Shortly after 3pm on September 29, 31-year-old Olivier Rousteing strode through the shimmering, fleshy backstage area at Balmain's Spring 2017 Paris Fashion Week show. Along the marble hallway of a hôtel particulier in the 8th arrondissement, long-limbed clusters of supermodels were gamely tolerating final applications of leg-moisturiser, make-up touch-ups and minutely precise hair interventions from squads of specialists as fast and accurate as any Formula 1 pit-stop team. The crowd parted as Rousteing swept through.

Wearing a belted, black silk tuxedo and a focused expression that accentuated his razor-sharp cheekbones, Rousteing resembled a sensuous hit man. Target identified, he led us to the board upon which photographs of every outfit were tacked.

We asked him to tell us about the collection (for that's what fashion editors always ask). "There is no theme," said Rou­steing in his fast, French-accented lilt. "No inspiration from travel or time. The inspiration is what I feel, and what I feel now is peace, light and serenity. I feel like in my six years here before this, I have tried to fight so many battles. Because there is no point anymore in fighting about boundaries and limits in fashion. Balmain has its place in fashion."

And the clothes? "There is a lot of fluidity. A lot of knitwear, lightness, ponchos. No body-con dresses. But whatever I do, even if I cover up my girls, it is like people can say I am ******. So this is what it is. I think there is nothing ******. I think it is really chic. I think it is really French. It is how I see Paris. And I have had too many haters during the last three years to defend myself again. So, this is Balmain." And then the show began.

Star endorsements

Under Rousteing, Balmain has become the most controversial fashion house in Paris. Rousteing has attracted (but not bought, as other, far bigger houses do) patronage from contemporary culture's most significant influencers. Rihanna, all the Kardashians, Kanye West, Taylor Swift, Miley Cyrus, Beyoncé, Justin Bieber – a royal flush of modern celebrity aristocracy – all champion him.

Immediately after this show, in that backstage hubbub, Kim Kardashian told me: "I thought it was very powerful…I loved the sequins, and I loved all the big chain mail belts – that was probably my favourite."

Yet for every famous fan there is a member of the fashion establishment who will sniff over coffee in Le Castiglione that Rousteing's crowd is declassé and his aesthetic best described by that V-word. The New York Times' fashion critic Vanessa Friedman reckoned this collection appropriate for "dressing for the captain's dinners on a cruise ship to Fantasy Island". At least she did not use the V-word. When I once deployed it – as a compliment – in a 2015 Vogue menswear review that declared "Rousteing is confidently negotiating a fine line between extravagance and vulgarity", I was told that Rous­teing was aggrieved.

The fashion world's ambivalence towards Rousteing is a measure of its conflicted feelings towards much in contemporary culture. Last year Robin Givhan of the Washington Post wrote of Balmain: "The French fashion house is always ostentatious and sometimes ******. It feeds a voracious appetite for attention. It is anti-intellectual. Antagonistic. Emotional. It is shocking. It is perfect for this era of social media, which means it is powerfully, undeniably relevant."

Since joining Instagram four years ago Rousteing has posted 4000 images and won 4 million followers. The combined reach of his audience members and models at this Balmain show was greater than the population of Britain and France combined. Balmain was the first French fashion house to gain more than 1 million followers, and currently has 5.5 million of them.

Loving his haters

As digital technology disrupts fashion, Balmain's seemingly effortless mastery of the medium galls some. Last year, the designer posted an image of a comment from a ****** follower to his feed. It read: "Olivier Rousteing spends more times taking selfies for Instagram than designing clothes for Balmain." Underneath, in block capitals, he commented "i love my haters".

Rousteing can be funny and flip – doing a video interview after the show, I opened by asking, tritely, how he felt. He replied: "Now I feel like some Chicken McNuggets with barbecue sauce, and then some M&M;'s ice cream."

When at work, however, that flipness flips to entirely unflip. The previous evening, at a final fitting for the collection, Rousteing had paced his studio, his face a scowl of concentration, applying final edits to the outfits to be worn by models Doutzen Kroes and Alessandra Ambrosio. The 30-strong team of couturiers working in the adjoining atelier delivered a steady stream of altered dresses.

"We are ready," he said from behind a glass desk in a rare moment of downtime. "This a big show – 80 looks – and I want a collection that is full of both the commercial and couture. But it's smooth too. All of the girls are excited about the after-party and interested in the music. And eating pizza." In the corridor outside Gigi Hadid – this season's apex supermodel – was indeed eating pizza, with gusto.

The fitting went on until far beyond midnight; Rousteing, fiercely focused, demonstrated the work ethic for which he is famous. When he was studio manager for Christophe Decarnin, his predecessor at Balmain, the young then-unknown was always the first in and last out of the studio. Emmanuel Diemoz, who joined Balmain as finance controller in 2001 and became chief executive in 2011, says that his hard graft was one of the reasons he was chosen to succeed Decarnin.

"For sure it was quite a gamble," says Diemoz. "But we could see the talent of Olivier. Plus he understood the work of Christophe – who had helped the brand recover – so he represented continuity. He was a hard worker, clearly a leader, with a lot of creativity. Plus the size of the turnover at that time was not so huge. So we were able to take the risk."

Clear leader

Which is why, aged 24, Rousteing became the creative director of one of Paris's best known – but indubitably faded – fashion houses. In 2004 it had been close to bankruptcy. In 2012, Rousteing's first full year in charge, Balmain's sales were €30.4 million and its profit €3.1 million. In 2015, sales were €121.5 million and its profit €33 million. Vulgarity is subjective; numbers are not.

Rousteing, who is of mixed race, was adopted at five months by white parents and enjoyed an affluent and loving upbringing in Bordeaux. "My mum is an optician and my dad was running the port. They are both really scientific – not artistic. So I had that kind of life. Bordeaux is really bourgeois and really conservative, I have to say."

After an ill-starred three-month stint at law school – "I was doing international law. And I was like, 'oh my God, that is so boring'" – he did a fashion course that he managed to tolerate for five months.

"I found that really boring as well. I just don't like actually people who are trying to **** your dream. And I felt that is what my teachers were trying to do."

