Since a wedding is said to be the most important day of a woman's life, some brides-to-be are prepared to bring out whatever it takes to ensure that their big day is nothing short of spectacular.

A new documentary from the UK titled 'Now How The Rich Get Hitched', a provides a glimpse into some of the world's most lavish weddings.

The programme follows the glamorous goings-on at Knightsbridge bespoke wedding boutique Caroline Castigliano, where, for most customers, money is no object.

According to Daily Mail, bridal couture queen Caroline, who lives in Surrey, has been creating breathtaking intricate gowns for 24 years, cashing in on the £10 billion global bridal market.

But while the average UK bride is said to spend around £1,000 on her dress, Caroline revealed that one client, a Saudi Arabian bride-to-be is spending £40,000 on her dream gown - the same price as the Duchess of Cambridge's Alexander McQueen dress.

Despite the eye-watering prices, the 55-year-old designer claims that for most women this is one of the most important things they will ever buy.

She said: 'They buy into the overall power of the dress. I really truly believe that since they were very young they have dreamt of this day.'

Caroline's clientele aren't just drawn from the global elite, however. One of her clients, Jordan, 23, is a hotel heiress from Durham who has spent the past year travelling 300 miles with her family for fittings for her £9,000 dress.

Jordan's gown is made from one of the most expensive silks in the world, which costs hundreds of pounds a metre.

Jordan said: 'For a girl the dress is what everyone looks for. People would rather spend more money on the dress and look perfect on the day.'

Her mother Helen, who is helping to pick up the bill, added: 'I think once you see your daughter in something so beautiful and she's so happy you do stretch that extra mile.'

At around £9,000 Jordan's dress is almost half the average budget for UK weddings, which now comes in at an astonishing £21,000, but the day itself will set her family back far more than that.

The no-expenses-spared bash is being held at one of her family's hotels and costs include the £7,000 on importing 6,000 flowers from Holland, the hire of a 20-piece brass band and a Victorian carousel to entertain guests.

Gissa, 29, an Iranian socialite, who is planning a lavish ceremony in Turkey, journeyed to Caroline's boutique just to try on veils to go with her bespoke gown, which is embroidered with 200,000 sequins and 50,000 beads - and was one of the most expensive dresses in the shop.

The bride-to-be explained that her fiance was very amenable when it came to splashing out on her dress.

He said "I know this is the most important dress that a woman is going to wear in their lifetime so if you really like it and you love it, we'll get it."'

However, some brides look further afield for their dream wedding location and one of the boutique's clients, Katie, 29, was planning her ceremony in Southern Spain.

Katie admitted that she had fine-tuned every element of her wedding right down to her proposal.

She said: 'I'm a bit of a control freak, I think I emailed [my fiance] a picture of the ring after about three weeks of dating, so subtlety isn't my finest point but he's done really well.'

Katie visited Caroline for a bespoke wedding dress costing between five and six thousand pounds that has taken five seamstresses 200 hours of sewing and 250,000 beads to complete.

Another of Caroline's client, Kashmir, revealed that she took two years off work to get married and her husband is now determined to prolong the wedding celebrations with lavish gifts.

She and her husband also paid £75,000 to commission a portrait of Kashmir sitting in a chair in her strapless lace Caroline Castigliano dress, which was then unveiled at a party in the designer's boutique.

However, as any prospective bride will know a dress does not a wedding make and any ambitious bride-to-be will enlist the help of a wedding planner, with none more knowledgeable than luxury wedding planner Bruce Russell.

Bruce caters for the most ostentatious and demanding of weddings. He said: 'If it's physically possible, we'll make it happen - it might come at a cost.

'If you've got the money and you've got the budget to spend and you want to spend a million pounds why not spend it on a wedding it is the most magical day?'

Bruce's finely tuned expertise and impeccable taste come at a cost and he revealed on the show that he takes around 20 per cent of the wedding budget as commission, which rewards him with a £30,000 pay cheque for a £150,000 wedding.

The show followed him as he took one of Caroline's clients, Erina, on a tour of London's famous luxury five-star hotel, The Savoy, as a possible venue for her dream day.

Hosting 350 guests would set her back at least £70,000 and to stay in the Royal Suite, a further £10,000 a night - although it does come with its own butler.

