they’re pouring out of the
woodwork
those pretentious machiavellians
in ailing albino frames
eccentric masked figures
milling about the glow light
like night moths
in a london fog

lunatic gazers
with seeping moles
pinned by frogmen and twine
spider climbers
in hell fire
splitting seams
on the fading
and hideous ink

guards of the perch
stand on hades hand
while monsters and demons
with severed limbs
taunt the condemned
and wanting
souls of the ******

cauldron fire
in blood red sky
silent screams
hack and wheeze
gas lines broken
words unspoken
teetering backwards
in the dark shadows
of a phantom abyss

Hieronymus Bosch, who was only four,
Had toddled right out of my life,
I didn’t know whether he’d gone on his own
Or left with the trouble and strife.
She’d rave and she’d threaten to fly the coop
As she said that my ways were strange,
But whether she’d bother to take him too
Would have meant a remarkable change.

‘Why did you pick such a horrible name,’
She’d say, as she ladled the stew,
‘You gave him the name of a painter insane,’
(As he baited the bears at the zoo).
‘How can he live a commonplace life
With a moniker he can’t spell?
You’ve sentenced your son to eternal strife
Like that panel, a painting of hell.’

Hieronymus, he didn’t care about this,
He wanted to picture his world,
He’d flop and he’d slop in the mud, in his bliss,
And paint, till his toes had curled.
I knew that he’d be a surrealist when
He played with his mash, and was cute,
He swished it around on his palette to look
Like a man with a nose like a flute.

‘That kid is so gruesome,’ the wife had exclaimed,
‘He’s set on a roadway to hell.’
He’d crayoned a picture of me and her sister
Entwined on her favourite bell.
‘He isn’t like others,’ I used to exclaim,
‘He sees what he sees inside out,
He doesn’t like others, like hair-splitting mothers,’
And that’s when she started to shout.

I’ve searched and I’ve searched for Heironymus Bosch,
I’m trying to follow his trail,
The long line of beetles he captured in treacle,
The dead dog that’s eating its tail.
I know that he’s not with the trouble and strife
For she went into hiding in Greece,
He should be called Chester, the lad’s such a jester,
I guess I’ll be calling the Police.

David Lewis Paget

In twilight sleep,
thoughts out of control,
images take hold.
Viewed against  the canvass of blackness,
dead people dance
with succubi an incubuses.
Tiny gymnasts
balance on sharp edged swords
in le cirque du soleil
under a moonless sky.

Grimm’s tales
of baked children
and hungry wolves
play out. On a runway
starving women show
the latest fashions in cardinal red.
The Grinch stole my  green silk  Balenciaga gown.
Gave it to the frog  prince.
Sleeping beauty is just a ******.
She had too much of all of it.

Hermes glass slippers are sold
Only too few and deserving  Cinderellas,
trophy wives of  mummified kings.
What they really deserve is not on the menu.
Just le plat du jour of ortolans.
The three pigs are out of breath,
Not enough air for a *******.
Rose colored glasses take on a nasty
hue of watered down blood.
Bottle green is not la couleur du jour,
rather that bile color
with a tint of pus yellow.
There is a storm brewing,
A tsunami rising,
the earth shakes,
Volcano red lava
licks down the mountain.

Destiny?
Fate?
Apocalypse?

A voice whispers:
put up a shield, a bright canvass.
Paint with bold rounded strokes
in earthen tones.  Mold  vessels
to hold the morning dew.
Catch rays of sun
in a glass glockenspiel.
Hum the world, sing life.
Touch, feel, be alive.

A ray of sun sneaks through the blinds.
Dust dances in a shaft of light.
I am safe, for another day.

Outcasted kid with purple hair

Albeit not the kind of violet
That made your nostrils drip
With a watery ambrosia
Sugary enough to belong to a bee

And not the kind of
heavy, royal, omnipresent
contentment plum presents as a
molten lava
perfecting the pockmarks in the pie

My tendrils were not reminiscent of
home or
anything savoury so

I tangled them in tiaras
belonging to some Duchess' daughter or
one of Henry's wives or

Maybe twined them round
Frita's pallet and
Dyed my scalp a more pleasing hue or
Anything other than purple

Because purple was what I was not
Purple was Lilacs and
Pansies and Heliotropes and Tulips and
Lavender and

That little wild flower aforementioned

whose name I can't bare say
for the sake of
a humble beauty
such as hers

'twould be a shame to make comparable
To the wet-dog-fur look
Of my purple hair

And so I learned to get lost

In a past I always felt my own
Traveling continents and
Floating through eons

While my classmates  coloured in
British Columbia and
Where is Nunavut again?