Obsessed with Gucci

Following a three-month internship in Rome – "also boring" – Rousteing became fascinated with Tom Ford's work at Gucci. "I was obsessed, obsessed, obsessed. Sometimes the press did not get it but I thought 'this is like genius, the new **** chic'. Obsessed, full stop."

He wanted to work there – "that was my dream" – but applied to every fashion house he could, and found an opportunity to intern at Roberto Cavalli. "They took me in from the beginning. I met Peter Dundas [then womenswear designer at the brand] and he said you are going to be my right hand – and start in four days."

Rousteing counts his five years in Italy as formative both creatively and commercially, but when the opportunity came to return to France in 2009 he leapt at it. "Christophe said he liked my work and that he needed someone to manage the studio. So two weeks later I was here. I loved Balmain at the time, when Christophe was in charge. It was all about rock 'n' roll chic, ****, Parisian. And he was appealing to a younger generation. You can see when brands become old but Balmain was touching this new audience. I always say Christophe's Balmain was Kate Moss but mine is Rihanna."

When Decarnin left and Rousteing replaced him, the response was a resounding "who?". His youth prompted some to anticipate failure.

"It was not easy at all. Every season I had the same questions." Furthermore, Rousteing (who has said he thinks of himself as neither black nor white) was the only non-white chief designer at a Parisian couture house. In a nation in which very few people of colour hold senior positions, his race may have contributed both to the establishment's suspicion of him and to his powerful sense of being an outsider.

'Beautiful spirit'

As he began to build a personal vernacular of close-fitted, heavily jewelled, gleefully grandiose menswear – fantastical uniform for a Rousteing-imagined gilded age – for both women and men, that V-word loomed.

"They asked, 'But is it luxury? Is it chic? Is it modern?' All those kinds of words. But you know there is no one definition [of fashion] even if people in Paris think there is. And, I'm sorry, but I think the crowd in fashion are those who understand the least what is avant-garde today."

In 2013 Rihanna visited the studio, met Rousteing, and reported all with multiple Instagram posts. "You are the most beautiful spirit, so down to earth and kind! @olivier_rousteing I think I'm in love!!! #Balmain." :')"

Rousteing met Kim Kardashian at a party in New York – they were drawn together, he recalls, because they were both shy – and was promptly invited to lunch with her family in Los Angeles.

An outsider in the firmament of old-guard Paris fashion, Rousteing was earning insider status within a new, and much more influential, supranational elite. He points out that Valentino, Saint Laurent and Pierre Balmain himself "were close to the jet set of their time. What I have on my front row is the people who inspire my generation".

From them, he learned a new way of doing business. "I think it was Rihanna and the music industry that first understood how Instagram can be part of the business world as well as the personal. But in fashion? When we started it was 'why do you post selfies? Why do we need to know your life, see you waking up, see you working? Why don't you keep it private'. And I was like 'you will see'."

Rousteing cheerfully declares his love for Facetune – "I don't have Botox but I do have digital Botox!" – an app that helps him airbrush his selfies and tweak those ski-***** cheekbones.

Reaching new population

From his office around the corner from Rousteing's, Diemoz adds: "When Olivier first proposed Balmain use social media, our investment in traditional media was costing a lot. Here was an alternative costing less but bringing huge visibility. It has been successful, quite rapidly…we decided to be less Parisian in a way but to speak to a new population. A brand has to be built around its heritage but we are proposing a new form of communication dedicated to a wider group of customers."

The impact of that strategy became apparent in 2015, when Rousteing and Balmain were invited to design a collection for the Swedish fast-fashion retailer H&M.; Within minutes of going on sale – and this is not hyperbole – the collection, available at vastly cheaper prices than Balmain-proper, had completely sold out. In London, customers fought on the pavement outside H&M;'s Regent Street branch. "Balmainia!" blared the headlines.

You have to move fast to get backstage after a Balmain show. I was out of my seat and trotting with purpose even before the string-heavy orchestra at the end of the catwalk had quite stopped playing Adele.

Rousteing had taken his bow merely seconds before. Still, too slow: I ended up in a clot of Rousteing well-wishers stuck in a corridor blocked by security guards. A Middle Eastern woman against whom I was indelicately jammed looked at me, laughed, shook her head, then said: "We pay millions for a fashion house – and then this happens!"

In June, Balmain was bought for a reported €485 million by Mayhoola, a Qatar-based wealth fund said to be controlled by the nation's ruling family. As so often with Rousteing-related revelations, some declared themselves nonplussed. "Why Would Mayhoola Pay Such a High Price for Balmain?", one headline asked. Yet Mayhoola, which acquired Valentino four years previously for $US858 million, might have scored a bargain.

Clothes key to revenue

Despite its huge, Instagram-enhanc­ed footprint, Balmain is a small, lean and relatively undeveloped business. Most luxury fashion houses today – Chanel, Burberry, Dior, et al – will emphasise their catwalk collections for marketing purposes but make most of their money from the sale of accessories, fragrances and small leather goods like handbags and shoes. One of the big fashion companies makes a mere 5 per cent from its catwalk clothes.

At Balmain, by contrast, clothes bring in almost all the revenues. If Balmain had the same clothes-to-accessories ratio as its competitors, its overall annual income could be more than €1 billion ($1.4 billion).

The company is moving in that direction. New accessory lines are in the pipeline. "Now we have to transform that desire into business activity," said Diemoz. "Sunglasses, belts, fragrances, the kind of products that can be more affordable."

The first bags should be available in January, as will a wider range of shoes, and then more, more, more.

Six days after his show, on the last day of Paris Fashion Week, I returned to the Balmain atelier. Apart from two assistants, Rousteing was the only person there – everybody else had gone on holiday to recover from the frenzy of preparing the show, or was busy selling the collection at the showroom around the corner.

Rousteing sat behind his desk in the empty room, wearing slingback leopard-print slippers, sweatpants and shades. "I am not even tired! I am excited. Because there are so many things happening – and I can't wait."Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide

You pose and pout,
Seduction by superficial sauciness.
You tell me of your day
With that simpering voice,
Raising each last word
Long and loud.