But the documentary revealed that for women who want to up the 'wow' factor on their big day - and have the budget - couture jeweller Andrew Prince is the man to call.

But Andrew insisted that elegance is often confused with showiness: 'Glamour has changed. It became, at one point, very shiny and that's really not glamorous that's flashy. I like opulence.'

Andrew's creations may be an indulgence but for him there is no better way to spend your money.

He said: 'It's a celebration. We can be really sort of smug and factual about it, and say "oh no one should spend the money on something more practical", but what's more fun than just having a wonderful day?'

Many couples will argue that such extravagance is a waste of money and resources for just one day, however Caroline says that these are memories to last a lifetime.

She said: 'The most important people in your life have come to attend this day. It all comes down to the same thing, it's what you want to spend money on and what matters to you and how much money you have, it's all relative.'

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide

And so the foolish jeweller played
With rocks, minerals
Dirt that made
Precious gems
Time forged:

For ears to listen
For fingers to feel
For necks to hang above our hearts

For engaging a promise
For a gift
Or memory

Cut, processed
And boxed for a fee

True gems
Come from within
A soul mined deeply
A journey begins

"Old Man Rubenstein",

that's the name they knew him by

He'd worked the shop for fifty years

His friends just called him Cy

Each day he'd enter from the back

For at the front door slept

Someone trying to survive the cold

Inside the store Cy swept

The store had been a fixture

On the street for ninety years

Five Generations of Rubensteins

Had seen the smiles and tears

Of young men getting married

Picking rings out for their brides

And in many cases watching them

As they tried them on inside

The street had changed in fifty years

In ninety, even more

But one thing about Rubensteins

Was their famous tiled floor

In the foyer, just inside the door

There were tiles black and white

They were laid out like a flower

It was really quite a sight

When his Great Great Grandpa

Laid the tiles, it was done by J.C Hardin

To signify each customer

Was welcome "in his garden"

Times had changed since Cy came in

The street was not the same

A lot of stores had moved or closed

The malls all held the blame

With suburbs came progression

And with progression came bad news

Most small stores lost their customers

To chains with modern views

But Rubensteins stayed on the street

Never changing one small bit

They had been right here for ninety years

And this is where they'd sit

The front, I mentioned earlier

Each night became a bed

For someone living on the streets

A place to lay their head

Cy would leave a pillow

And a blanket by the door

It was always there next morning

Nicely folded like before

Other storefronts opened up

At nine...right sharp each day

But, Cy would leave the door shut

Letting his sleeping beauty lay

There wasn't lots of people

Who would shop in Cy's old store

With the way the neighborhood had died

No one came round here no more

With pawn shops open down the road

And two just up the block

The fact that people went to them

To Cy, was not a shock

He really ran the business

To keep himself alive

For he knew that if he closed it

He was sure he'd not survive

His life was wrapped up in the store

Each decade on a shelf

He was quite the story teller

And of stories...he'd a wealth

He sold a ring once to the Mayor

For his engagement years ago

They were still together nowadays

That was forty years or so

Harry Cooper bought his wifes rings

And his son had done as well

He'd bought a special pendant

When he lost his son in Hell

He'd go down to Giannis

And buy his lunch most days

He was never in a hurry

And most times he'd stay and gaze

He'd stare out the front windows

To a time so long before

Then he'd head back to the jewellers

And he'd still use the back door

He thought of times way in the past

When Christmas windows glowed

With displays of rings and Christmas lights

Lit up the whole **** road

But now, the storefront windows

Were protected by strong bars

There were hardly any customers

And even fewer cars

He remembered when a shopping trip

Meant dressing up to shop

But nowadays, a pair of jeans

And a t-shirt as a top

He'd sit inside the storefront

Until about six everyday

Then he'd put out a clean bedroll

And he'd quietly slip away

He'd show up every morning

Through the back door every time

He'd check on his front doorway

And he'd hum a little rhyme

"If friendship is a flower

'And a garden grows in time

I'm glad I have a garden

And you've spent some time in mine"

He'd make sure when he opened

That he'd turn on every light

Then he'd go out side the front door

And sweep away the night..

