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judy smith May 2016
For the fifth year in a row, Kering and Parsons School of Fashion rolled out the ‘Empowering Imagination’ design initiative. The competition engaged twelve 2016 graduates of the Parsons BFA Fashion Design program, who "were selected for their excellence in vision, acute awareness in design identity, and mastery of technical competencies." The winners, Ya Jun Lin and Tiffany Huang, will be awarded a 2-week trip to Kering facilities in Italy in June 2016 and will have their thesis collections featured in Saks Fifth Avenue New York’s windows.

The Kering and Parsons competition, which is currently in its fifth year, is one of a growing number of design competitions, including but not limited to the LVMH Prize, the ANDAM Awards, the Council of Fashion Designers of America/Vogue Fashion Fund, and its British counterpart, the Woolmark Prize, the Ecco Domani fashion award, and the Hyères Festival. among others.

In the generations prior, designers were certainly nominated for awards, but it seems that there was not nearly as intense of a focus on design competitions as a means for designers to get their footing, for design houses to scout talent, or for these competitions to select the best of the best in a especially large pool of young talent. Fern Mallis, the former executive director of the Council of Fashion Designers of America and an industry consultant, told the New York Times: “Take the Calvin [Kleins] and the Donna [Karans] and the Ralph [Laurens] of the world. Some of these people had money from a friend or a partner who worked with them, but they weren’t out spending their time doing competitions and winning awards to get their business going.” She sheds light on an essential element: The relatively drastic difference between the state of fashion then and fashion now. Fashion then was slower, less global, and (a lot) less dominated by the internet, and so, it made for quite different circumstances for the building of a fashion brand.

Nowadays, young designers are more or less going full speed ahead right off the bat. They show comprehensive collections, many of which consist of garments and an array of accessories. They are expected to be active on social media. They are expected to establish a strong industry presence (think: Go to events and parties). They are expected to cope with the fashion business that has become large-scale and international. They are expected to collaborate to expand their reach, and while it does, at times, feel excessive, this is the reality because the industry is moving at such a quick pace, one that some argue is unsustainably rapid. The result is designers and design houses consistently building their brands and very rarely starting small. Case in point: Young brands showing pre-collections within a few years of setting up shop (for a total of four collections per year, not counting any collaboration or capsule collections), and established brands showing roughly four womenswear collections, four menswear collections, two couture collections, and quite often, a few diffusion collections each year.

The current climate of 'more is more' (more collections, more collaborations, more social media, more international know-how, etc.) in fashion is what sets currently emerging brands apart from older brands, many of which started small. This reality also sheds light on the increasing frequency with which designers rely on competitions as a means of gaining funds, as well as a means of establishing their names and not uncommonly, gaining outside funding.

The Ralphs, Tommys, Calvins and Perrys started off a bit differently. Ralph Lauren, for instance, started a niche business. The empire builder, now 74, got his start working at a department store then worked for a private label tie manufacturer (which made ties for Brooks Brothers and Paul Stuart). He eventually convinced them to let him make ties under the Polo label and work out of a drawer in their showroom. After gaining credibility thanks to the impeccable quality of his ties, he expanded into other things. Tommy Hilfiger similarly started with one key garment: Jeans. After making a name for himself by buying jeans, altering them into bellbottoms and reselling them at Brown’s in Manhattan, he opened a store catering to those that wanted a “rock star” aesthetic when he was 18-years old with $150. While the store went bankrupt by the time he was 25, it allowed him to get his foot in the door. He was offered design positions at Calvin Klein (who also got his start by focusing on a single garment: Coats. With $2,000 of his own money and $10,000 lent to him by a friend, he set up shop; in 1973, he got his big break when a major department store buyer accidentally walked into his showroom and placed an order for $50,000). Hilfiger was also offered a design position with Perry Ellis but turned them down to start his eponymous with help from the Murjani Group. Speaking of Perry Ellis, the NYU grad went to work at an upscale retail store in Virginia, where he was promoted to a buying/merchandising position in NYC, where he was eventually offered a chance to start his own label, a small operation. After several years of success, he spun it off as its own entity. Marc Jacobs, who falls into a bit of a younger generation, started out focusing on sweaters.

These few individuals, some of the biggest names in American fashion, obviously share a common technique. They intentionally started very small. They built slowly from there, and they had the luxury of being able to do so. Others, such as Hubert de Givenchy, Alexander McQueen and his successor Sarah Burton, Nicolas Ghesquière, Julien Macdonald, John Galliano and his successor Bill Gaytten, and others, spent time as apprentices, working up to design directors or creative directors, and maybe maintaining a small eponymous label on the side. As I mentioned, attempting to compare these great brand builders or notable creative directors to the young designers of today is a bit like comparing apples and oranges, as the nature of the market now is vastly different from what it looked like 20 years ago, let alone 30 or 40 years ago.

With this in mind, fashion competitions have begun to play an important role in helping designers to cope with the increasing need to establish a brand early on. It seems to me that winning (or nearly winning) a prestigious fashion competition results in several key rewards.

Primarily, it puts a designer's name and brand on the map. This is likely the least noteworthy of the rewards, as chances are, if you are selected to participate in a design competition, your name and brand are already out there to some extent as one of the most promising young designers of the moment.

Second are the actual prizes, which commonly include mentoring from industry insiders and monetary grants. We know that participation in competitions, such as the CFDA/Vogue Fashion Fund, the Woolmark Prize, the Swarovski, Ecco Domani, the LVMH Prize, etc., gives emerging designers face time with and mentoring from some of the most successful names in the industry. Chris Peters, half of the label Creatures of the Wind (pictured above), whose brand has been nominated for half of the aforementioned awards says of such participation: “It feels like we’ve talked to possibly everyone in fashion that we can possibly talk to." The grants, which range anywhere from $25,o00 to $400,000 and beyond, are obviously important, as many emerging designers take this money and stage a runway show or launch pre-collections, which often affect the business' bottom line in a major and positive way.

The third benefit is, in my opinion, the most significant. It seems that competitions also provide brands with some reputability in terms of finding funding. At the moment, the sea of young brands which is terribly vast. Like law school graduates, there are a lot of design school graduates. With this in mind, these competitions are, for the most part, serving as a selection mechanism. Sure, the inevitable industry politics and alternate agendas exist (without which the finalists lists may look a bit different), but great talent is being scouted, nonetheless. Not only is it important to showcase the most promising young talent and provide them with mentoring and grant money, as a way of maintaining an industry, but these competitions also do a monumental service to young brands in terms of securing additional funding. One of the most challenging aspects of the business for young/emerging brands is producing and growing absent outside investors' funds, and often, the only way for brands' to have access to such funds is by showing a proven sales track record, something that is difficult to establish when you've already put all of your money into your business and it is just not enough. This is a frustrating cycle for young designers.

However, this is where design competitions are a saving grace. If we look to recent Council of Fashion Designers of America/Vogue Fashion Fund winners and runners-up, for instance, it is not uncommon to see funding (distinct from the grants associated with winning) come on the heels of successful participation. Chrome Hearts, the cult L.A.-based accessories label, acquired a minority stake in The Elder Statesman, the brand established by Greg Chait, the 2012 winner, this past March. A minority stake in 2011 winner Joseph Altuzarra's eponymous label was purchased by luxury conglomerate Kering in September 2013. Creatures of the Wind, the NYC-based brand founded by Shane Gabier and Chris Peters, which took home a runner-up prize in the 2011 competition, welcomed an investment from The Dock Group, a Los Angeles-based fashion investment firm, last year, as well.

Across the pond, the British Fashion Council/Vogue Fashion Fund has awarded prizes to a handful of designers who have gone on to land noteworthy investments. In January 2013, Christopher Kane (pictured below), the 2011 winner, sold a majority stake in his brand to Kering. Footwear designer Nicholas Kirkwood was named the winner 2013 in May and by September, a majority stake in his company had been acquired by LVMH.

Thus, while the exposure that fashion design competition participants gain, and the mentoring and monetary grants that the winners enjoy, are certainly not to be discounted, the takeaway is much larger than that. These competitions are becoming the new way for investors and luxury conglomerates to source new talent, and for young brands to land the outside investments that they so desperately need to produce their collections, expand their studio space, build upon their existing collections, and even open brick and mortar stores.

While no one has scooped up inaugural LVMH winner Thomas Tait’s brand yet or fellow winner, Marques'Almeida, it is likely just be a matter of time.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney
Stephan Jul 2016
.