You show me your flash cars,
Your sumptuous wardrobe
And who knows what else?

You and your kin call yourselves “Influencers” –
A great word,
But all you do is make people:
People who have grafted long and hard
For a little spare cash,
Go buy things they
Do not really need.

Right Said Fred was Right:
The global catwalk
Is a sham.

I too would love to be an “Influencer”,
Such a fine word,
But I would be one to encourage folk
To Love others,
Stop all this Conflict
Between polar opposites and extremes,
Fight only for the Common Good,
And make the world a better place
For All.

Paul Butters

© PB 15\1\2021.

Come with me

The fellowship is broken
Heros have died
The twin towers
Lay in ash

Frodo and me; Me and Smeagol.
You me and Amon Amarth

Doom or fate
Fate or doom

Doomed fate
or Fated doom?

"Still, the future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves"

Ourselves free
Still there is a cost
Still we are guarded

Stilgar the Freman

Fear is the mind-killer

the propulsion of compulsion is indefatigable,
it cannot no more, be ignored, as if it is forming
a holy commandment, number 11, you must
write when so ordered, denial is temporary
i n s a n i t y, and the backlog of nuances be
comes longer and longer by the instant

the provocateurs, them eyes, those eyes,
even the ears and tongue join in to instigate,
the cabal of influencers who peddle no product,
demand no payment but total obeisance and
sometimes low-class instant fufillment, for here
I am in servitude,@ 4:33am, by dawn’s early light
(no **** for real), propelled and compelled by
the creative, the spilling urgency of the need
to expel notions of potions that flit between the

frontal lobe, parietal lobe, cingulate gyrus,
and prefrontal cortex: (I told  you, it’s a cabal!)
all  firing
up neurons like electron spark plugs, and only
I can see the sparks colliding inside as letters,
words, phrases, none lazy, all demand long life,

or the Perpetuity of the Momentary”

it grows lighter by the minute and the sporadic
lights across the bay wink morse code secrets
to the observant, and Noyac’s  tree line has
become a distinguishable and distinctive
land mass to which I crossed last nite via &
upon the South Ferry, when all these conflicting
concepts began a painful birthing delivery,
the coagulation of the flighty, merging and
transforming into my child, in my bed, through
the picture window that has so oft been complicit
in the ganging up on my very, very old and restless
brain

but, uh, this ecrivez, this motion that the momentum
of the momentary desiring & deserving of monuments
to the perpetual
won’t be stilled and hours later, with it’s invisible hands
around my throat, it yanks from within what did not
exist ten minutes prior, but always existed inside me
as a jumbled puzzle, gestating quietly till a swift kick
of birthing pains insufferable accompanied by her
raucous dreams, awoke me from ******* and rhyming
Rem Sleep, to now, this moment, named forever as
4:57am and this noisy newborn, covered in embryonic
fluid (wonderful but disgusting really) is all ready pealing and peeling
off suggestions for brothers and sisters, this arrogance
is untenable, but the babe laughs at me, for it knows that
there are hidden, voluminous files of titles awaiting their
turning time of final conception

no longer nighttime, an early forming day, it too,
covered in its own fluidity, awaits discovery, for
the lights from across the bay have gone to bed,
turned off but the greatest, more powerful
brighter discharges
of the Sun Gods

The Bay’s waters are still, though my woman is not,
muttering, still dreaming out loud, as if she wishes
to foment
turbulence, and desires a boat for safe conveyance
across the dark seas of the night to the searing bright
June summer day that the Greek seers have forecast,
and then that moment, like it’s older sibling, will demand,
it’s very moment of personalized perpetuity, its own
unique naming,
a full recording, a welcoming by the Preservation Band,
amidst the glory of its mother mornings colorings of
palest blues, puffery of cumulus whitiwhispers all tinged
in my favorite, flavored color, creamsicle orange,
and the calming power is self evident for the rustling
back and forth of raucous dreams have ceased, and I too
am no longer possessed by the moment, until soon
when the hands creep slow round my throat by a new
moment, and all is lost, all is gained and a newest poem
is brought from the womb of my ancient past, my currency
of the next minutes and the wealth of words that are
available to us all! demands one of us, perhaps you?
to commit its actualized existence into reality

I bid you a soft adieu, for the chores of existence
those demanding pests of drudged biblical
pestilence
can no longer be kept
waiting

nml
5:21am
Sun Jul 16
2024

writ at you know where…

I’m tired of influencers faking nervousness.
my generation wants to care less
these days.
it’s a counter-current hack.
we want to be less defined.
we can search and reflect for ourselves.
we’re sick of the emotion
that’s all over everyone’s faces,
the unsightly splotches of opinion.
the entire election machine,
the process of getting there, is smudged.
It’s a curated mess, an advising spin,
an incomprehensible hex:

“Oh profit pondering,
contradictory means to an end
- bless weave, and conceal,
bloodless dollar debt options,
painful penny pincher paradoxes,
and deadly debt bliss dilemmas..”

“Is this a witch or an arbitrager?” Lisa asked, after rudely leaning over and reading up to this point.
“I was shooting for a numinous type of beat,” I revealed.
“We’re supposed to be working on our thesis definitions,” she said accusingly.
“Are you not challenged, here, hour by hour?” I asked sarcastically.
“I need ideas - well - I have too many ideas, I need some focus, I wanted to see what you had.”
I deadpan looked at her, “Well, you broke the spell - I lost my train.” I complained dryly.
“Don’t put me in a situation.” she said, waving my gripe off as insignificant.
.
.
Songs for this:
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls
drive ME crazy! by Lil Yachty
Melt by Nilüfer Yany

In Elsinore the poppies grow
Despite the constant selfies show
     That stake their place in yellow high,
      No birds photo bomb their big I
Show not seen by same throngs below.

We are the influencers you know.
We shine, svelte pose, for good ad flow,
     Post for your likes, so we can lie,
        In poppy groves.

