of this World is bringing out his new product line next spring. The ****** androgynous freak – the glowering little dictator (the ghost of a dead insect) tries to convince himself that he is alive by cultivating the adoration of godless youth who salute him in unison like a bunch of **** faithful at a fascist rally. Rock and Roll is stupid when you think about it.  I’m ashamed I like it so much. Classical music is probably better for your mind in the long run.
Liz Anne May 2014
How many tombs have seen the hands of robbers
felt the soot and scar of their steps
and how many birds were lost from the sky
because of fear and cynicism
I wouldn't ask to be an ancient princess
or a wren with wings enough to fly
there's already too many of my own indiscretions
I've forgotten how to hold dear
Egyptian rings and headdresses made hollow
birds are meant to fly so what
do you call a feathered wren who can't help
that he'd rather instead watch clouds pass
from the dusty undergrowth?
Satan Dark Jun 2020
One day at a boutique shop,
I met a man selling cats,
For money he wanted to swap,
But I really wanted some bats

"Got any bats?" asked I.
"For that's how I'll spend my money."
"No bats here!" said the guy
He seemed to find it quite funny

"We've got some lovely dresses,
I'll give you a very fine price."
"I'd rather have some headdresses."
The man blinked rapidly thrice

The man seemed exceptionally busy,
And his manner was strangely amused
He wasn't what I would call dizzy,
Great disdain he noticeably oozed

Like others, he thought I was odd,
Some say I'm a bit tall.
Still, he gave me a courteous nod,
As if he thought I was plenty cool

So in search of my goal I departed,
But before the boutique shop could I leave,
The man came running full-hearted,
"I can help you I believe."

"Cats, bats, you shall find
Dresses, headdresses, you can get
You must now open your mind,
And get down to The Corn Market

So to The Corn Market, I decided to go,
In search of the bats, I craved
The winds it did eerily blow
But I felt that the day could be saved

There were stalls selling tights,
Pasties in many shades.
There were even stalls selling writes
People were scattered from many trades

I was greeted by a peculiar lady,
She seemed to be rather tall
I couldn't help thinking she might be quite shady
I wondered if she was at all cool

Before I could open my mouth,
She shouted, "For you, I have some bats!"
I headed towards her, to the south,
Past some dresses and cats.

"But how did you know?" I asked,
"Do you want them or not?" she did say.
Silently, the bats she passed.
Then vanished before I could pay.

As I walked away I hard a crackle
Or was it, perhaps, a hushed cackle?
GS White Jun 2011
I’m inside whale bones
I’m outside my mind
I have doubts and I have fears
I have thoughts that don’t stop
Thoughts that pierce my chest like a pin cushion
Clenching my stomach in their fists
Thoughts that go round and round in circles
Thoughts that don’t drip
Out from the holes in my head
Like every other word that comes to my lips
Thoughts that don’t die,
No matter how much I wish they were dead

“Throw away logic, if it helps,
Enter abstract, no boundary thought
Grow wild
Return to the earth and think only in
Butterfly dances
Not silken sounds of past and future loves
The harsh realities of the present have deep roots in your skin
And their flowers bloom into
Doubts and fears
And above all else,
Should be ignored
Like bullies on school grounds
For the seeds that are dropped will grow and bloom again
Unfaltering, unwavering
So long as the have sun and water
Fed by confusion, watered and told to grow
Ignore them
For to let your doubts and fears
Grow and bloom again and again
Like never ending waves of soldiers on beaches
With the sun hidden beneath the earth
Is no way to live.”

I’m inside whale bones
I’m outside my mind
Trapped in separation
Trapped in old age’s waiting arms
My body too young to die
So death waits for it to catch up to my mind
And there is no fountain of youth
That my thoughts can drink from
Making them young again
Forcing carefree upon them
Forcing fairytales and irony
Feather headdresses and no shoes
Walking through the mud because it’s cool
And prevents the needles from piercing your skin
And the sun from burning it

“So face the sun
Because you can
Stop with the doubts and fears
Stop the old age from creeping though your mind
You are young but you have thought too much
You have thought too many years ahead of your time!”