My label was showing,
flipping out from behind the collar
of my non-U.S.A. made shirt
Sri Lanka I think,
but I can’t see the back of my neck from here

Perhaps that is why they stare or
maybe it is why they don’t?
Well, that's okay, I’m new here,
first time on this floor
(I pushed the wrong elevator button)

Fancy suits and low cut gowns,
hors d'oeuvres, champagne, noses held high,
some are long ones to look down or up at
“Bat in the cave! Oh, did I say that out loud?
Sorry lady, no I wouldn’t like any avocado"

Whispers, murmurs or just low talking,
there must be a hundred of them
I thread myself through the crowd
making my way to the podium where I speak,
“Hello I am a poet and I’d like to read you something”

A strong gust of wind races against my face,
not air from any open window,
but the breeze created by their mass exodus
as they head for the outdoor terrace
for a smoke or to spit on those below them

Then I saw her, standing in the middle of the room
all alone, staring up at me
Deep brown eyes, dark glistening hair
and a smile that out-beamed the overhead recessed light
“I’d like to hear your poem,” she said in a euphoric voice

I gazed upon her mesmerized, feeling my throat tighten,
sweat appeared on my forehead as I lifted
a slip of paper from my back pocket
I looked it over and looked over at her…again
Then, taking a deep breath muttered,

“I must apologize, for it has become obvious to me
there is no more beautiful poem than the one
standing before me at this very time
To read these words which I have penned
would only pale to this I find”

“Thank you, that is very sweet of you,
would you like to go for a walk in the park?
I’d much rather be outside than inside
and maybe you can read me some
of your wonderful poetry there?”

“I’d love to, but what about them?”
I asked motioning toward the crowd on the terrace
She picked up the tray of sliced avocado, some champagne
and slipped them out the door, then giggled,
“Those insiders will be just fine outside for a while”

As we headed down on the elevator
she leaned up and kissed me
and it was at that very moment, as my heart
was nearly beating out on my chest I knew,
(I had pushed the correct elevator button)
judy smith Apr 2015
With designers like Iman Ahmed, HSY and Sania Maskatiya all showing, it was standing-room only at the venue. Many of the crowd of fashion insiders and socialites ended up sharing seats, with the chivalrous Zaheer Abbas giving his seat to Iman Ahmed after her show and sitting on the floor himself. So much for designer egos!

It was an evening that lived up to its billing.

Iman Ahmed may not be a designer who makes her clothing easily available, but in fashion terms she reaches heights that few other designers can reach. Her “Sartorial Philology and the New Nomad collection” was breathtaking.

The best fashion shows have a narrative — the clothes, styling, music and progression of the outfits blend seamlessly into a whole that portrays the designer’s artistic vision.

It’s hard not to gush about Iman Ahmed’s show last night because it was exactly what a fashion show should be.

Starting with a series of outfits in white and gradually adding tribal colours, Iman used fringing, embroidery and a range of fabrics to great effect. From the inspired detailing to the juxtaposition of texture and silhouette, this was a class act. The tribal white-dotted makeup and beaten silver accessories added further depth to Iman’s stunning layered ensembles.

Levi’s uninspired showing of their new 501 jeans and other stock provided the audience with a pause to process the previous collection. It’s difficult to make a interesting fashion week presentation out of high street wear and something that Levis struggles with.

They used better music than they did at their autumn show but the styling was still painfully lacking. They did manage to make everyone sit up and take notice at the end of their show though — Wasim Akram walked the ramp as their showstopper amid cheers from the admiring audience.

Somal Halepoto was next, with collection that looked distinctly amateur. She seemed to be aiming for a bright kitschy collection but ended up looking merely tacky. The shiny, synthetic-looking fabrics and gaudy embroidery were particularly woeful. Somal’s digital neon animal prints and some of the harem pants were funky but the rest of the collection had little to recommended it.

YBQ’s LalShah collection, meanwhile, was in a different league. An ode to 3 Sufi Sindhi saints, the collection was as much about the artistic impression it made on the ramp as it was about the clothes. The distinctly theatrical presentation relied on the slow beat of sufi music and plentiful accessories for much of its impact.

YBQ sent his models down the ramp in huge pagris, holding flags on poles and garlanded with prayer beads. He used only three colours - red depicting rage, white for peace and black for mourning. Most of the outfits were draped red jersey tunics or gowns with white lowers, braided belts and black turbans.

Rubya Chaudry wore a black gown with red roses but otherwise the outfits were all about subtle plays with drapery and cut. From jodhpur style chooridarsto asymmetrical draping, the outfits had interesting touches but needed all that heavy styling to make an impact. HSY was YBQ’s showstopper and added glamour to the theatrical presentation that he had choreographed.

Wardha Saleem was first up after the break and her Lotus Song collection showed how this talented young designer has been upping her game over recent years.

She used digital flamingo prints, 3D embroidery, gota embroidery and lasercutting in a pretty formal fusion collection. The detailing on the collection was simply stunning. Wardha used gota in delicate patterns that gave her outfits shimmer and paired this with three dimensional embroidery. The outfits featured flowers, fish, elephants and birds picked out in silk thread and beads.

She showed a variety of shift dresses, jackets, saris, capes and draped dresses. The styling was also great fun – the models wore shoes featuring spikes and 3D flowers while the multi-talented Tapu Javeri provided some gorgeous jewellery and music for the show. While there was nothing groundbreaking about her silhouettes, this was a beautiful collection that showed skill and artistry.

Sania Maskatiya, who presented her luxury pret on Day 1, now showed her lawn collection for AlKaram. As far as designer lawn goes, this is something of a dream collaboration.

Textile and print are Sania’s forte and she uses print extensively in her luxury pret. In this collection for Al-Karam she has taken print elements from her pret collections throughout the year including the Sakura, Lokum and Khutoot collections.

The prints are different from those used in her Luxe pret but are based on the same principals. She’s even used the paint splash embroidery from this season’s Khayaat collection in one of the outfits. Designer lawn should be affordable way to wear a designer’s aesthetic and this Sania Maskatiya Al Karam collaboration certainly is.

As for the show itself, showing lawn is always tricky on the ramp. Sania pulled it off with an upbeat presentation using fast music and trendy cuts, throwing a few conventional shalwar kameez in the mix. She fashioned the lawn into jackets, kaftans and draped tunic, using the sort of cuts that are a hallmark of her pret. It’s not how most people wear lawn but it was a great way to show off the prints on the ramp.

Naushaba Brohi’s Inaaya burst onto the fashion scene last year with a spectacular collection. Following up on a dramatic debut is difficult but Naushaba proved that she is not a one hit wonder with this collection. Inaaya’s SS15 collection continued with the theme of using traditional Sindhi crafts in contemporary wear. Naushaba used both touches of Rilli and some stunning mirror work in her collection.

What makes Inaaya noteworthy is the way that she takes unsung traditional crafts that we’ve seen badly used and gives them a high fashion twist. Standout pieces included a bolero with unusual mirror work and a rilli sari that glittered with tiny flashes of mirrors.

Although the collection included many beautiful outfits, there was a lack of focus. The simple tunic with a rilli dupatta didn’t work with knotted purple evening wear jacket. The inability to make a definitive statement let down an otherwise accomplished collection.

Naushaba added a characteristic touch at the end of her show. She’s committed to social responsibility and supports local craftswomen with her brand. Accordingly, Inaaya’s showstopper was Mashal Chaudri of the Reading Room Project along with Naushaba’s daughter Inaaya. She held up a plaque saying “I teach therefore I can” while Inaaya wore a T-Shirt with the slogan “super role model”.

HSY brought the evening to a close with a high-speed presentation of his Hi-Octance menswear collection. The unusual choreography featured the models zipping along the catwalk, pausing briefly on their second round. The energetic presentation complemented a collection of sharp suits and jackets, leavened with quirky polka dot shirts and bold stripy ties.

There was the requisite shirtless model in distressed jeans and an ice-blue jacket but also some appealing suiting fabrics. HSY used only Pakistani fabrics and included solid colours as well as self-checked and striped suits. This was wearable, classy menswear presented creatively.

Day 3 was undoubtedly the best day of TFPW so far. Iman Ahmed undoubted takes the laurels but she was ably supported by HSY, Wardha Saleem, Inaaya, Sania Maskatiya and YBQ.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
Don Bouchard Jan 2012
Slip into a syncopated
Yaw that staggers some,
Never touches others.
Come back home if you don't have the chops, or
Open up to ranges
Pleasant...
Awkward...
Totter some and Tatter some.
Insiders,
Outsiders
Nestle or Negate whenever Music syncopates.
judy smith Apr 2017
Presumably the next big thing will be soles — socks with holes. Or maybe zits — pants with zips.

It’s made me wonder what else is ahead for us this season, so I headed to the mall to find out.

Topshop proclaims the return of triple denim (noooo!), the corset and coats worn as dresses. The latter should be worn undone to the waist and half falling off in order to “create a cold-shoulder silhouette”. Doesn’t make such sense during a Melbourne winter, I must say.

Topshop also has a very worrying item called a “monochrome gingham flute tie sleeve top”, which looks to me very much like a chequered table napkin worn backwards with ribbons at the elbows keeping the sleeves on. I’ll pass on that one.

Over at H&M;, winter’s “new mood” is all about “sustainable style” containing recycled materials. That means a simple flannel top is reborn as “conscious fashion” and a blue worker-style singlet becomes a “lyocell vest top”.

What would they call hi-vis? Apparently, the fash pack call it “haute reflecture”. Yes, really.

Most concerning is a shirt with “trumpet sleeves” so wide they’d need a separate seat at a restaurant. Even then they would end up dipping into the dinner of the person sitting at the next table. It may help you work out what to order, but it’s not likely to win you any friends.

At Zara it’s all about a “limited edition ballet dress” that will look perfect under a “moto jacket” Did they forget the r? Or are they too cool for correct spelling?

There is also something very strange called “over-the-knee high-heel sock boots”, which are $100. Give them to someone you loathe this Easter.