Take your quarrel elsewhere you trolls:
You will follow us we all know
     Your phones, held high to your good side.
      Poseurs keeping faith with the lie
That your green screen poppies all grew
          In Elsinore fields.

soap and water
          dishes
          laundry
          or shower

brick from mortar
boys against girls

urban velvet smog
city vapors clog

this train -- there is a line
        beginners
        quitters

this parking lot -- there is a line
        shoppers
        influencers

open bar pharmacy, bottled water

                  no pity
                  no guarantees

dragon chasers
chin music
        
          lapsed short term memory loss

opening mail for grandmother
                the obituaries
                that ****** fly

a discussion among men
about a woman's voice
           come sit and listen

one last cigarette couple
walking home through the park
               driving alone in the dark
                             on the heels of
                             a reflection
                             of Christ
                             or an hourglass
                             in remission

them or not them
       just arrived
       just married
too many stairs
not enough elevators
worry about it later

them, definitely them
sharing beds
      under the leotard
      under the candlelight

a helping hand
finely manicured fingers
one stationary
        then two in missionary

word upon words need aspirin
            orchestrate
            headache
                            pillow is the threshold
                            tomorrow...soap and water

You have to start somewhere
You have to start somehow
At rock bottom
You cannot go down

Just do something
Forget the pressure to be successful
This fake exceptionalism you see on social media
Meaningless influencers and food for ego

Listen to your intuition and forget the noise
The bird that tweets the loudest is not the most productive
You just need to be the one with the strongest wings
Resilience is key

Till day I blindly followed them all,
Till day I couldn't comprehend;
And now when I'm going to fall,
I see no way to make an amend.

I took them all, one by one,
and told others to do the same;
That time I could, only see the fun,
until I realized, that was an unwanted fame.

To fulfil my need,
to accomplish my desires;
to quench my greed,
I set it all on fire.

All that I took, was it actually needed,
or was it just, some silly infatuation;
Those influencers seemed, as if they pleaded,
or was it me, who brought this situation.

I know, the influences aren't only ones to blame,
I equally played a strong support role;
I was the one, who started this game,
Today also its me, who has the console.

Standing on the crossroad, I've to choose;
Which demons to release, to please or abuse.

WHILE I STARE

While I stare at the deep of the earth
I tear from my eyes
Is this what He made it to be?
Were we all meant to live like this?

Guns became our toys
Breaking hearts became a thing of joy
Corruption became a hobby
and we've turned immorality into our Tommy

Now that I choose not to be part
they tag me, a daft
that I am dumb
for not wanting to be part of the smart ones

While I stare at the repulsiveness
instigated and done by the of the sons of men
Not even afraid anymore, we sleep and dine with them
and are forced to be close friends

Now, I am void of tears
What is the need to weep over what is dead?
I will try my best to revive them
Not cry over what will not be solved with tears.

I will save the few I can
So they also can stare from afar
and thank Him for our lives;
the lives of positive influencers.

-Emmiasky Ojex

I bought these designer pants yesterday,
Endorsed by all the gram influencers,
They are slimming they all gushed.

The pants are made of the softest wool,
Designed to cocoon and insulate you,
Protect you from all the judgement.

They have pretend pockets stitched in,
Because what could you possibly put in them,
That’s more important than looking thin?

UKFT has launched Made It, a collaboration between the trade body, Graduate Fashion Week and Marks & Spencer designed to bring together graduate designers and UK manufacturers.

As part of the initiative, which was launched at a reception at the Houses of Parliament last night, Marks & Spencer and the UKFT will sponsor a number of Graduate Fashion Week winners to have their collections made in the UK.

In addition, to promote a better understanding of UK manufacturers and to encourage designers to use them as their preferred source of manufacturing, the UKFT, Marks & Spencer and Graduate Fashion Week will host a series of Masterclasses at five select universities across the country.

Hosted by Damian Collins MP, UKFT and Graduate Fashion Week, the reception included a catwalk show and was attended by key policy makers, industry influencers, major retailers, leading brands and UK manufacturers, with special guests including Graduate Fashion Week ambassadors Alesha Dixon, Mandi Lennard and Caryn Franklin as well as designer Zandra Rhodes and fashion critic Suzy Menkes.

“The UK has some of the best designer graduates in the world and some of the most talented manufacturers – Made It brings them together. Not only will we see the creation of some stunning collections, the project will also help to ensure the success of the next generation in understanding the business of fashion, which is a fundamental part of UKFT’s purpose and key whether you are developing a new brand, working with manufacturers or growing business overseas,” said UKFT chairman Nigel Lugg.

Graduate Fashion Week managing director Martyn Roberts said the initiative was “a wonderful opportunity” for GFW students to get first hand knowledge and experience of working with British manufacturers. “These are vital skills for fashion design graduates and essential for keeping Britain at the forefront of design,” he said.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

The Year Was 2017... Globalization and Relocation thru Financial Incentives had been occurring at an Increasingly Rapid Rate...for 4 years
Human Sorting thru the Spheres Program had accelerated, and Talent Acquisition and Identification was Rampant in the Building of Ministry States, and Six Nation Civil/ Financial  Armies....
Ownership of Brick and Mortar Businesses in Each Free Country by Aggressive Interests Had become Maximized
Psychological War had been expanded

Martial Law Is Declared:
      in the event Civil War Breaks out...
     1) physical fitness at military Grade necessary
     2) able to read color based code and signage without computer
          - Rank and Order; For the purpose of Martial Law Leadership Positions/ Ruling Standard: Royal Dictatorship
         - Order of Social Value in the event of Planet Drought and Overheating, Mass starvation
         - Human Potential Project Government assisted for rapid acceleration of Skill to combat business collapse, acceleration pop Intuition and Physic listening ability
         - Disaster Training  and Skills organized
          - Passing of Fake Wills and................... for redistribution of Wealth
          - Fake......., wikipedia installs, and Search engine Lies to alter World Voting Perceptions for Tech  endorsed candidates in UN positions
        - Fake NGO's ,  Subject Matter Expertise Areas based in Branding and advertising as Influencers,  
          Conflict of Interest Rampant throughout; Corruption Widespread,
Secret Hostile Foreign Influence mixed with Oneness Agenda of Globalists
         Interference with mail (taken over by Foreign interests
          - arranged ****** partnerships/marriages for maximum efficiency of family structure in loss of familiar Central Government, increase of wellness and rabid growth of NEW potentials