Bottom feeders flourish

When the economy's a bust

When bad times are the norm

And good times turn to dust

When neighborhoods go south it's sad

But a sign of their demise

Is when a bunch of pawn shops open up

Before your very eyes

When stores close down or move on out

After years in the same place

Their memory is a radar blip

They leave without a trace

But as fast as they lock up their doors

Another shop moves in

It's the local pawn shop dealer

He's a shark without a fin

Like dollar stores and boarded doors

The pawn shop shows the way

That business has moved on out

Or closed or moved away

They prey on peoples hardship

They broker deals without a care

They don't need to know your history

They just know that you're there

The street has three new pawn shops

Palaces of buy back stuff

It's bad when there is one around

But, three...well that's enough

One opened by the Jeweller

Two doors down across the street

Now he's buying up possessions

Of everyone he meets

Folks who purchased jewellery

From Old Cy at his old store

For each twenty of it's value

The pawn shop gives you four

Cy can't afford to buy back

He doesn't have much money left

And besides his store insurance

Doesn't cover much for theft

The people at the Pawn shops

Took jobs and live in town

They trained two counties over

They succeed when times are down

It's a sign of the recession

Downtown dies and fades away

And then the bottom feeders surface

Their the ones who're gonna stay

You can look in the shop windows

Know who bought what and from where

You know the candlesticks were bought at Cy's

And you know who bought them there

The guitar that hangs beside them

That was pawned by Emma Rose

She needed money for the bills

When the fresh fish plant had closed

There's a snapshot of the township

Sitting inside on their walls

They pawn shop is successful

While the economy still falls

You can see a piece and start to cry

For you know just why it's there

There's no one here to help them

There's no jobs and it's not fair

They open up each morning

While the nights dregs still sleep outside

They have done two hours business

Before lights on at Cy's

It's a sad and constant story

Of just what a town's become

But when asked if they've been in there

The inhabitants go "mumb"

They never seem to close up

The town's never make it back

While most places lose money

Pawn shops make it by the sack

The bluesman has some stuff there

The bartender has some too

Even though her bar's still going

She did what she had to do

The street, it is it's own world

Jewelly shops, banks and bars

But inside the local pawn shops

Are hidden all the scars.

Le Joaillier des Mots

Il était joaillier des mots,
sans que l’on ne sût pourquoi
peut être cherchait il le soleil
qui trop souvent nous est masqué,
et nous cache le sens profond
de la beauté de notre vie.
Il était homme du commun,
pas très brillant dans les affaires,
car souvent son Esprit volait,
**** des chiffres et de l’âpre lutte
que l’Homme se mène à lui-même.
C’était un luthier sans harpe.
Il voyait du rêve partout,
et voulait les fermer dans les mots.
qui, s’égrenaient comme des perles
et s’écoulaient comme des notes,
la musique était Poésie
la poésie se faisait musique.
Il était joaillier des mots,
à l’heure ou tous sont morts de peur
et courent comme gibier traqué
plutôt que de goûter la vie.
Il n’avait pas peur de manquer,
moins encore de posséder,
son seul souci était de vivre.
Il n’aimait guère la violence,
qui endeuille la vie des êtres
n’avait aucun impératif
qui rend esclave des idées,
mais son sourire était de miel,
et son rire était cristallin.
L’amitié était sa boussole,
et l’humain son diamant secret.
Jamais il n’injuriait la vie
et il jouait avec les mots
comme un peintre avec son pinceau
s’efforce d’embellir la vie.

Paul d’Aubin (Paul Arrighi)
à Toulouse en France.

I have one wrist shackled to my watch strap
dragging me to obey the sweeping hands of another
like a traffic cop ordering hours of peaks to start and stop
relentlessly spilling time from a once brimming cup
splish splash out into oceans of flashy imaginings
I need the delicate precision of a jeweller's screwdriver kit
to make sense of the shared purpose of the springs
pushing the wheels to wear green amber red carats
tiny diamonds that aren't meant to sparkle
but sit immovable within sealed circles waiting
in partnership
inexorably waiting
patiently forever for the sun to release its shackle
the chain dripping a ting a ting
from the earth into a new star
winding up the decayed orbiting
to trap the same diamonds on a second
hand swept somewhere afar
and with a roll ex-galaxies expired
their guest president bracelet
their gasped jewelled weight
in loving eyes of liquid gold
not ordering us two
to be a slave to anything
now time shone
free could not be sold
apart ever again