Zara also wants us to wear “Mum-fit jeans with side stripes”, which will no doubt just draw more unwelcome attention to the dreaded maternal hips. Who needs that?

They also have a velvet sack-style dress with a drawstring at the mid-thigh. It’s the style that doesn’t discriminate — it’s guaranteed to look unflattering on everyone.

So what other trends should we be running away from this season? Fashion insiders tell me “street-chic utilitarianism” is all the rage. That seems to involve wearing a flak jacket 10 sizes too big in a rotting-flesh colour paired with floral leggings with built-in shoes.

There’s also “new shirting”, which looks to me like the same thing as “old shirting” but has the added disadvantage of being just about to fall off your shoulders at the most inopportune time.

Trust me, you don’t need that and you don’t need an ironic-slogan T-shirt that tells the world “This was not a gift” or “This is a white T-shirt”.

I am also quite interested to know that “bra out” is apparently a trend and I wonder if that means I should stop tucking my daggy mum-bra straps into my tops.

Now, as someone who spent most of Wednesday this week at work with a large shop store label hanging out of the back of my skirt, I’m obviously not a huge fashionista.

But even I can see that never before has there been such a gap between clothes the fashion-conscious labels are promoting and everyday pieces we actually want to wear. You know, clothes that are well priced, well made, last more than a few seasons and aren’t made by five-year-old Bangladeshi orphans.

THERE’S no doubt something very weird is going on when there’s a waiting list for Yves Saint Laurent’s $10,000 jewelled boots and jewellery made of real succulents is being tipped as the next big thing. But really, who wants to have to remember to water their earrings?

Wandering around Zara this week (from where I bought the $89 skirt I forgot to take the label off), I was interested to see sale racks packed with off-the-shoulder tops, summer denim and lots of body suits. When are they going to learn women don’t want press studs up their privates?

I know that in fashion everything new is old anyway and that’s what really concerns me.

I’ve been around long enough to remember all the best worst fashion disasters such as pooh-catcher pants, velour tracksuits, trucker hats and platform sneakers.

Frankly, there are some items that don’t deserve to be wheeled out again. They include leg warmers — because your ankles don’t get cold when you work out, do they? And let’s not revisit male crop tops, because a hairy muffin top is something we don’t need to see.

Back to jindows. Just because Topshop tells us they’re “globally trending in the denim space”, it doesn’t mean you need a pair.

Remember. You didn’t need jeggings, coatigans, skorts or flatforms. And you sure as hell don’t need jindows.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses
Ken Pepiton Aug 2019
Wonder this today, what if
we
are.
We are
existent in ever only in the life we leave
graffiti to prove we examined and proved it worthy.

We swore
to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth
vicariously a thousand times,
because Pop watched Perry Mason,

we were on the bench being waited for,
endurance is encouraged for the same reason faith

is evident.

"Mortgage the farm, Pop, I got G.I. life insurance."
Uncle's last letter, afore he was made sacred

for our own American Dream, it seems, now.

Mortal tyranny
finds little worth in the 20th percentile signed
away in
death pledges held in banks of money
multipliers, who take our thousand and lend me ten

to deposit at interest less than I pay,

this we learned, is the way of thrift
in 1928, then in 1985, then in 2008
after that enough is enough

old men should not
spend no time to find
the purpose of each breath…

we're here to find the reason war is tolerated here.

The days of fewer humans, past now in haps,
left lies formed from living words
in old Sybline rants simple subtle
sublime, impulse urge
twisted in slang to become science
when only insiders are conscious of using
writing to lock meaning in unutterable names

Ha. That lie. The unspeakable name game,
perverted priests have played
with passion,
proud, puffed up butchers,
heirs of
Moses guessing, fingers crossed, a word
to the wise is enough.

Say I am,
Popeye.
How long will that be funny?

Timing is perceivable as everything, but so long as

eternity and infinity and twisted paths along the surface
of myelinated axioms,
exist
slick as snot,
it's not.
Now,
here we be. Redeemed. Useless mutterings picked up
in passant

considering the ant, scouting, marking, remaining in the dark
grout
of the tiled counter-top, aware of being brown on sterile
white ceramic surfaces
intensified florescent reflecting high gloss,
-- good god--

ah, Tender-eyed Leah meet Rhea impulsive creative dia
metrically opposed - as
to randomness on any level.
We square?
--
This, I think, is why war is thought tolerated here.

Right angle messages tweaked, to fit
fractures from the days when only evil was imagined
shapeless, having form in
no shape, save some old wives tales all fused with spite
esprit
expressed in rhymey verse
or, worse, glossolalia
its inverse, aha, wordplay, verse-ification

springs hope eternal, spits in the dust, fine-ground red
ochre clay from far away

brought to our place in time on muddy iron feet

A voice arose,
shake the clay from your feet,
-- the feet of them who buried thy lying sack o'
-- those clay clad feet, did I read, at the door, stood they…
-- some translation of Ananias and Saphira,

Uri, Uri! Libsi libsi
Uz zek Sigh-own

libsi big de tipart-tech, ye ru say limnal
sub
dis-error
agent of
Isaiah 57: 2 for the Jesus freaque
frequency of
calm in confusion's unpacking, fission
sometimes
haps
as the firstborn under the cloud of unknowing
emerge afraid to lie.

Nurses whisper, listener listen
emulate Socrates
in knowing
Plato could carry quite a load. But listen,

who admits to knowing nothing? be real, this takes time…

The spit in the clay, rub that in yer eye?
watchasee…
men, like trees… yeh, some say they see that here.
Phonetic Hebrew from Strong's Pre-computer era concordance of every word in the KJV. A grimoire of the benefucent sort for sure. Aitia proof.
Chris Rodgers Nov 2013
Mishaps and mispronunciation,
messy rooms and messy beards,
crops and crop duster airplanes.
Too many insiders,
too many to count.
We counted on the fresh air
in our bike tires to get us out.
Out in the open world,
the woods, the fields,
the lakes, the ponds,
the Indiana bonds
too tight to ignore.
A prison with open doors
if nothing more.
judy smith Jul 2016
THE CROWD at Raf Simons’s Spring 2017 menswear show at Pitti Immagine Uomo in Florence seemed more uptight than usual, yet that’s exactly how Mr. Simons intended it: Scattered among the wound-up throngs of editors, buyers and gate-crashers were 266 secondhand mannequins, some seated stiffly, others frozen into upright positions, all clothed in archival pieces from his 21-year career in fashion. Though the dummies were arresting, the Belgian designer, 48, later downplayed this unconventional look back. “The pieces weren’t chosen with a certain kind of curatorial intention,” said Mr. Simons. “I didn’t want it to look like a typical kind of retrospective.”

Mission accomplished: Between the spooky setting in a cavernous former train station, the wooden mannequins and his decision to show “off calendar” (forgoing his usual Paris Fashion Week time slot), it all felt more like a Robert Gober art show than a museum tribute. Mr. Simons is, after all, still hard at work, his every move watched by industry insiders amid speculation that he may be joining Calvin Klein—after concluding 3½ years as creative director of Christian Dior’s women’s collection, in 2015.

Mr. Simons continued to riff on his signature elegance in his Pitti Uomo menswear show. The cornerstone of the collection was a series of loose, photo-enhanced shirts, knits and jackets created in collaboration with the Robert Mapplethorpe Foundation: voluminous pieces emblazoned with images of Debbie Harry or eroticized flowers by the photographer, who died in 1989.

Much like his designs, our chat with the usually circumspect Mr. Simons reflected a broad array of preoccupations and influences. He was outspoken about tailoring (“so much bad suiting out there”) and his design process (“no system, no rules, no structure”) but also about mobile phones, the African countryside and ’70s dance music.

One of my favorite spots in the world is: Puglia in Italy. There’s a house by the sea I go to, and outside, it’s just a horizon line. It’s that feeling of eternity: It allows you to think. If you put me there, I wouldn’t need love or anything anymore.

Between the country or the city, I prefer: the country. I live in Antwerp, a city that’s kind of like a village.

A place I’d like to visit again is: Kruger National Park in South Africa. It’s mind-blowing how it sits so far away from anything you’ve ever experienced in a city. There were no people, no proof of human life, just animals and animal behavior. It’s survival of the strongest, which is fascinating.

One thing I’ve had forever is: A yellow T-shirt with a black print on it from the movie “The Shining” that goes way back to when I was a teenager.

If I could be granted one wish, it would be: solidarity. That may sound emotional—politically emotional—but with everything that’s happening, I wish everybody would just let each other be in peace.

A current band I love is: The **. At first they seemed weird but they overwhelm me—massively—all the time with their intelligence. They may be the group that’s had the most impact on me in the last five years.

An old album I still listen to is: Kraftwerk’s “The Man-Machine” [1978]. My 1998 show was called “Kraftwerk” because I had four boys in red shirts in it who looked like replicas of the band members.

If I could tell my 20-year-old self one thing, it would be: grab and protect love when you find it. Cherish it, focus on it, concentrate on it.

My dream client would be: anyone, really. When I design, I am thinking about a lot of people, not just one. It’s more about connecting to a certain kind of generation or a certain kind of person that will connect to what we do.