Prepare: physically fit, for operation
                 eat organic foods
                Elliminate all debt, minimize expenses
                ORDER, reduce clutter, attachments
                ID primary relationships
        

              At Risk: Forests, Farmlands, National Parks, Utilities, Water
              At risk: Cultural Artifacts(Psychological War Target)
              At Risk: Kids of Philanthropists, Leadership
              At Risk: Family Businesses
              At Risk: Planet, All Life

I live in the first century of the clone wars
most morning we’d wake up swiping up.
the new papers don’t arrive no more
because the news pours out of various device
interrupting morning thoughts, selling
us products to own more.
we think sophisticatedly but stay
closed off.
happy to be clones, to be sold love.
living vicariously through actors, models
or influencers who show more.
we think they are intelligent, they brave enough
assuming they know more.
consider the singular ways we live
consumed by our individualism, our greed.
consider the trees
and the many people who
puff this **** to cope on.
each year, iPhones get expensive
while screen light darkens the truth.
I rarely write with a pen if i don't have autocorrect
but I am a graduate, a grown up.
I am reconciling with this spell
from upon which i proceed
but this war still goes on.
imagine we find each other, then construct
mutual peace instead of flashing lightsabers
because we are so tough.
imagine we say our piece
while pinning respect on our sleeves,
then step out the street to hold hands.
its only the first century of this clone war
yet we are exhausted, from everyone
being so right and i wonder if we ever
gon slow down.

Is your source of comfort from God or the news?
Is your source of joy from God or the number of your followers, likes and views?
Who sets your standards, Jesus or your favorite singers or rappers?
Who sets your standards, Jesus or your favorite celebrities, actresses or actors?
Do you follow God or do you follow the trends?
Do you follow God or do you follow  so called 'woke' social media influencers and friends?
Do you do it for Jesus or for the culture and clout?
Do you do it for Jesus or to be talked about?
Are your sights on God or on money, ***, and fame?
Are your sights on God or on ruling the whole world and it knowing your name?

Heal the earth… kinda crazy, but it makes good sense
the message on the label in tiny type,
and the smell is heaven on earth,
peppermint after rain

A nod to Dr. Bonner, shouting in the distance
with the thunder over Laguna {no name}
high above long valley mountain
south of the valley we occupy,
we thunder resonaters, making me think you

know how we think
we mortal messengers are doers of evil
deservant
of natural resourceful sources wrath,
and bitter life worth attacks, dis-easing the peace
--acts of God the English insurers of ships said.
-- Real life.

Ida known, seen on the weather channel,
I asked for some of her water,
as a twist in the spin of the eye
of the storm,
in the per-ifery
of rich and learned influencers
twisters of eddies
in thought named
nought or ought points,
in the long game
of spirits riding winds, with heirs
of the times
when answers changed from wind to words

Ghost Riders in the Sky, I swear
the song made something of me, when I danced
this dance - this after the rain
smell and feel
in love
of the slightest touch
of Ida thunder resonating, ring of re
cognition, ignition, be ware heir
of wind, re allowed tall tales,
Pecos Bill, if y'will, re
son-ate, wait, set arope ona tornado,
with a gentle, look-up,cauughtcha houlihan.
{ hey hedgehog, were you looking for a horse?}
Gentle, think the stupid metaphor holds more hints…

and let goodness and truth tame y' tongue.
Ida reached out and kissed me.
phugginay-ee ha
say see
cloud dancers come to make me believe
I asked for this.

Thunder, echoes, no lie, as I imagine
you laughing, felt it too, just
then high up,

see, the thunderbird
from my story,
I told you, wait and see, many things that seem
good are,
always far better than the lack - after
grip loss on con science use
of their wisdom--
ouch,
imagine that
would become, as a festering sore,
should we not resonate the joy
of rain in
thunder peace, no anger-making-fear
declaration sound,

crack of
thunder is the world working
right, on time,
like attention, pay now, play later.

Hey wind talker, can you send some to Dakota?
We could
think so.
I think
it takes time,
but soon we shall agree we know the way
of riders on the storm,

the ice will finally melt, the waters shall rise,
wetter us better, deserts agree,

Rain and wind in Baja in August,
cold truth laughing back at me, think
what you wish were true were true then

do what you do.
Laugh with the singing pines.
Laugh with the whistling pine's cones sailing
trailing soggy webbing with cargoes
of peace from my valley, washing
over me, as I laugh at the madness,
this appears to be,
were any mortal
to see.

What's up bruv",
"Chill out bruv',
The social's divided much unloved,

"But thatz so true like",
"Innit like",
Bourgeois reinvented social tikes.

"What about it tho"
"Not at all tho",
Feared difference from the status quo.

"Nah fam",
"Wid de fam",
Cult disciples of instagram.

Communaholics,
Vitriolic,
Diabolic,

Gamesters,
Influencers,
Society's single use redeemers,

"Link me up"
"Whatssup"
The Gen Z get-up.

Our hot girl summer rolls on - like lava downhill or male models doing - anything.
We’re in Athens, Georgia, yes, it’s hotter elsewhere - but you can die in the sun - is this really a competition?

Fashionistas and trendsetters are adorning themselves in fluorescent lime green this summer. Making it the must-have statement color for the cool kid's club. The whole aesthetic was inspired by Charli XCX’s lime-green album cover for ‘Brat.’

Now, before you roll your eyes at the state of America, where silly people are bilked by influencers - isn't that what happened in the 60s with ‘flower-power?’ Wasn’t that ‘counterculture’ flagging, where everything from school buses to bikinis were flower adorned, driven by bands like the Beatles and umm.. [fill in the blank]?

So, we tripped (sounded psychedelic) to the mall of Georgia, to shop for unnecessary, lime-green things. Nail polish (which I think eats), beach bags, coverups, Crocs, friendship bracelets (cause we’re 13-year-olds), Cinnabon's - which aren’t technically green but are delicious and the Apple store - because it makes us happy.

I’ve read, or heard it said that “malls are dying.” Not this one, on a weekday mid-morning it was packed. The line for the eighteen-movie-plex looked like Spring Festival (Chinese New Years) at the Beijing airport.