Super Sound Waves


They ask what can Lloyd do
What can Lloyd what can Lloyd do
I'm tell I'm tell I tell you
I'mma tell you imma tell you
This is the truth this is the truth

So y'all try shove out
Disregard me
You can't unarm me
You and what army
Can't handle ,y tsunami
My tsunami

These are my waves my super sound wave
My super sound waves my super sound waves
My super sound wave
Sound wave

They ask what can Lloyd do
What can Lloyd what can Lloyd do
I'm tell I'm tell I tell you
I'mma tell you imma tell you
This is the truth this is the truth

Don't count me out
Miscounted
forgot about him but

These are my waves my super sound wave
My super sound waves my super sound waves
My super sound wave
Sound wave

Don't wave at me ,we ain't even on the same boat
How you waste money on clothes , when barely stay afloat
I'll pepper your boy and leave him in the ocean covered in salt
You say you're broke , I'm glad that's your fault
Have had enough these questions , and people laughing at me
Well it's time a lesson , please wait and sea
Once I  have the buzz , all the honeys will claim to be
In deep everlasting love , but they catch  the L and I say k g
I have my heart on my sleeve , with the soul on my feet
So by cutting of my legs  is the only time I'll see defeat
The only time I'll see my feat
I'll **** your dawg , then support PETA , have you ***** on a leash
They didn't think I go ignorant , well are your surprised
They had Unresonable doubt , and blueprinted my demise
If the demons are all around , my angels are in the sky
Armed like Dante with just sound , the Devils may cry
Tears of happiness as they know  I can't be stopped
Khaled has they key but I'll brake these locks
They don't support the weird ones , they heard my knock
They just shunned me as the alien , so I'm attacking the block
Waves are  just into tsunami tides , embracing your ears
Waiting for big men run and hide , as I'm the one they should fear
You don't sound like you're British , Martain are weird
If you won't let me drive , I destroy your roads , I can steer
I make a path for all the weird ones like me
Who grew up on Kanye ,  Rocky & Cudi
Not Skepta or Stormzy
That's wasn't a diss , both super talented but not for me
I could never at 140 to the beat
If there's a issue with that , roll thafe and war me
They encourage me to positive , well tell me how
Every time speak the truth they want to **** the cow
They want to go to jeweller with 25 down , i go with 2500 wow
Harvesting through my line hidden means hard to plough
I take care of the lyrics like how you'll water a crop
Your bars are as careless as nines djs mixtape drops
I'll name drop who I ******* want , until my hip don't hop
No I don't think I'm rapper, I actually care about sonics  
I control sound waves,  all these mcs think I've lost it
Maybe I have , **** can you find my mind
Ever since I've lost it I've found what's inside so



They ask what can Lloyd do
What can Lloyd what can Lloyd do
I'm tell I'm tell I tell you
I'mma tell you imma tell you
This is the truth this is the truth


These are my waves my super sound wave
My super sound waves my super sound waves
My super sound wave
Sound wave

After the well-know,
charismatic,
extremely photogenic,
wonderfully articulate,
jeweller-turned-gardener,
your mother dotes on,
this cat is named.
 
He is none of the above
I should say
but I like him.
He reminds me of my late cat
Poppy, a more gauche pusscat
you’d be hard to find.
 
Poppy was a farm cat
of uncertain progeny.
Monty is certainly better bred
but (as we say in West Yorkshire)
‘daft as a brush’.
 
And now for the T.S.Eliot bit . . .
(in the style of
​Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats)
 
Curled up upon the green chair
With his head against his paws
You can see his body breathing
Up and down
 
He’s been busy all day long
Doing absolutely nothing
Save a bit of this a bit of that
And washing clean his paws.
 
Life’s so hard
For such a busy cat,
When you’re asleep in bed
He’s about and out
 
Networking the side streets
Monty likes to know the scene.
These cats could teach us all
A thing or two.
 
In the morning he may be dozy
But you should see him after dark
Sharp and bright and really
On his toes.