Growing, I gained companions

A faery,
Athena,
Aslan and
Frodo, Einstein, Plato,
Theodore Geisel, Mahatma Ghandi
and Louis Leakey, Jamal Dewar,
Joan of Arc and John Lennon and
it all became
more complicated

Because my world was in flux
Oh it ebbed and it flowed and it expanded
Like the molten plum but this time
It really was more like lava

Assuredly you'll understand;
See the seams in our stitching!
Our Worlds are sewn together!

And as much as we would like
to cling to our
individualism

at some point we all must
accept that there is
but one

Intrinsic as our innards
Are our atoms and
Electrons and
mine are yours and
yours are hers and
ours together are all of the stars and
it really is
beautiful

At some point the twisting shroud
The squeezing and contracting -
of the world inside my head and
the world inside my eyes and
the world I was walking around in
and the world that I saw above me -
it tensed then halted
and became very dense
then melted

What a glorious
Ubiquitous, secure and everlasting amalgamation!
I opened my eyes
To find Van Goghs Scissors
All bloodied still and so
I cleaved my purple hair

But to find Hieronymus' oils and
watercolours so
I made my skin a hellish canvas
Painted all in yellows and blues
Without a hint of purple

Now from shoulders to forearm to wrist
from breast to navel to hip
from thigh to calf to foot
legible as anything are
lines that lilt and gleam
sighing songs of
devils and cherubs alike
and of sparrows and snakes

So after heaven is hell
and after hell is Nirvana
And Manna is as good as dirt
if Ambrosia is but
the spit of a bee

It all always works out
Because at the end comes
Death and after that
We don't know
But I do know that
I don't know
Much at all to begin with

Except for four things, almost assuredly:
1. Energy is all
2. I will never cease to find shouting at people from my bedroom or a car window amusing
3. My mother loves me more than anyone
4. Nothing is certain, except for uncertainty

"I wouldn't know what to do; I think I would just rot in a corner," replied Zandra Rhodes when asked if she plans to retire anytime soon. The 76-year old British designer who was down in KL (it's her fourth time here now) for the recent KL Alta Moda held at Starhill Gallery where she showed a collection of beautiful songket pieces alongside her signature chiffon print dresses, shows no signs of slowing down even after an extensive six decade-long career that has seen her dressing both rockstars and royalty.

Dressed in one of her designs – a stunning midnight blue, tiered kaftan dress covered all over in gold squiggles, huge pearls and her trademark fuchsia bob, red lips and blue eyeshadow-rimmed eyes, Rhodes maintained a spirited, bubbly cheer at Ritz Carlton where we finally sat down with her after stealing her away mid-tea with the crème de la crème of Malaysia's society.

What's the story behind the collection that we've just seen?

We did a collection initiated by Dodi Mohammad – one that really focused on songket. We chose lovely iridescent greens and pinks, and various groups of clothes. Then I designed and worked on the weaves to make suits and short dresses. It was really to give it another look. Three quarters of the collection are made up of Malaysian songket weaves.

What about the archive looks that you included? How do they relate to the new collection?

I had students who couldn't believe how people were copying the things that I've did in the past – like the pink dress for Princess Diana or the gold dress that Pat Cleveland wore dancing at Studio 54. They suggested that I produce the collection again in a new look, so we did that for Matches Fashion in UK.

Your AW16 collection is said to be inspired by Studio 54 back in its heyday. Would you be able to share with us an interesting story of your own at Studio 54?

I remember with shame going to Studio 54 when they reopened. I sat down in the corner and I was so tired, I fell asleep. I'm sure I was the only person who would fall asleep in Studio 54. I also remember lots of times it was like the parting of the Red Sea when you went in there with Bianca Jagger or Pat Cleveland.

Could you tell us about the Hieronymus Bosch-inspired prints you created for Pierpaolo Piccioli's first solo collection at Valentino?

That was one of the most amazing experiences in my life. He flew over with two of his assistants, opened the Hieronymus Bosch book and said he wanted the collection based on that. And I'm thinking, "Do we want naked people all over it?" It was a fantasy look that I was completely overwhelmed with. I came up with five or six initial ideas and he would look at the things I did and say, "I like your wiggle" or "I like this." Finally, he looked at one of my designs – a lipstick design I had done in 1963 – and said that he wanted daggers and hearts, so we turned that into daggers and hearts and it was wonderful.

Is there anyone else on your collaboration wishlist?

Oh gosh, that's difficult. I think I really just pick and choose. For example, we're currently working on the idea of me doing a print for Anna Sui who is going to have an exhibition in my museum in London. We're going to do the print here in Malaysia using Malaysian fabrics.

Your dresses have been worn by iconic stars from Princess Diana to Pat Cleveland. If you could design an outfit for a current It girl, who would it be for?

I would love to do something for Princess Kate. It would be fabulous to do something for her. She always looks good.

If you could describe Malaysia as a print, what would it look like?