Sadly, it’s time to admit that as 20-year-olds we’ve aged out of the “Clare’s” esthetic. A 12-year-old in line to get her ears pierced, looked at me, while I was looking at friendship bracelets, like I was her grandmother and I felt it - it was real.
.
.
Two songs to go with this:
This Girl's In Love (Live At HMH) by Trijntje Oosterhuis
Riviera Life by Caro Emerald

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                           The Poets of Rapallo, a Review

The Poets of Rapallo, Lauren Arrington, Oxford University Press is a brilliant first draft; one looks forward to reading the completed work.

As it is, Dr. Arrington has accomplished brilliant research on the poets -  Yeats, Bunting, Pound, Aldington, MacGreevy, Zukofsky - and their acquaintances who happened to be in the Italian resort town Rapallo (they were not a coterie) in the 1920s and 1930s. The notes alone run to 54 pages of too-small type, and the bibliography to 8.

Unhappily, the text appears to have been rushed, possibly by an impatient publisher, and along with numerous small mistakes there are some serious failures in stereotyping, hasty generalizations predicated on little evidence, and a few condemnations more redolent of Dostoyevsky’s Grand Inquisitor than a scholar.

One of the best things about The Poets of Rapallo is the exposition explaining why a great many intellectuals were attracted to Italian Fascism as it was idealistically presented through propaganda early on and not as the moral and ethical disaster it soon proved to be.

Mussolini cleverly promoted his program as primarily cultural, a reach-back to the artistic and architectural unities of an imagined ancient Rome restored and enhanced with modern science and technology. He promoted the arts for his own purposes, of course, but deceptively. In almost any context the construction of schools, libraries, museums, theatres, and cinema studios would be perceived as a good, and absent any close examination accepted by everyone. But in Mussolini’s scheme these cultural artifacts, like Lady Macbeth’s “innocent flower,” concealed the lurking serpent: wars of conquest, poison gas, bombings of undefended cities, death camps, institutionalized racism, mass murders, and other enormities.

The Fascist sympathies of W. B. Yeats and other influencers (as we would say now) in the Irish Republic, including Eamon de Valera, are certainly revelatory. That the new nation came close to goose-stepping through The Celtic Twilight might help explain Ireland’s curious neutrality during the Second World War.

Professor Arrington explains all this very well, and initially is professionally objective. Most of the Rapallo set were not long in learning what Fascism was really about and quickly distanced themselves from it in some embarrassment.  Some were later even more of an embarrassment in their denials and deflections; few seemed to have been able to admit that, yes, they were suckered, as we all have been from time to time

But with the exception of the unrepentant and odious Pound, who was himself a metaphorical serpent to his death, Professor Arrington seems to lose her objectivity with the others.

And why Pound?

As with Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, it is difficult to take seriously someone who considers Pound’s pretentious, pompous, show-off word-soup Cantos to be literature. Pound is now famous only for being famous, and while Arrington appears to forgive Pound for his adamant and malevolent anti-Semitism and his pathetic subservience to Mussolini, in the end she is ruthless toward anyone else who, under Pound’s influence, in his or her naivete even once told an inappropriate joke, appreciated Graeco-Roman architecture, or perhaps saw Mussolini at a distance. This is inexplicable in a text that is otherwise professional and compassionate in avoiding what C. S. Lewis identifies as chronological snobbery.

One also wishes the author had discussed Pound’s post-war appeal as a fashionable prisoner adored or at least pitied by a new generation (Elizabeth Bishop, how could you?).

The book ends abruptly, as if the author were interrupted by a demand by the printers for it now, and so, yes, one hopes for a complete work to follow.

The Poets of Rapallo is not served well by the Oxford University Press, who appear to have been more interested in cutting costs than in presenting a work of scholarship to the world. The print is far too small, the garish spine lettering is more suited to a sale-table ****** mystery, and the retro-1930s holiday cover would be fine for an Agatha Christie yarn but not for a book of literary scholarship.

A question outside the scope of this book but more important is this: why, in a free nation, do so many people feel the desperate need almost to worship a leader? Yes, of course we have presidents and chiefs of police (some of whom love sport shiny admiral’s stars on their collars, and what’s that about?) and bosses and so on, and we depend upon their wise leadership. But why do people wear pictures of some Dear Leader or other on their clothing and chant his name?

I think the president or the famous movie star should wear YOUR name on his shirt and pay YOU for the privilege.