Down through the ancient Strand
The spirit of October, mild and boon
And sauntering, takes his way
This golden end of afternoon,
As though the corn stood yellow in all the land,
And the ripe apples dropped to the harvest-moon.

Lo! the round sun, half-down the western *****--
Seen as along an unglazed telescope--
Lingers and lolls, loth to be done with day:
Gifting the long, lean, lanky street
And its abounding confluences of being
With aspects generous and bland;
Making a thousand harnesses to shine
As with new ore from some enchanted mine,
And every horse's coat so full of sheen
He looks new-tailored, and every 'bus feels clean,
And never a hansom but is worth the feeing;
And every jeweller within the pale
Offers a real Arabian Night for sale;
And even the roar
Of the strong streams of toil, that pause and pour
Eastward and westward, sounds suffused--
Seems as it were bemused
And blurred, and like the speech
Of lazy seas on a lotus-haunted beach--
With this enchanted lustrousness,
This mellow magic, that (as a man's caress
Brings back to some faded face, beloved before,
A heavenly shadow of the grace it wore
Ere the poor eyes were minded to beseech)
Old things transfigures, and you hail and bless
Their looks of long-lapsed loveliness once more:
Till Clement's, angular and cold and staid,
Gleams forth in glamour's very stuffs arrayed;
And Bride's, her aery, unsubstantial charm
Through flight on flight of springing, soaring stone
Grown flushed and warm,
Laughs into life full-mooded and fresh-blown;
And the high majesty of Paul's
Uplifts a voice of living light, and calls--
Calls to his millions to behold and see
How goodly this his London Town can be!

For earth and sky and air
Are golden everywhere,
And golden with a gold so suave and fine
The looking on it lifts the heart like wine.
Trafalgar Square
(The fountains volleying golden glaze)
Shines like an angel-market.  High aloft
Over his couchant Lions, in a haze
Shimmering and bland and soft,
A dust of chrysoprase,
Our Sailor takes the golden gaze
Of the saluting sun, and flames superb,
As once he flamed it on his ocean round.
The dingy dreariness of the picture-place,
Turned very nearly bright,
Takes on a luminous transiency of grace,
And shows no more a scandal to the ground.
The very blind man pottering on the kerb,
Among the posies and the ostrich feathers
And the rude voices touched with all the weathers
Of the long, varying year,
Shares in the universal alms of light.
The windows, with their fleeting, flickering fires,
The height and spread of frontage shining sheer,
The quiring signs, the rejoicing roofs and spires--
'Tis El Dorado--El Dorado plain,
The Golden City!  And when a girl goes by,
Look! as she turns her glancing head,
A call of gold is floated from her ear!
Golden, all golden!  In a golden glory,
Long-lapsing down a golden coasted sky,
The day, not dies but, seems
Dispersed in wafts and drifts of gold, and shed
Upon a past of golden song and story
And memories of gold and golden dreams.

Gargling on the film of rain smatter
For what?
Into that blue, carve a square nest
That I can pour bar its clutter
Into my wrist
All but
Ruby blessed

Harrowed koi speckled and spatter
The semi colons
My indecisive pause or full stop
Leaves my head underwater
And the pop
Stolen
To offward hop

Glassy bottles, tubes of black
Know me well
A who that breathes this ending call
Can look and reaching back
From the fall
See fell
The absent bawl

Vanity violet and lied
Face me
The name of bunching petals different
As irises inside their wet ink hide
Back reflect
Come free
What I not expect

Matted layers compact swung panels
Either way
Open, to their cast of prisoned souls
Closed, to continue what may well
Unfold
A lily bay
Or ferric shoal

Jeweller for tonight has set
I am a bearer
Through murky depths resend no fact
And airless suspend the single bracelet
A pact
Sealed to wear
When I am lost in their black

once the jeweller, now me.

spend the night thinking.

been mending a necklace,
pearls through the night.
some months now, gradually
threading.

thread so thin, i cannot see.

it was done, when
some beads slipped off.

i shall start again.

sbm.

Samantha worked in the Take-away
Right next to the Coalpit Mine,
With a cheery smile for everyone
Til the day that her eyes went blind.
One minute she served up fish and fries
Then her world went eerie and dark,
‘Has the sun gone suddenly down,’ she said,
‘Behind the trees in the park?’