I always wear: Adidas Stan Smiths. I have had periods where I only wore Stan Smiths, maybe from age 15 until I was 25.

The place that most inspires me is:everywhere. Some people have to go for a swim or have a holiday to be inspired, but for me, it’s there when I walk out the door.

My favorite movie directors are: Stanley Kubrick, Todd Haynes and Alfred Hitchcock.Kubrick’s movies are so visually striking, especially “2001: A Space Odyssey” and “Eyes Wide Shut.”

I collect: art. I started collecting more than 15 years ago. Cady Noland, Richard Prince,Cindy Sherman, Isa Genzken, Rosemarie Trockel, Charlie Ray, Robert Gober are artists that have made a huge impact on me on all levels, emotionally, conceptually, visually.

The hardest part of a man’s wardrobe to get right is: the tie and suit. [There is] so much bad suiting out there in terms of fit, style and fabric. So, when I design, I don’t start with fit or fabric, but with meaning. The phrase “suit and tie” has a special place in our vocabulary.

One of my favorite books is: The Christiane F. book [“Zoo Station: The Story of Christiane F.”—about a teenage ****** addict]. The movie [1981] was an amazing interpretation, but the book is more striking.

I feel most proud about: simple things like being able to handle love and friendship and family. Or taking care of my dog. Of course, I do also feel proud of what I do.

I am a big fan of: furniture design, especially French or Swiss designers such as Jean Royère, Pierre Jeanneret and Jean Prouvé as well as Japanese-American designer George Nakashima. I love how beautifully designed furniture sits in history—it’s unpretentious.

The one thing I always travel with is: my sweatshirt from Vier, a skateshop in Antwerp. “Vier” is the Dutch word for four. I always take it on flights because I refuse to put on the pajamas they give to you.

I wish I could always be with: my dog, Luca, a Beauceron, who behaves like everything except a dog—more like a cat or a frog. She’s still a baby.

The one thing I wish didn’t exist is: mobile phones. I am old enough to remember how it was before them. There was something much more beautiful about not having one. We communicated in such a different way with each other.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2016 | www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses
Mohammed Arafat May 2019
I am from a place,
where violence takes place,
by outsiders and insiders.
I oppose horror
terror,
melancholy,
and every fear chasing me.
I barely can, though.

In my thoughts, however,
I flee the darkness,
the hate and the arrogance.
I run off the imposed siege along with my tears,
with my good and bad memories,
with my stolen childhood,
and my ruined adulthood
with my beating heart full of holes.

Into the farthest city, I want to descend,
like a prophet, an angel or a human.
I just want to descend anyways,
into Jerusalem, the city of peace,
and righteous.

I walk through the lanes of its old town,
among the stalls of its old markets,
built of limestone.

With my wide-open eyes,
I mediate the high woody gates,
closed for hundreds of years,
I stare at its historic walls,
several armies from different epochs,
tied their mares to, across old ages.

I gape at the Holy Sepulcher Church,
the Omar Mosque located opposite it,
and Al-Buraq Wall.
I sense the worshipers all around,
praying and thanking God,
for the peace, he gives them, daily.

I get into the deep alleyways,
full of people with and without Kofeyyas.
I look at the golden Dome of the Rock,
and the Al-Aqsa Mosque,
from outside, insanely.

I take off my plastic slippers at the entrance,
after checking all details around with my five senses.
Getting ready to pray too, I enter the holy mosque.
I raise my hands,
kneel,
and pray,
for peace and for love,
in Jerusalem,
and around Jerusalem.

Mohammed Arafat
04-05-2019
This poem is dedicated to my beloved city of Jerusalem.
It is art that oils the moving parts of me
the free flowing nectar in the seed of me,
art in ******* tips and the half full skips,
the 'tramps' that ship the coal around the coast.

I play host to the wonder of words that make up the rhyme,
more 'fog on the Tyne'
the lowlands and highlands within these Islands and bridges to cross,

It is art in the heart and what we see with the eyes,love it,despise it,ignore or get wise to it,
everywhere I look, I see that someone took time,moulded , transformed it and changed forever this world a bit
and every bit helps.

My fingers are lazers ,blazing out art,starting to burn in every sentence that turns and turning to light,
gutters that utter to me prophecies and in the pharisees I see only samaritans who give
salute to the pimps and the prostitutes,the Kings and the courtiers,those who buy and who sell,who are
milled in the gin of it,the thin and the quick of it,tied to the wheel in the cockpit and spitting out what could be me for the hell of it.

I see art in the  faces that stare blankly,to flicker at screens in store windows,art in the glow of the cigarette end,in the bending of imagination, where salvation is palmed off to an ungrateful nation as corn from the candyclouds,art in the female,the he man, the mail man,the banter of cantors,the whispers of sisters the sadness,the badness,the joy and the gladness is there,
out looking to share,insiders,
outsiders,lone wolfstate riders and in pairs or in threes all looking to please,
street paintings,feint bread  lines on fences,dull
brush strokes on brickstock
unlock your mind
find your
art.
A note slid underneath my door.
How marks on a page can crush the heart worse than
steel breaks the bone.

The oceans tide has come to take me away.
I dove twice as deep.
In laughter apon the first.
In regret of that which I could not grasp.
Glimmers of light lost in the waters depth cast
so far away.

Missed lines the old sometime must think young.
I found  hope on nothing's  promised embrace.
A ring of lies one moment of truth.

Remember  me for times  I can no longer attend.
Troubles untold  sometimes outside is easier than
A insiders view.

The cards werent  right and thoose at the table
knew a jokers laugh was a far off cry.
No words can be spoken in the emptyness
of loss for which there is no return.

A shore apart a heart jaded but always true.
no blame  is to be placed for a road must surely
one day end.

The words read last a souls release.
The tide must always kiss the sea.
A city of emptyness reflects all that is left
inside of me.

Stay  as was my plea.
Crazy how could anyone truley know the madness
that is seldom understood by even me.

Words apon a page ive traded ink for life blood
of my soul.
I left the note  unread.

As spiders cast webs woven of time.
Cold as the peace final rest to torment.
That is the barbwire  within my head.

It was time for a much overdue rest.
A co writter in life is better than apon the page.
Niether is my path no  hope as the clock
points to a dark hour shadows have returned to stay.

Heaven was mine for a moment.
Hell is more my style I  guess.
As in stories and legends im already on my
way.

Voices all speak within there own key.
Torment, addiction and isolation.
Are all thats left of me.
Serena Charles Oct 2014
The first night is always the worst
When the two of you have reached the ****** of the argument and he spits on your worth by finally admitting that there is someone else...
It's kind of funny because when I was younger I thought people were just being dramatic when they said "love hurts" blah blah blah
but love.. that **** hurts.
I didn't want it to be goodbye
I closed my eyes hoping that the night would somehow make it better
That tomorrow would seal this letter that my heart was too afraid to send
Sincerely yours
Was I really yours?
Or was this all just pretend?
Maybe this is why love letters have gone extinct because their too permanent
Innocent white paper being held accountable for promises that it knows you won't keep.
White paper, so traditional like ill fitting wedding dresses
Like the absence of color
The absence of color on my cheeks.
I don't blush anymore.
I started wearing more eyeliner and maybe I'll pick up smoking or drinking.
You always thought drunk was the ugliest thing to be because of your father.
Don't look at me.
Stop sending mixed signals ok?
You know I'm gullible and I'm not sure if you're taking advantage of my vulnerability or if you really are just "checking up on me" with that unnecessary 'What's up?' text because I usually read it as a secret apology
Because if you were really happy with your decision to leave you wouldn't be looking back.
Don't talk to me.
I'm trying to be happy without your name in my most recent calls.
I hate how we shared plans, insiders, gifts, and art because my bedroom hates me now
And the radio station and my future too.
I hate how my little brother still asks about you
I hate how you smelled like nature
Now I can't even walk home without the trees weeping
And I'm not a tree hugger but lately I've been paying more attention to them
Trying to put this falling love somewhere and the hoodie you gave me sits in my closet like a game of hide and seek
Why do you leave remnants of you everywhere?
This isn't Hansel and Gretel
And I promise I'm not as strong as I seem to be.
Sometimes I fall apart and sometimes I ****** your name with subtweets, I'm sorry.
And everything I say doesn't make sense because I know you're out somewhere doing things we did with someone that isn't me and I hate you so **** much and deleting the text messages seems a little easier than throwing away your handwriting and we never finished watching that movie and I never finished saying thank you for everything because you ran away like a cowardly ocean and I was only your shore never your 'yes of course' and I often sit in math class wondering if you really loved me and I never seem to get the right answers.
And my excuse is that I'm the shambles of a teenage train wreck
I didn't mean to destroy your world.
But you do that every time you say her name like an atomic ghost bomb, and only I can feel the after shock of sylibals
Who knew that words could ****...
Guess we are all just a bunch of love driven murderers
Scott A Grant Oct 2009
Government bails out wall-street
The world holds its breath and waits
Mortgage owners fear the worse
Corporate Greed the ultimate link
Automakers lobby in private jets
American workers losing their jobs
The trickle down effect takes time
Those who suffer now feel robbed
Whats is the world coming too
Only the insiders are protected
(c) 2010- From Born Scripts Others Tell
Kelly Mistry Mar 2022
The Future
What future?
The future is here.
The future is now.