I’m inside whale bones
I’m outside my mind

“Break the bones that imprison you
And with your new found freedom,
And your new found arms and legs,
Moving, again, for the first time
Chase your mind
And hold on to it tight
Hold on like it’s the last thing you’ll ever let go
Interlock your fingers
And hold on
Like it’s love,
Something we both know you never want to be without
Something we both know because you said it yourself,
It’s the one thing that reminds you that you’re still young
That your mind hasn’t gone with the dinosaurs,
So hold on like it’s the last penny that you haven’t bet yet
Hold on, and become one, not two
Break the whale bones that imprison you
And with your new found freedom,
Sit still,
Become you, one with yourself, young like your body is.”
An Insight, in Two Parts of Myself
Mike Essig Sep 2015
by Barry Lopez**

I'd heard so much good
about this place,
how the animals were cared for
in special exhibits. But

when I arrived I saw even
prairie dogs had gone crazy in
the viewing pits; Javelina had no mud to
squat in, to cool down; Otter was
exposed on every side, even in his den.
Wolf paced like a mustang,
tongue lolling and crazy-eyed,
unable to see anyone who looked like
he did–only Deer, dozing opposite in
a chainlink pen.

Signs explain
the animals are good because
they **** animals who like oats
or corn too much.

Skunk has sprayed himself out,
with people rapping on his glass
box. Badger's gone to sleep
under a red light and children ask
if he's dead in there (dreaming of dead
silence). And
Cougar stares like a clubbed fish
into one steel corner all morning, figuring.

Only Coyote doesn't seem to care, asleep under a
creosote bush, waiting it out.

Even the birds are walled up here,
held steady in chicken-wire cages for
the staring, for souvenir photos.
And this, on the bars for Eagle:

      The bald eagle was
      taken as a fledgling
      from a nest in New
      Mexico by an
      Indian. He planned on
      pulling feathers for cer-
      emonial headdresses
      every year. The
      federal government seized
      the bird and turned
      it over to the
      Desert Reserve
      for safekeeping.

Bear walks in his own
***, smells concrete
and his own **** all day long.
He wipes his nose on the wall,
trying to **** it.

At night when management is gone,
only the night watch left,
the animals begin keening: now
voices of Wood Duck and
Turtle, of Kit Fox and everyone else,
Bear too, lift up like the bellowing
of stars and kick the walls.

14 miles away, in Tucson, are movie houses,
cold beers and roads out of town,
but they say animals know how to pass the time
well enough. And after a few beers
they'll be just like Indians–
get drunk, fall down and spoil it all.
Bows N' Arrows Aug 2015
The shaman of anti culture.
Fractured ox jaw
Beating on stretch'ed drums.
Wolf countenanced headdresses and
Bells and iron trinkets swish from tie-dye stripped cloaks.
Orphan to the world and
Distilled soul'ed;
Spitting alcohol over a bonfire.
(The snake being charmed is also the snake-charmer.)
Mystical uttering of
Revelations lingering
In an incandescent shell.

Swarthy pinning trapped to rooms as
Decoration;
Those idols of style and combustion.
Where is the Prometheus of our age?
We command nature to bypass us on
Our way to the meeting
Where we ask the snow to melt as
It's falling
And the Oceans became too full of wreckage
To host its own kin.
What will the generations yet to come say of this day, and this
Night?
Maybe we are more bruised in our understanding
Than any Neanderthal
Who had survived those Winter's for us;
Just so we could feign away the elements...
Jack Singer Oct 2011
Eyes hang low
Retreating from the light,
Seeking shelter ‘neath heavy lids.
Machines whir in the back of my mind,
As their users push themselves
Thoughtlessly through their tired routines
Like hamsters on a wheel.
I hear the water dripping,
Almost as slowly as my thoughts,
Into the endless myriad
Of blue and red buckets.

My consciousness drifts away,
And suddenly it is my vehicle,
As I awake walking aimlessly
Through the crowded streets
Of some hot Arab marketplace.
Bearded men in headdresses
Bicker in strange languages
Over bizarre fruit, almost as vibrant
As the decorated sword hilts
Gently resting at their hips.
Past me walk crowds of lavishly clothed,
Brightly jeweled women,
Dressed more strangely and exotically
Then any person I’ve yet to see,
And I avert my own attention
So as not to draw that of others.

A co-worker walks past me,
Looking at me strangely,
And I emerge from the lake of my mind,
Flopping about as if I were a fish out of water.
Shan Aug 2013
Summer was made for wandering between tall trees,
Thinking about the smell of daylight
And if birds really do have knees.
I'd brush my hand down your cheek and wonder where you're hiding your wings.