Mad Malaysian houses! I love looking at these tall blocks with curved roofs. I've done a Manhattan print but I think I should do a KL print. You'd need to put the Twin Towers in. I think there's room for a lot of things.

What projects have you got lined-up for the future?

At the moment, I'm designing for the Turandot opera, which is about a mad Chinese princess and a pair of lovers that get beheaded. It's wonderfully mad. It's due to be out in San Diego in 2018.

You've been working since the 60s, any plans of settling into retirement soon?

I wouldn't know what to do; I think I would just rot in a corner.

What inspires you?

Wonderful people. I think it's one's friends. It's very important to do something and exchange ideas. I also love traveling when I get the chance. It's really a case of seeing how far my adventures can take me.

What do you think has been the key to your longevity in this industry?

I'd say longevity is the result of hard work and enjoying what you do. If you do something and it doesn't succeed, you pick yourself up and have another go. You never give up.

Describe yourself in 3 words.

Pink, short, makeup.

What would your hair be if not pink?

I think it will be several different colors. I see all these people with all these different colours, I think I might try that next.

What's your hobby?

Cooking and gardening.

If you weren't a fashion designer, what would you be doing?

I don't know, I don't have time to think about that.

What's the best advice anyone has ever given you?

Oh, good one! Be careful who you step on going up, cause you might have to lean on them going down.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/one-shoulder-formal-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/red-formal-dresses

She never once asked why
I keep the twisted rosewood stick
or if it holds significance.
Or why Flann O'Brien's
"At swim two birds." has a place
by itself on the shelf.
She never understood my love
of jazz, metal or classical music
or wondered why
Hieronymus Bosch and Caravaggio prints
are in the hall.
She once said I should get rid of them all
"They don't match the décor."
She never understood the humour
of Leonard Cohen,
nor appreciate the raw beauty
of a Bukowski poem;
claimed they were just ***** old men.
She couldn't fathom why
I am drawn to decrepit ruins
or could spend hours just walking
without a destination.
She never will comprehend my love
for the ghostly hue of twilight.

Eggs and rice
Some kids and a wife
Things that are comfortable,
Things that are nice

Hieronymus Bosch and shrooms
Explode the room
Rather than *******,
I prefer doom

college is a lot of fun dad
today we hanged the psychemetrics professor
and that's how break dancing began
in yesterday's semaphore seminar we learned
that excessive nuance can make you crazy
the human mind is but a word game
the right combination gets you in
otherwise a Hieronymus Bosch picnic
at the edge of the Lake of Fire
but sometimes I digress menacingly
into the blazoned uncharted subjective
the campus necromancers are not house trained
consequently they can read spoor like a road map
Professor Phoebe lifted her dress and squatted
took an interpretive dump in the snow
which rapidly melted into its own hole
in the shape of a lyric parallelogram
and I contemplated a change of career path
since majoring in cognition is a tricky business
one marginally deduced sink hole after another
wrack your nurture brains for the nature solution
working with the pharmacy to create a better world
don't you roll your eyes at me
or you'll get a lecture on the mood swing paradigm
when you outwit the voices you have won
quiz on the interior pantheon this Wodenstag
we'll prepare the way of pain
with a ray of sunlight and save the world
believe that and you'll believe nothing is derived
our academicians went into wedge formation
it was an uprising over a lack of continuity
between the wild eyed number crunchers
and the pale tubercular simulation priesthood
the picture took on a vivid rosy hue
because it bled from every pore
where relativists appeal to universals
and tyrants call truth a tyranny
forced my conclusion all traps are invisible
which is why they are called traps
both sides are in on it do the math
it's political suicide everywhere
wisdom is just another commodity
and all vision is parallel up to a point
hold your head still see with your eyes
that's the continuity I'm talking about
the first university of its kind
an effortless engine of didactic beauty
this is obviously the partial reality from which
we piece together the rest of reality
the internal world derives from
the external one every ******* time

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon

THE ALCHEMY OF ART

Woke up in(**** it!)
Bosch's Garden

of Earthly( aghhhh!)
Delights.

Not
a pretty sight.

Doomed to be
whoever or whatever

I was moving
through.

Masticated.
Digested.

An upside -down ****
trapped in a transparent hemisphere

crowned  by
the cherry of pride.

I mean...
moi?


And now "the tree man!
folks dining in the cut-off torso.

Now a pair of ears
brandishing a knife!

Christ!
Whatever next!

Now a prince of hell
dining upon a diet

of corrupt and
lecherous clergy.

Which proves that art
and strong liquor

don't always
go together.

Thus, I
and my strange bedfellows.

Spilt whiskey
on the duvet.

Soaking into the black
satin sheets.

The Bosch biography
dogeared and tattered.

Spine cracked
and broken

smiling up at me
form the **** pile carpet.

See ya Hieronymus!
I'm outta here!