The next generation can inspire
We can admire their ideals
Wish aloud they had the power
                                                           to make change

But they don’t
here
now

We do
WE DO
We can do more than wish and admire

The future is here
The future is now

Many minds are needed
Tackling a worlds’ worth of problems

Many minds are already
solving one problem at a time
here
now

So many solutions exist
So many already pursue them
Beware waiting for the “best” one

The search for perfection
Runs right alongside
The path of procrastination

Try all the ideas at once
Throw everything we have at the wall to see what sticks
Use the solutions that are
here
now

Some may say
“Best” is worth waiting for
Being methodical is more
                                                efficient
  ­                                                               cost-effective
                                                  ­                                         safe

SLOW

The future is here
The future is now

Find the ones who are already
Identifying problems
Advocating for needs
Bringing solutions

Give them the resources
Amplify their ideas
Scale up their actions
HERE
NOW

Solutions will come from above and below
From science and beyond
From outsiders and insiders
Let’s meet in the middle
No mind turned away

The future is HERE
The future is NOW

Say it with me

The future is HERE.
The future is NOW.
judy smith Jul 2015
Perrie Edwards hasn’t made a secret of the fact that she’s not yet ready to get married, despite being engaged to Zayn Malik for the last two years and now it seems her constant hesitation is getting to the star.

The Little Mix beauty has found her life consumed once again with promo work and touring, as she publicises her new single and third studio album and as a result it sounds like her personal life has taken a bit of a back seat.


Insiders say Zayn is getting tired of waiting for Edwards to commit to a date for their wedding and he’d rather be tying the knot sooner rather than later…..but is being put off all the time.

“Zayn wants them to set the date for their wedding so they have something to work towards,” a source told Reveal magazine. “He’s not saying it has to be soon, but he believes if they set a date then they have to get things done. Having it all drag on means neither of them is motivated to organize because there’s no deadlines.”

The source claimed that Malik is tired of hearing Perrie be so blasé about their commitment to one another and is sick of listening to her brushing off questions about their future every single day.

He’s ready to start making life long plans, especially now that they’ve found the house they want to raise a family in and the insider continued:

“Zayn is not being interviewed constantly like when he was in the band but Perrie is, especially with their new single out, and every time he hears her say there’s no date it gets to him,” they said. “He doesn’t get why they haven’t set one yet.”

While we are sure Zayn wants to marry his Little Mix fiance, we’re not convinced that he’s quite as keen and desperate as is being claimed here though. He whisked Perrie away for a romantic birthday weekend on Friday and seems to be enjoying the extra time they’re getting to spend with one another, as a result of his suddenly clear work schedule.

Leave your comments below…..

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Smoot Mar 2011
Love oozed out of your skin.
That caring soul within penetrated my heart.
While I inhaled that love into my lungs
As this love traveled through my veins
I prayed this love for me I’d be able to spread one day.
Some how I’d be the Angel you were to me
Wish you didn’t have to live in my memories
I dreamed that God gave you back to me
But some foreign place of enchanted perfection
Seems too much like the wrong direction.
Too many steps in life
I couldn’t have taken them all right.
I couldn’t have loved someone more than I loved he
Too bad you are no longer beside me
Now only DNA runs inside me
I’m not implying you are not above my head
Given me hints on how to correct my wrongs
I just wish you could be here to catch me before I fall.
Physically
I need your touch
I miss the closeness between us.
The insiders that kept the world away
I was “Granddaddy’s baby”
Your pride
My joy
I cried not for your absence because you’ll never leave
I just wish I could still tug on your sleeve.
I can still see you in my smile
Remember how we’d smile together?
I do.
Remember how you’d pull me aside when I tried to run and hide?
I do.
Remember when I’d tell you a story with no end and you beg me to tell it over and over yet over again?
I do.
I can recall our relationships down to the second because
You were my joy
More than my Granddad
My best friend.
My heart. My soul.
My Grandfather.
In loving memory of Thomas Smoot
Alyssa Algorithm Feb 2013
I've been trying to get inside
scratching chunks off the surface
never quite able
to find any true purpose.
but my thoughts are concrete
and stay locked in my mind
to build up and break up
everything I see.

I think I'm getting closer
to hearing my own voice.
always watching, never talking
blocking out the noise
And I think maybe it's worth it
To have no real place..

Because at the end of the day
I'm completely unbound,
and I know quite a bit more
that the insiders do.
Joel M Frye Nov 2016
To: Career politicians and insiders
From: The great unwashed rabble beneath your feet

Over the next few years, and into the foreseeable future,
Your past and present performance
Will be scrupulously reviewed
With an eye toward
Eliminating hangers-on and dead weight.
No cow is sacred
When so many are starving.
The heiress apparent to the retiring CEO
has been shown the door;
the head of sales now the head of state.
There will be regular meetings
With the new HR director.
Those of you who've been with us
For a while will know him well.
His name is Howard Beale.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AS4aiA17YsM
Lost Poet Apr 2016
I don't even fit in,
With the people I love,
anymore,

I am an outsider,
With my family,
my friends,

No longer a part,
Of what this world,
requires,

I do not know what,
To say, to do, or even,
How to act,

I am the outsider,
In a land full of,
Insiders.
tracy Jul 2014
I can’t remember birthdays.

I can’t remember anniversaries, the first day we met, or even when our next date is. I can’t remember anything if it deals with numbers (unless there’s a particular reason for that number). My brain works like an office; there are papers scattered everywhere but with my slight case of ADD, I can’t figure out what papers belong to what. In the corner though, there’s a gray filing cabinet that’s been chipped in just all the right places. Inside this filing cabinet, I keep files like that. If you pull out my mother’s file, it’ll have her birthday on there, her anniversary with my father, and it might even have the names of all of her children (I couldn’t be bothered to remember my own siblings’ names). I never look at these files unless I really need to—that’s why they’re in a filing cabinet. It’s a place to store information that’s not useful to my every day.

I have characters in my head that sometimes, I think are real. They keep me company when I’m alone in my room at 4 in the morning, writing out their story. I can change anything I want about them; I can change their hair colour, their personality traits—I can even change the way they walk. You shouldn’t date me because I’ll hide behind these characters; they’ll become a part of me and I’ll start being a part of them. They’ll become my excuse for why I couldn’t spend the night with you last night—“I needed to finish my story”—why we couldn’t go to the park—“I can’t walk and write”—why I couldn’t have dinner with you—“eating takes too much time away from my writing.” If you want to date me, you have to date my characters too.

I can’t prioritize. If I can’t remember your birthday, how will I be able to remember you? I’ll remember the way your hair smells right after a shower (and I might even have one of my characters smell that way too) and I’ll remember how you looked on your first day of work (you have never been more professional) but I won’t remember what your face looks like the day you decide to walk away from me. I won’t hear anything other than the screaming of our first fight and how there’s a vein that pops up on your neck when you get angry. I can’t remember to bring you to my coffee dates with myself and I won’t remember to call you to say good night. I’ll end up saying good morning to you when it’s 3 in the morning and you’ve come looking for me since I haven’t found you.

Don’t date me because I can give you nice gifts. I’ll always remember your favourite colour and the way you laugh at puns. I keep these things in the front of my mind: what makes you smile, what jokes you like, and insiders that only you and I understand. I’ll bring you Sleepless in Seattle with four bars of Hershey’s chocolate when you’re on your period; I’ll carry you on my back after a drunken night of karaoke and beer. When you can’t sleep at night, I’ll put my hand in yours and shake your arm, as if telling you that I’m your reality and your nightmares are just dreams. Your medication will be counted out to the exact dosage when you’re sick—I’ll always have a cup of warm hot chocolate right beside it too (since I know you hate tea). I’ll keep all of this in mind while I create presents to give you on days I can’t remember.

I’ll know exactly when you wake up to go to work and what time your boss will let you come home, but I’ll still forget to bring you roses on your birthday.
L Seagull May 2016
A-tisket and a wicked uber fella
I lost my jazz fest umbrella
And though I texted many times
He would not give it back

Was it yellow NONoNoNo
It was a black one for conservatives
And watermelony for insiders

And so it ***** and I'm upset
So I ordered a new one instead
authentic Nov 2015
I have spent nights drowning in liquor and the language between us that we never learned to speak out loud
I have underlined the catch phrases
The clues, the insiders, the unspoken declarations
I have swallowed syllables, swallowed shots
Injected my body with the way you sound on the phone when you're tired
I leave my phone downstairs so I can't call you in my sleep
At night, intoxicated and stubbornly confused I am a little less broken
Numb to the humility of unrequited love
Shake hands with cupid in back seats
And talk with him about his aim
When it is dark out, somehow I can still breathe
The constellations hanging heavy over my head offer enough comfort to keep my eyes dry
But I always love you in the morning
More than the morning before
Somehow in my brief unconsciousness, you are still alive
I often wake up in a pool of *****
I am so tired of this endless spiral to no where
I am tired of spilling your name out all over my mattress in a drunken sickness in the middle of the night
Early hours of the morning, before dawn
I recognize my reflection by name but not by spirit
And maybe love is only easy before the sun comes up because it is so easy to find yourself
When you are dazed and drowsy
Worn and wavered
Your senses take flight in essence of the indispensable atmosphere gripping the tips of your fingers
Let the smoke rise, ashes fall
Let the clouds dance over the moon
And when the sun comes up
Dawn creeps in, shadows step out of hiding
I sit up, not quite sober, in recovery of trying to remember how to forget your name
I sit up, giving myself enough time to adjust my eyes
And in just the right lighting I can see the your tall figure standing in my room looking at pictures I've hung on the wall
The paintings, the posters, the letters
I look at my hands
Shaking, cold, fatigued
Fix my gaze on my veins
This is my skin, not yours, and yet you are still under it
I am unconditionally and eternally entranced by your haunting presence
You are a ghost in the night that watches me sleep
But you are only a figure of dust in the morning
Leaving again
Daan Dec 2014
Bashing the walls never saved her,
she never got out and I got used
to the screaming.