I suppose that I should show you what it's like to love,
Buy you lots of pretty things.

When we are grey and ready for peace we will talk and think we are quite profound,
I wont let your hand go unless it's to swing, twirl you around.

Right now I want you to know
That there is a love song written for you.
You have a space in my heart,
right next to red roses,
rain
and big, bright blue balloons.

Every year we will take a walk through tall trees,
and I'll mention what you mean to me.

White lilacs remind me of wedding dresses,
pink ribbons and shiny  headdresses.
So I think that I'm going to talk from one knee.
I'll be all you really need, let's be free.
Jude Duane Mar 2018
I was born under great open skies,
Brought up with the smell of coal-black smoke
Hovering over the family farm.
I grew as distant sounds of whooping
Echoed like thunder across the land
And I was raised on bias, which clung
To the white men of the Black Hills like
Their guns, their religion, and their homesteads.

Those Hills are no place for me.
Look at my multi-colored dress, the
Multi-million-dollar stage, the
Multi-colored lights hanging over me.
This is my home. I thrive in this place.

Gone are the chiefs and their headdresses.
Gone are the dream-catchers and stories
Of battles between Unkthei, the
Serpant, and Wakinyan, the eagle.
Gone is Crazy Horse, always wily
Like the winter fox.
All cast off for a new life of bias.

I make the formula that nurtures
Bias in every little kid’s mind.
Every day’s the same. I spew my words,
My angry, petrol-soaked vitriol,
Which deludes their minds. They’ll be
“pigs” in the not-too-distant future.

In a way, this life disappoints me.
The trailer homes of Indians were
Run-down and forgotten about.
They lived lives of quiet desperation. No
Spotlights shined on their struggles.
The men who killed their kin were immortal.

But pow-wows in South Dakota were
*****, dingy, and dark, yet they were
Attended by many a native.
The farms were barren and gray,
Stockpiles of grain long gone, given to
The plutocratic hands of Washington.
Aunt Ida clung to this world.
Aunt Ida is dead and forgotten.

I was raised on bias in the Black
Hills, and I will stay biased for the rest
Of my days. Why would I give it up?
Joseph, the great Chief, never know
Such a life.
I thought about Tomi Lahren one day, and I came up with a theory on her beliefs that satisfied me. This is a fictionalized version of that theory.
Martin Bailes Mar 2017
Just seeing that dumb red hat
gives me the Heebeejeebees,
the Holy Camoleys,
I get the *******,
the John B. Scrotes,
I feel Ben Carsoned,

as if I've been Rogered in my sleep
by Quasimodo & then been forced
to pleasure the Seven Dwarfs,

I have the shivers,
I plead repugnance,
I share the odium,

I experience that near frenzied disgust
as left by a cold slug traversing one's
naked arm in the dank moonlight,

when that oh so ridiculous red tractor
hat is worn by men who have
chauffeurs & bejeweled
golf carts,
& look like a fat cat's fantasy
of a fat cat,

to Make America Great Again for that matter
maybe you have to go as far back as Sitting Bull,
Red Cloud, the Shawnee, herds of bison,
counting coup, & eagle-feather headdresses,

Making America Great Again does not in any
way involve Leroy from the hills feeling better
about his race or Donald J. Trump coming
forth as some sort of Poor Man's Moses.

I hate that stupid hat!
its not for me to say but it is for you to decide
so do it swift before i cut my losses and run
love never hides but it does need fences to thrive
gardens are like headdresses for the earth
words are our old lovers that have gone silent
and these poems are lords of your undiscovered islands
as ladies of the dawn warm my fingers in their hands
i wonder why we couldn't dance for much longer
1603 to 1625
No farthingale hoops,
petticoats, bodices,
lace ruffs, jewellery
or decorated headdresses
Wearing jodhpurs
You can easily see,
and correct the leg position,
for me
Riding boots
Oversized shirt
Embroidery extrovert
Yes
On my shirt is best
Colourful and stylised,
animal and plant forms
Woollen or silk threads
Jacobean
Development in Decorative Arts,
Science and Architecture
Conceits in poetry fine
Falconry time

© 2024 Carol Natasha Diviney, Ph.D.
#masque  #literature

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