                                                      -30-

and i sometimes why i have premonitions
of sorts,
one i found myself walking up arthur's seat
in edinburgh, converging on imagining
but not actually seeing fields of crosses -
which is the strange aspect of imagination:
you never actually see what you sometimes
imagines,
               and you never know
these these "visions" will precipitate to make
them real,
   i didn't know syria would become a playground
for crosses,
  the world has become too vast to prepare you
with a certainty of locality,
syria being one of these loci;
yet you still walk around three days prior
like a shadow,
morose, bewildered and rarely speaking,
only saying the odd hello,
   because, deep down: something is brewing,
and it will not be pretty,
you *****, take a **** about give time,
reaching a limit whereby you're left *******
a liquidated form of a body of a ****...
and still nothing feel right...
   and then being rudely woken at 3 a.m. in
the the night, left to scout the place and invite
the shadows into your abode...
    as i was once asked:
      let me die on the threshold of death -
fully conscious of the inevitable -
i'm starting to think that mort in somnia
(death in your sleep) is the worst way to go...
as i still can't believe that sophistry has evolved
to the extent that there are no dialecticians
at hand, simply because there is always
a mediating figure in the "discussion" -
i find that staggering -
   that the most eloquent speakers of our times
really do require mediators,
instigators of punctuation marks of a discussion...
just like i find it odd that the american term
pollack is deemed "offensive", actually,
it's quite complimentary,
   it's so near jackson and the randomness of
his paintings...
      between pole poll paul, i'd prefer the original
pronunciation of the term,
sure, the aesthetic of the spelling if
slightly odd, but at least people get
the pollack jokes - and no paul's lacking -
  polak is very much akin to the original spresch...
and i sometimes do imagines the idea of
anglo-swabians, rather than the anglo-saxons
settling among the druids, and calling boars:
wild hogs...
           it was never, and never will be
a degrading term, it will actually always be,
plus / minus the jokes
  akin to the picts inventing the copper wire
why fighting over a penny: stretching it...
a skint debate...
         at least we get be rid of the poles,
the polls, the norths & the souths,
                  and the (st.) pauls...
which brings me to a bilingual etymological
comparison...
   the germanic people see the ethnicity of
the slav as simply a people: shying away from
adding an E...
      let invite you on a little secret -
you that in slavic etymology
          slav ≠ slave, rather -
      słowianin = root word słowo,
meaning word - and that's just shy of
sława, i.e. fame?
what's that in irish? a short hand form of -
scrubbing radishes clean?
      it's just staggering that people require
a mediator to practice dialectics...
    people are so well-versed in rhetorical
techniques, that their supposedly well-versed
staging of elocution, perfected,
actually requires a mediator to calm people down;
i'd really love to see a take on dialectics
without: third party influencers,
mediators, barometers...
     the missing third limb...
     when at least one of the people in the discussion
could aid the cushioning effect,
  and always reply with:
      genesis primo - revertere ut primus -
momentum est in principium...
     all poetry reverts to a beginning -
     there has to be this reverting to a beginning
because only the beginning matters,
and like art, the beginning is an unfathomable
carbasus alba...
        or in scientific terms:
    carbasus nigrum, or the medium
          ex ditto - ad ditto - ad ditto in infinitum -
ad re - idem ditto - ex ditto:
which is very much the idea of a wheel,
worded -
         in more concrete terms, kantian:
a priori ad a posteriori sine ditto.
(without a prior toward an after without
                                     the prior said).

I’d rather make something else
than ever acknowledge it was less than perfect.
“Self-improvement” rings of greedy influencers.
Constant change that of
a flaky millennial who won’t admit she cares about you
who’d prefer staring in the rearview
and changing her hair a third time.
it’s difficult to find this urge to make things better.

Isn’t it odd
that one of the most traditional institutions creates countercultural niche-ers?
Locked up in libraries with products newer than scars
holed up in memories of a better way
re-creating what anyone has said before.
Seems I am one of the prideful.

We love to change clothes,
we love shoes for running, hicking and strutting on the catwalk.
We love to smell sweet, ****, confident and **** plane mad.
We love costumes to look like angels or monsters.
We are a slave to change,
we complain when wear same for so long.
We seek out illicits, to get the variety.

Anothers mind and soul, is what we seek. But the self loath.
We give testimonies, of how I was and know how I am.
We change hairstyles, upgrade our accents.
We long to experience others, in yourself.

This mire and bog, has seen great minds simplified.
Seen whelps turn to fierce dogs,
Has seen urchins turn to masters.
Has seen those who bow, being bowed to.

In our quest for difference, we take alters and influencers.
We stimulate and live our imagination,
Till we become trapped and eventually lose ourselves.

Though we flirt, with drugs, alcohol, religion and mantras
let our aliases not take over us.

Who we think we are, if we fail to define our own terminii,
Meum et Tuum, as we are, if we take full consideration

of our pose, relative, to the point of you, on which your
homeostasis hangs by the thread of sense we share
in mindspace dominated by English, no longer,

I can read poetry in Hausa, like a native born earthling,
after Hiroshima and before the peak radiation winds,
in the season of Maris and Mantle, and
The Days of Wine and Roses, and
social influencers promoting actual
bowling leagues,

"Lake Charles Calculators
facing off against Texas City Lo-rollers,"
- in the novel, the summer of '61, unshipped.

when this version of America, as remembered on TV,

shall never before
be gotten but by the free and brave, trusting geology,
can prove we all know
if hell breaks loose,
we all die, but the earth is resilient,

As Kritias recited all he knew
of what the lawgiver said of the reproof
he humbly received as a Sais priestly
admonishment to learn to hold
thoughts secure for disasters
are considerably common

"– all such events are recorded since the old days
and are preserved here in our temples.
Yet your people and
the others are but newly equipped, every time,
with letters and all such arts as civilized cities require
and when,
after the usual interval
of years, like a plague, the flood
from heaven comes sweeping down again
upon your people, it leaves none of you but
the unlettered and uncultured.
So you become as young as ever,
with no knowledge
of all that happened
in old times
in this land or in your own." Plato, Timaeus
_
remember, we once believed in giants,
then we learned of dinosaurs,
then we saw whales cry.

They wept for the loss of the cod.

Then we got the internet of things,
and things developed was to solve

the original division using co-op gnosis,

we see our follies on YouTube, and realize
we have abilities, should we agree, we never

lie, but do know of instances, when unbelieving
worked wonders while lying about waiting
for this exposure
to your final frontal lobe
remyelinating, to offset dementia.

It's a prophylactic tactic peace of mind allows.

An urge to write
A compulsion to unravel

A voice unheard
A scream falling on deaf ears

A generation of influencers
Humans locked to screens

An urge to dance
A compulsion to express

Well, looking at myself and thinking
I guess I can be a bit smug.

Maybe even a bit dramatic
about how much my life means.

And I was thinking even more
About how I might even be a snob.

Judging the idiots around me
their opinions, grammar and actions.

But then I was also thinking
But if not me, then who?

Maybe, thinking said, it's the same
who we are and who judge

all are really all just people
making it up on the fly.

Influencers and self regard
social media and a life worth living

Are really just different notes
of a song called incarnation.

I still think they're idiots
but recognize I ain't too smart too.