The room, opposite of frigid, steaming.
It abused insiders, visitors and people seeming
touched, by the history it carried.

It buries more than most can handle.
But a place does not feel pity,
you can not blame the city.

The pressure of a chance at being blind after
makes the ability of dreaming so
much dafter.
I'll thank you later
Norbert Tasev Nov 2021
From a budding eye romance, from a hot flame of deer eyes, a ****** circulating romantic seance ensues! The throbbing of the Universe is secretly hidden by our talkative face! Giving donation ruffles and excites the playhouse of our curious subconscious; can the immortal Infinite be felt with each other's bodies?! A dwindling, balmy moonlight kisses the knife-splintered grids on our donor body so that we can feel the fall of heart-petals in an eternal, holy minute and stay together!
 
Our bodies are secret self-defense armor with which we protect and cover the other; our faces still glow with faith in loving pleasure, we cherish the image of the distant, imagined future in his contemplations! As curious as mischievous kids who are themselves explorers, mini Colombians; superstitious, with our Heavenly kisses we try to weave our secrets even closer! Enriched in ourselves, the trembling Summer refreshes; True pearls are immortal jewelry for our lovers!
 
We forgive each other for our sins and our shameful neglections! You shaggy, primeval Enkidu body, my pear-breasted tiny, jingling rest; your giggling desire screams! Can we both arrive in the proud Light? If we let go of each other's hands, how long can we be alone in Life to survive Tomorrow with confidence! The sure motto of our silent muse: I want to! We take care of each other and keep the night of mortality moving! "The prey-tomorrow, as a prey-earning vulture-animal, lurks on us to surely capture our eternal feelings for one another!"
 
Between whispered deceptions and false intrigues, we can be sure that each other's committed emotional integrity is healthy! - As a noisy silent partner, we already feel everything and know about the other, because his beating instincts are incapable of lying!
Clary Morgan Feb 2016
you're not friends with the insiders who won't let the outsiders in.
You make friends with those who let you in.
Noticed it at a lunch, and it made me realize how greatful I am of my friends
Mohammed Arafat Mar 2020
I am from a place,
where violence takes place,
by outsiders and insiders.
I oppose horror
terror,
melancholy,
and every fear chasing me.
I barely can, though.

In my thoughts, however,
I flee the darkness,
the hate and the arrogance.
I run off the imposed siege along with my tears,
with my good and bad memories,
with my stolen childhood,
and my ruined adulthood,
with my beating heart full of holes.

Into the farthest city, I want to descend,
like a prophet, an angel or a human.
I just want to descend anyways,
into Jerusalem, the city of peace,
and righteous.

I walk through the lanes of its old town,
among the stalls of its old markets,
built of limestone.

With my wide-open eyes,
I mediate the high woody gates,
closed for hundreds of years,
I stare at its historic walls,
several armies from different times,
tied their mares to, across old ages.

I gape at the Holy Sepulcher Church,
the Omar Mosque located behind it,
and the mounts beside.
I sense the worshipers all around,                                                                                        Muslims, Jews, Christians
praying and thanking God,
for the peace, he gives them, daily.

I get into the deep alleyways,
full of people with and without Kofeyyas.
I look at the golden Dome of the Rock,
and the Al-Aqsa Mosque,
from outside, insanely.

I take off my plastic slippers at the entrance,
after checking all details around with my five senses.
Getting ready to pray too, I enter the holy mosque.
I raise my hands,
kneel,
and pray,
for peace and for love,
in Jerusalem,
and around Jerusalem.

Mohammed Arafat

03-03-2020
Ken Mears Nov 2019
It's Exam Day

I think it's time to run away

Tests here tests there

Tests everywhere!


Scarier than spiders

Created by those insiders

Teachers, dreaded villains

I think this school needs some penicillins


Tests, such a virus

So undesirous

Infecting our schools

Making the smartest of us look like fools


Vile creatures

I'd rather cheer on the bleachers

Then have to take another test

They make me so stressed


Corrupted

Our education interrupted

All so the state can judge us

It should be treasonous


How I lothe exam day

This is a good time to run away

But I can't do that

Else the system will make my life fall flat
Sannie Apr 2016
It seems as everything goes on, I stand still. The river keeps flowing, but I'm that dead fish that's stuck behind a rock. Believe me when I say, I am trying my hardest to swim again.

But it feels like everytime I think I'll be able to move again, another fish rushes by and reminds me of you. And there I am, stuck again behind that ******* rock.

The worst thing is, you've created this rock for me. We build it togheter. And while to the outsiders I pretend to be swimming again, the insiders just hang on with me.
Angelica Jul 2018
Dear love, I hoped. Hoped for memorable moments with you. Filled with quirky insiders and cheesy smiles.
Dear buttercup, I saw. Saw your capacity for success in everything you did. No matter what laborious obstacles you faced.
Dear sunshine, I confessed. Confessed those heartfelt feelings that I kept for years to myself to thee. Felt as if I mastered some form of art that I had been working on for what seemed an eternity and to what eventually flourished into a beautiful sentiment gallery for a one-gal audience. Sought through a protected glass screen whom hardly hid our raw tears and emotions that we were feeling inside.
Dear sweet pea, I felt. Felt pain, in my core, in my heart, whom I have kept locked away to protect from such thing (love).Thy which I felt day in and day out for thee.
Dear darling, I shut. Shut your presence, physically & virtually from my life. Doing so, had become such a difficult yet relieving task.
Dear pumpkin, I wondered. Wondered if I ever crossed thy mind of my doing. & Wondered if thy was content with him, knowing you were.
Dear girl I knew in high school, I can't. Can't have you in my life. As my crush nor as a friend. Awkward it is. & Forever will it be with you having the knowledge of those innocent and pure feelings. You don't need my presence in thy life, and vise versa. I refuse to apologize for giving up on us. Friendship alone is what I seek least with you. I long for happiness, and unfortunately you're hetero presence is holding me back. And if you so happen to stumble across this poem, I am certain you'd be able to fill in the blank. I conclude thus with a freeing farewell.
Love,
          A.B
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
testing! testing! hello! testing!

dipping my nugget in the bbq sauce
has begun,
i love it!
i've never had such an adrenaline
rush antidote, since watching ****
online, but, **** me,
i can hardly miss the opportunity,
and a lost expectation.

so i make a trolltube account -
just to leave a comment on a video
FBE, a video that puts children
against the oldies in the music scene,
i make prog rock recommendations,
implying: could at least
bridge a gap between classical music,
not that the kids have
to identify the bands,
but whether they *like
the music....

and hey presto! out pops a troll!
and it went like this:

me - king crimson, jethro tull, tool, slayer,
tom petty & the heartbreakers,
rage against the machine, pearl jam,
prince: prog rock for exploring classical
bridges in labyrinth making in these cranium
sponges... last time i heard, no marylin manson
music video can't match up to freaking
out people as much as listening to gong's
the flying teapot album.

troll no. 1 -
ur creating posers and u word it like an edgy
hipster ****.

well, **** me! isn't it christmas!

me (replying) - perhaps, but the litre of whiskey
i've just drank doesn't help either, nonetheless
i've been well informed that youtube is rife with trolls,
and i was begging myself to find a platform to craft
an antidote to my apathy; much obliged for proving
my insiders' as being right, i might actually
take to these adrenaline instalments as the alt.
to what will become the new-****; **** man,
you're giving me a hard-on! well done!

no wonder i don't post on you-tube,
i.e. troll-tube...
     i can't even argue the point of current
youtube stars being demonetized...
  i have no sympathy,
talk about a psychopathic / sociopathic
knack at making "friends"...
    by the way, this was my first comment
on the platform,
i like watching children react to music
i grew up with, just as much as i like:
kids covering tool's song 46 & 2...
  it almost feels paternal,
  patriarchal in the extreme:
but to the point: a learning canvas.
      
i hope you find a more accommodating
platform, where people are sincere,
and not ready to cognitively gut you...
it's so sad, it's a sadness that deserves the
weird happiness, of youtube videos being
demonetized... oddly enough...
if you simply can't ensure a freedom
is a cordiality, if you can't ensure you
retain the freedom, with a promise of
tact, & manners, why have it?

i just made one footnote in the history
of youtube, and already i'm getting
an adrenaline rush of pity mingling with
the wrath of adrenaline,
sad, isn't it, so why expect anything more,
or less?
  
   i wish pity upon these internet anonymous
boogers, but i hardly can contain my
contempt boiling over...
      it's just sad, how people forgot how
to spell, for starters,
and then it dawns upon me:
  a language that neglects its existence:
is a language worthy of foreigners to
speak it, with the natives:
fryin' buns & baycon fry ups -
  glut shoot their turds into the depths
of the brown sea of ceramic shorelines -
the more i see of this,
the less i feel obliged to care -
  naturally occurring patterns of "expertease",
with that sort of first encounter:
i too, feel obliged: to **** on the natives
like a psychotic seagull with diarrhoea.

the idea of being a father,
is as much deserving the distraught
or / what if?!
as of the thought of attaining fatherhood
watching these gremlins
listen to the music i grew up with,
and nevering attaining the role
of father;
then again i basque in the endless loss
of responsibility;
which is always a non-celebratory
"analogy"
of having served the god of continuum,
which never made it to posit of the god:
(of) stand-still;

nonetheless, it's nice to have experienced
the shittiness of youtube,
and not have moaned about the censorship
of what videos are on offer:
pretty much a load of *******...
    1st comment 1st answer and you
get shrek...
     shows you a lot about, this "freedom"
of speech that shtinks...
      oops... looks like this freedom,
is a freedom's worth of hell.
Ken Pepiton Mar 19
A moment's attention to an hour's raw worth.
This is the mind ****** experiment, last try...
back and forth until it breaks,
touch the edge, feel the heat.

On knowing, first taste, it is believed,
mankind's first mother made all mankind,
all from first mother
on to logically, eventually,
us;
You and me,
as we slipt the Matrix and uttered
the first breath wail that clicks the post womb life.

First thought that death ought be feared
has not yet been given the beguilement needed,
to make a slave to the mission revealed by truth's
spirit form, wind form, mind form, time formed point.

Knowledge, forbid my ignorance, but should one,
such as I, not die before my **** hair thins,
to lay bare the scalp that covers holy access
through the window in the top of the skull;

well, then, a certain respect is due me, a love, proof
that my reasonings were honed sharp enough,
early enough to form hooks to hang strands
of fullered fibers of gnosis from.

Prepared stitching thread, twirled intwining line
of reason, plumb weighted to hang straight,

perpindicular, swinging when to when, then
to now, to day from night, to ready after letters
are fitted to let us take thought, while attempting

contemplative temporary causal agency,
mediating meditation's worth versus daydreaming.

--------------
Standard transmission, clutched, loosed,
engaged to catch a spark and start the process

rolling presently from past instances of learning.

Motivational motors of minding one's busyness,
catch a spark mid sequence, in a valved chamber

whooshing to push to shove to pull, and push
to displace and **** and shove to push and roll,

extending any individual's reach, confining
one's attention to inner reasonings, efforting
to steer the convenience compelling consciousness,

paid attention to terminii in reality set by science,
acknowledged used to increase the mobility of our kind,
mind you, promotion demands hands and eyes,
coordinating coy and ardent wills worth observation,
as will to be useful as  arms and necks and nerves
and muscles and ligaments to tie bone frames,
to controls allowing fingers to steer,
as tongues do, as rudders do,

as my will being done may do,
we imagine as children watching adults work wishing.



---------
the efforting, effectual, fervent umph
applied to being useful on the whole,

the efforting made good by limitation
on liberty, free-state of matter, under
gravity and velocity, bound and determined,

to obey the binding force realized in thought,
leveraging aging winding springs force holds,
cogs to stop grinding gears, catchments,
mind hooks with torque converting aspiration

grasping reasons to resist inertial entropic
good enough reasons to sit still and wait.

------

guaged goodness, measured mind width
comprehended, held with thumb and fingers,
in our combined ready writer mind, manipulated

muscle memorial cause confirming, progress
toward our common, shared joy strength

winging lift up from least useful of creatures,
unselfsustainable --nidicolous, nest bound,
bald baby birds, or pre-birds, evolving
into functional forms for use in life
as we, the best form
of life we have conceived.
-----------

We have, behavioral autonomy, only
to the degree, the measured
parental investment, we need to have
and keep hold of having grasped, as
behavior becoming to beings of this kind.

Word smiths, mind adjustment experts,
fed from stacks in libraries so vast, that

now, we know, no mortal mind can hold
half of all we have experimentally proven
good for any word using cluster of us to have

to hold and use to make might be rights.

May might used right take thought, aye, may
be the will to have right use honed to one point,

new known pastless place, farthest edge
of ever after all we think or ask has proven,

patient stasis, waiting is, suffer it to be so now.

Some times and one times,
revisiting the process, producing me
and you, the processors of our realif-ications.

If as a condition,
in an ifery state, sticking to any matter realized;
we think as if one of us thought first, in time passing

now, from then, in your mind, my mind leaves reproof,
constructed to prevent the falling back into doubt,

two heads, four minds, one wind to share
in time passing as when one now meets a then,
when all attention ever once paid this now, turns

this time into a part of ever after all,
as words speak to heart felt conscience use proven
good, clean, pure state of first interest bearing lent
ears, hearing entertaining causing agents taunting troof.

Prove me now, herewith. Have I not filled your lungs,
have I not granted science right use of knowledge needed

to keep your nidicolous naked soul inspired to continue,
sowing kindness, same mindness, ag, agrimental agreement

we think, we thunk,
we thank our lucky stars, time and chance,

taut twang strangs of our hearts and minds, "chu-hoi",

big hugs, evahboty be nice like G.I., open arms
sự đầu hàng

bring before us the machine gunner called Whykill… begin
judgment near the incident, sự kiện, 29-02-01968,

There we was, me and Frenchy and Culpepper or something,
I forget, and now, I'm dead and all you all have are artificial
memorex versions of things I said I was a witness to, as a liar,
-nothin' but a houn'dawgnosis
picking old scents of sense we made in conversations,
so far past the point of no return, that none on the other side,
can contain innocense, livery of consci, where in our uniformity,

protrudes through old time religious linking thinking, wonders if
we might imagine living on in other words, after all's been
said and done… Whykill's dead. Hohlenstein's dead, and I am not.

Can you hear me now? Earth, earth, can you hear me now?
I hear your brother's blood crying out,
what now, this
now,
you know,
all those idle questions, you know? Did you
feel me lie and tell me no, no, man,
you can't do that.

And be not deceived. Single mind dominance, flat
left and correct, right, right, create an ifery wasery when,

then, let us form a means to use this ifery wasery when,
now, let us form
in time as realizable, vision, written plain,

set in new fangled fonts unicoded
common computable convertible
to bits in math-mental fundus corpus us,
beyond infinity through absurdity to us
becoming these thinkable thoughts,
living words all googly translated on demand,
rethinkable, as entertaining shapers of our kinds
of minds, keyed to constant news alerts, looking
for spots on the walls we pass along, hedged betting

this land is Nature's God's land, and this pasture,
green and lush, this leisure time, as advertised,
mine, my last wish
combination running streams of hot and cold water,
memory foam souls in my Adidas, as I did, assume
the role, Balaam's ***, or donkey,
if your public ***** word filter
hides ssscertain ifery essence
as sounds shuffled schitteringshits.
saint's accuser user rights assigned, runs
Phunky muse, ish bin, dasein, by das zeit, okeh
become alright already, done did done, done, indeed,
desired right to design, knowing already
the idea in the seed, was in
the virus first, and some say
long before long now,
in long then when nothing was a thought.
Knowledge was used to expose us all to living words.
Such as =
U can hold, as a mind let be formed
from mere wish it were
so easy
to fall in love, silly, blessedness
sensing mothering wombed men,
led astray with stories as wild as Theresa wannabes can conceive,
barren womb conceptions, dared define this penetralium,
esoteric guts of all sacred oxen processions, announcing
****** births reportedly
become motherless *******, and such
become outcasts, who often as not,
survive and thrive on wilderness.
Day and night, seedtime and harvest.
Learning from wind and sun and water and dirt and stone,
presoil granite, lime
from primordial sealife eons
on eons awaited, according to Devine wedoms
aspiring to some day become those cities of marble long ago
- replicate forming a marble pillar,
- from seaformed life forms turned to stone,
- in the kidneys of the world.

slow sea settle the white cliffs, pile
on pressure from megatons
of solid ice, firming fractious soft muds
at the bottom
of ancient land locked oceans,
frozen, squeezing solidified worths
weights of rainfall reacting first time
to climates constant changing
pulls from lucky stars and
guiding stars and
disintegrating
ancient's land marks, Casa Bonita,
those Bhuda reps
in the basalt, reminding
remember nothing is real,
blank slate, po' preserver of first impressions, lasting
lifetimes in words never given a reader's added weight, but

by a kind of more than once might wish
to ask, effectuality try
proofing insulation umph
opposing imposture syndrome,
with functional Dunning Krueger
inate cognative imbalence, valenced
within the pre pancreatic failure gut neurons bias…
burped bubble perception, whole self tuning
entire being concept, repenting ignorance begging
truth be known, make me unbelieve beloved lies,
other wise
make me
Art
Intuited, as a weform lifeform,
a we of three neuronal territories,
thinkers reading doer's reports from ports far afield, out there

where shapes of things that were some time ago,
can be translated into two dimensions fitting this window,
using these letters whose sense we all may use to think

translate me, the living word reminds the daydreaming monk,
consider really the stars, for number, now, and take that,
knowledge, a ledge on an oblique inleaning facet of us,

and walk along it not looking down
on or as, may be
the we form of one ready
to be reading ready we state,
in a punctuated equilibrium *** *** ***
Drums
Timpanis, Phrigian rhythms boom boom booming,
Zildjians , krashing and rolling into boingingnodes, domes
of dones, tells holding long forgotten legends for a time.