Maybe someday I'll gaze
with simplicity, contentment and love

Express gratitude
Not complain or wish woe

Upon my fellow beings
As they live in the world

But for now I'll just admire
the dogs and practice nonjudging.

then the immense mass heaves up
and the streets all fill with diamonds
in vivid hot designs
and the country contemplates
the pagan city as a zero.
then the country, driven to pondering,
panics. oh, how the fire frequents the sky
with straightforward accumulation.
it boils the sluggish blood.
there is too much
too much fire in the hands
too much fire in the hearts and eyes
this engine consumes too much
and the fire rages out of control.

in the drifting smoke, i saw bodies
burned to bare bones and the survivors
lunge forward. the chorus girls sprawl
on the sidewalk and are swept away.
the quick flame is the dividing line
the end of the sabbath.

the books all burst into flames and the dancing
is boisterous. my cheek pressed into the wall
of a skyscraper how satisfying. the falling waves
of sparks uplifting and gyrating with the kickers.

follow the long curve of hose-water with
your aching neck and see
the influencers arriving drenched to the skin
in fire-spray to divert the journalists. but they are
helpless and impotent and the edifice slips into
the pavement. this is the unexpected harvest.
and i preach nothing.

In writing my poems, it's always my quest,
to take the time, to make it rhyme, but I'm in distress.
I wanted to convey, how much better I rest,
Since the purchase of a great mattress.
My problem you see after plenty of test, I bought a "Purple,"
and "Dang Me" the only thing I found to rhyme was, "Maple Surple."
One of the the worlds favorite pigments, after centuries of time,
has not a single word to which in can rhyme.
A color once held in history as the royal shade,
even now leaves this poet, his poem unmade.
A purple fruit, from which wine we could make,
And someone chose, to call it a "grape."
I say it's high time to correct, this to long slight,
And save the word "Purple" from it's unjust blight
How about you Auto Makers, with your Durango,Sienna, and Tesla.
Come up with a sporty "Verpule," if you wanna Impreza.
Hey, Disney you once rhymed, Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,
would doing "Purple" be so atrocious.
Big Pharma, with your colorful, zides, mycins, and statins,
maybe you can use an "urple" in your next covid patents.
You TikTok influencers I'm calling on you,
#Purplechallenge, together, let's see what we can do.
Well, I was really pumped, but now, I just sit here sad.
The Purple Company, sent a gift, an "ORANGE" mattress pad.
So now I pull out my ceremonial sword of "Silver,"
and commit this poem to: "Hari Kilver."

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

     Chlorine Smith-L’Francoise d’Bayonne et Valle San Fernando
                                        Announces Her New Line
              of Sustainable and Rechargeable Skin Care Products

Along with my line of renewable tees
Hand-stitched in certified green factories
And my ecologically-sound handbags
(If you have to ask, you can’t afford one)

I announce today my sustainable line
                                       (ssssssssssssssssssssustainable)
Of skin care products made from the **** glands
Of the gently harvested influencers
Who panned my twooter site and my last film

(No, I don’t want to hear about the children’s
Bleeding little hands; I pay them enough)

Not allowed, read a book.

------------------
Yes, people do read books,
but many do not really read
as when a summer boredom

takes a kid to Grandpa's book shelf,
aha, look a book my grandfather read,

now, this kid is reading Magnificent Obsession,

and I sow the counter punch, with Jesse Duplantis
secret sowing prosperity message arisen from that.
Bilk, tilt, ah, Tilton and Alamo, too, obsessed
with the shine, serpent on a pole,
not the wise one tippy tail on this very point. You know?

Advertised wisdom for the attention paid,
watch the candle flicker, these are holy candles,
all the work of actual pollinators, raised on clover,

which we also feed our red heifers which we breed,
just in case, some day the businesses of mass
religion agree to stop selling fear of totally

insane influencers of thousands, in the days
of billions believing time ends, right after

News from yesterday,
while lythium ion carry ons

are brought to public attention, then an ad,

then there is healthier handsomer than in a while
Biden being physically older than NATO, really not
which he takes credit for, make note, just in case,
it turns out not to have been
so good a deal, we sell bombs, that we buy
to create jobs, we play cop, and currency
goes global, well, who's left to pay
for all these unused bombs?
-------------
Credit from Mali,
when
Shield our augmented eyes, to look into ever before,
gold held holds worth in ways we never imagined,
look out there, a million miles away a long now,

conception of LaGrange points and Roche limits

how come the earth to be, right here,
we ask but only liars venture a valid wager,

we may know now more than ever,
should we ever dare, one entire day,

in a time when a grandfather involved
in our information intended to reform,
the duty of Jubilee to the story,
after fifty years of never reconsidering
the need an almighty entity might have,

as an addiction, praise and honor and glory,
amen, it always spills onto the anointed message,

yes, His holy word,
as prophets hear spoken in lost angel tongues,
no lie can be told, bold as hell, is professed to be,
"Prove me now, if the authority… allows"

tell me, child,
do you really know what believing does?

Slight smile in the zone of thinking either real
or answered prayer, on earth as my perfected will

well may imagine

utilizing… using for the paid attention,
way long time ago, your granny prayed, god give
this boy the good sense you give green apples,

and I'd be ****** if I said he didn't.
Far as I can tell, mustard knows a little more.

I make light of it but I wonder why is it that when sixty-five is the new forty, 9 pm becomes midnight.

when I was young, which came before the egg by the way,
things were certainly different,
old was anyone over five feet three and posh was anyone on the black and white TV,

everyone today wants to be sixteen or influencers on Tik-Tok,
all I wanted to do was to watch Dixon of Dock Green.

Things could be worse though
I know that.

Fame to make the children sleep
Fame to make the children weep
Fame to make the children learn
Fame to make the children earn

Come now little boys and girls
Let me show you the influencers of our world
Here are several men
One’s an actor, a fireman, a soldier
This one’s a biker, a criminal, a pain creator

Come now little boys and girls
Let me show you who is running our world
We have a bigot, a liar, a thief and a lunatic
And one who’s just too rich

Come now little boys and girls
Let me show you who is ruining your world

You’ve tormented my taste-buds for way too long
And i am stronger now than ever
Like unhatched eggs born without nests to catch them
Or online influencers who resent their followers
We are artifacts of impregnation
Being imprisoned in our heads for so many hours a day
Creates stagnation and mental *******
We face the estrangement of our bodies
In mental institutions the solutions are still waiting
To be discovered in the ovens of our saviors
Do we bake bread or attest to our failures
Salivating women make me envision
That discipline and discernment are not easily corrupted
I am equipped with innumerable capabilities
Swift and full of inhibitions we are suddenly tripping
Walking on balance beams down halls of stereophonic wisdom