Nineveh, the repentant city, eh,
to the level
of its labor class things, fasted an acceptable fast,
miracle of miracles, the city did not fall, the miracle
of Jonah was that the city changed behavior
to such a degree that the God who had used Jonah,
made him a story in himself, used to glorify truth,
and someday make gourd growers
proud to be shapers if Meerschaum puff clouds,
made him a creature with no comprehension of mercy,
to use him in a great sorting out testing of spirits,
in the great game of the being edge overlapping gains
taken as granted grace, readers rule non readers,
see the images on the wall, hear the actors in the back,

break a leg, bad luck magic insiders hold true good,
encouragement to fret nothing, as a dancer does,
when listing with the breeze through new chance,

on the page, a pause,
a breather taking lax laze lize guessing others wise,

we suspect ourselves of hubris, as if the other wise
reason for the functional faith in goodness is done,

sneezing phase is past, if you've read this far, by now

you are infected, and as you know, knowing too much
can **** a mortal bent to believe an institutionalized PR
Q-code/ begging oppositional support,
for the dam whence the boy pulled his finger and stepped

back to be blown downstream in time to let the last salmon
spawn and bring worth back to the rain always falling,
mainly on the plain,

Habakkuk habit, artistic intuition patterns of stroke, for luck,
let role in lines intending to hold the slightest smile,
thinking I know, this is not the same vale,
this is not the same current, nor same opinion worth a look,
streaming, not rowing, life
at the moment
is a day taken
for daydreaming equivalent
to a koan ridden
to its vanishing point
on the horizontal insistence
of our mutual peculiar leanings off center,

in a phi mark pattern pearling things think through,
doing words a proper spin,
to hit the nail on the head,
pop.
Stop/ now. Taste the pudding,
is there proof now from then?
D'he, ahe he he - didja ever have the ware withal
to make up
your own mind?

-------------
Yes, walk away, daydreaming boy,
location and possession of means,
for deciphering Emperical runes,
put into my craft and trade in
Calabash pipes, seen, but unseen
gourds employed as smoked ****
and fine tobacco investigatory oral
fixations prominent during the nicotine
DNA adaptation,
{took five generations}
from popular pastime
of blowing smoke, after effects
took on global societal ruling lines
of taut strict reasons to keep smoking,
keep on, keepin' on, minding solo scriptura,

in smoke filled rooms whither whole new forms
for holding mental tyranny enough to wage war,
took shape to govern those who must fight for
the cost of power contained
in a concept with kings,
and us, or Gods and men…
opposed to, leaning against, acting
as scaffolding holding old dams destined
soon to break,
"and at that time thy people shall be delivered,
every one that shall be found written
in the book."

Johnstown flood, was a true historical news worthy event,
unlike the name of any person whose name is in a list
of souls departed from the frail shell of mortality,

ready or not.
Fret not, and naught, aye, no thing or thought
Christmas angel say aight, be not afraid of knowing,
good new things to know, whole old truths put to rest.

Here come Jubilee, one last time,
big time, big time revival of the truth conception

creator of the whole shebang.
Biggest to infinitile insignificance, in fancy other words.

But thou, O Daniel,
shut up the words, and seal the book,
to the time of the end:
many shall run to and fro,

Assisting intelligences shall seem as guides,
Michael models will seem like second comings.

in implodelusive spurts… as can be imagined
reviving old lies for new carnal mind tweaks.
Thanks for your patient investment, the cost of your attention ags me on.
Aurianna Aug 2020
When I am by myself
I just sit there
My eyes unfocused
Completely trapped in my mind
As I feel my chest sink
And my heart breaking
I realize

I am alone
The three words echo
Louder in my head
Than a broken glass
In an empty auditorium
I have waited
For calls that never came
Love,
That was never given back

I believed
I could love other people
So much that I could one day
Eventually
Love me too
But when everyone you love leaves
Apart of you, leaves you
too

Even if they come back
I continue to greet them
with open arms
But never forgetting
And Always reminded, Every time
No matter how hard I love
How much I give
That I am easy to let go

People see me whole
But every time
I look in the mirror
All I see, is everything that’s missing
I fill my holes with lies
And short term happiness

It’s easy to not notice
What’s missing beneath the surface
If all I choose to show
Is my smile
But not the pain behind it
The twinkle in my eye often
Confused for happiness

I avoid superficial conversation
But lack the words
To say what I feel deep inside
I am mute to expressing my pain
Sober,
I drown myself in people
To silence my own mind

Until once again
I find myself alone
Unable to hold back the tears
Of how much
I cannot stand
To be left by myself
With my own thoughts

I don’t have trust issues
I have abandonment issues
For I consistently convince myself
That everyone I love will leave me
Like they have
So many times before

And honestly I understand
To look at myself
From someone else’s shoes
With an insiders perspective
And given the choice
To leave me...
I probably would too
I am empty with nothing left to give because I don’t know how to give to myself
wordvango Dec 2017
thus far two guilty pleas
two Trump insiders on house arrest
too many ******* lies too much Republican *******
it's coming down Donald
and though you were not a true
American, I question the birthright of every
alt-right bible thumping
prejudiced mother -******* white dude
who took my nation, stick a pin in your bubble
you are done prejudice is gonna be over, thank you Donald
for how this is gonna work out!
Ken Pepiton Apr 2021
Signals from,
the inside, see, we,
may see those now, we
may wish we could not or
wish we knew the harm,
in knowing good and evil at
this
level of the myelination of the whole,

enchilada,
absolutely, PBS F'EVER, STREAM IT ALL

fund
funding
fundamentals, ah,
it's a be yo to the full thing, be the jew
at the table, boyo,
who thinks I think you are italian.
*** upside my head,

I said, I know what this is, that is the
missed re lease…

secret documents, in 2021, those exist
in paper based and ritual/music based
funda-mentalism
tolerant
encorporation of various tasks and taskers,
givers and takers, ******* and wipers then scoopers,

family cultures re-emerge from these huge, old piles
of petrified bullshat stories that turned into this,

as anticipated, says the mercenary, aware of the time
as expected, says the visionary aware of the seed
as needed, says the broken everything

fundamentally, words fix leaks in reality.
Nothing gets in,
nothing is never anything in here, these lines, this opera.

Oh, lord yes, that fat lady does sing.
Here, she sing
like them birds when the helicopters fly to Yuma,

so the few, proud brave volunteers to take the oath,
that is repeated ever after. Semper fi.
They can learn to fly in deserts, just like those ones,
where them warring spirits is loosed in them stupid boys.

It is, yes, ******-right, war, is good for nothing. Is the lesson,
if you finished the course.
that is the lesson.
of course… deep
re-morse ..--. - .- FTA - hey, I remembered something qcqcqc

-------------------------------
the curtain drops, like in real life.
Boom.
where there was no wall, there is no window,
no opening see, see me

blinking as the houselights flicker, if this were
steampunkset,
no, high school auditorium
our miss brooks set ourmissbruksit, big smile,
on TV
oh, that kid,
that kid that loved Our Miss Brooks, on TV, he
trained Rambo in the movies, that's one badass archetype.

'sing it now, I'm so proud
to be allowed to disavow my allegiance to the flag…

That I make insiders see my tablecloth, where wine
and all the de-sacredizing fluids, bacon fat and ***** of pigs,
shall have flowed, by now you know,
-- you saw that very table cloth, clean, on Jeffy Epstein's table,
-- you did not take the bait that Pinker's joker let him swallow,
sorry smart guy, you and Krause, jeffy scored on you dudes
made you stink.

you can just see it, the evilist thing you can ever imagine,
the desecration of
the star spangled banner, re
PRESENT, HARMS!

------------ zoomzoomzoom cameras in every window
lookin through the curtain

guaging our re
action, give it spin… this almost pure reaction to
Eric Weinstein 2 and 11, safe bets,

but, you gotta know this one guy I knew, who never knew
he knew a jew, and he lived next door to mister levy.

This guy believed jews were white.
I like that guy, he comes by, we talk, he knows
about the book
and how he is in it as himself
and he's ikeh with that.
-------
Yeah, I never had the time to learn anything,
until I found one day, I found one day, I did have time

for everything.

it was a theory, as the discoverer's disciples declare,
an absolute
aha, the sound of the first positive thing that ever mattered,
and a negative one that mattered too at that
ping nada

not exaspiration, not inspiration

nada never was so none of this, save this is
so something else
after the initial

matter anti matter manifests from never was

phtt phtt phit wait
ah, time to feel the wisdom take beauty to prove the point,
nothing to fear,
once you know

happiness you can joyfully live with 24/7

that is the target, not nothing.
A nother actual had m'druthers day

— The End —