They called me back from my p.m. shift
For they knew that we two were close,
She’d dated some other miners too
But she’d gone with me the most.
‘You’d better get her on home,’ they said,
‘There’s something wrong with her eyes,’
She stared in a peculiar way
With a vacant look of surprise.

The doctor said there was nothing wrong,
Or nothing that he could see,
‘It must be something psychological,’
That’s what he said to me.
He flashed a light in each of her eyes
But she didn’t even wince,
I must admit, it troubled me less
Than events that happened since.

I said perhaps we should get engaged
Rather than take it slow,
I’d be her eyes and a steady guide
Wherever she’d need to go,
She smiled that wonderful smile at me
And said, ‘You need to be sure,
You’re tying yourself to an invalid
Who can’t venture out the door.’

We bought the ring at a jeweller’s shop
Where she chose the ring by feel,
A tiny diamond, glittered and shone,
She asked if the stone was real.
We laughed as I guided her back home
And she clung on tight to my arm,
I swore that I would protect her then,
And stop her coming to harm.

A week went by, and I took my leave
From the dirt and dust of the mine,
We laughed and loved and said together
That things would work out fine,
But then I noticed a subtle change
In the way that the house was laid,
The rooms seemed somewhat bigger than ever
The architects had made.

The chairs and tables would move about
From one day to the next,
I asked Samantha what she had done
And she answered, ‘Nothing yet!’
She didn’t trip and she didn’t fall
As I did, the fault was mine,
I had two eyes but I couldn’t gauge
The depths of Samantha’s mind.

She said she had to rebuild her world,
Recall from her memory,
And if it wasn’t exactly right
It wouldn’t matter to me.
‘You have two eyes, you can navigate,
While I’m still trapped in the dark,
I still remember that day of fate
When the sun blinked out in the park.’

We opened the door to venture out
And I blinked, and gave a grunt,
The supermarket was on the right
With everything back to front.
‘The mine was off in the east,’ I said,
‘But now it’s off to the west.’
Samantha shrugged, ‘Does it matter now?
You’ll see, it’s all for the best.’

She walked as if she had perfect sight,
While I just followed behind,
My head was spinning in horror at
Each different thing that we’d find.
And people stood, and stared in the street
As if in a total daze,
They turned and twisted and took it in
This mirror glimpse of their ways.

‘You have to set it to rights,’ I said,
‘You have to turn it around.
The people here will be going mad
At what you’ve done to their town!’
‘They’ll have to adjust,’ Samantha shrugged
As she went to step off the kerb,
Just as a double-decker bus
Came round the corner and swerved.

‘The road was suddenly back to front,’
The driver said, as he cried,
‘I had to get back over the line,’
He said, as Samantha died.
We live in a topsy-turvy world
In thrall to the power of mind,
When anything can that happen will…
(I hope I never go blind!)

David Lewis Paget

He wandered along old Codshill Street,
Quite late on that Christmas Eve,
And scanned the used haberdashery
Society ladies would leave,
The hats they’d worn, but only the once,
The boots with barely a scuff,
The poplin prints they hadn’t worn since,
A single dance was enough.

He stood outside in his working boots
The ones he wore at the mill,
He hadn’t had time to change himself
He should have been working still.
But in his pocket he clutched the pound
He’d saved for many a day,
He’d squirrelled each shilling away for months
Out of his meagre pay.

And all he could see was Mirabelle,
Who lodged at his heart and eye,
She worked upstairs in the counting room
Above where the shuttles fly,
And he would glimpse her once in a while
Pottering to and fro,
Dressed in a worn and paltry frock
Where the stitching was letting go.

He’d wait outside, and follow her home
To see she was safe and sound,
The rogues that he’d meet in Codshill Street
Would keep their eyes on the ground.
While she was aware of his loving gaze
And sometimes gave him a smile,
Others were bold in their loving ways
And pressed their court for a while.

And so it was on this Christmas Eve
That a Squire had stood at her door,
With a string of pearls you wouldn’t believe
He’d bought in a jeweller’s store,
And she was flushed as she let him in,
So pleased to have such a gift,
For she was only a working girl
And his interest gave her a lift.

But there in the haberdashery
In a window, stood at the side,
Was standing a model, dressed entire
In a gown so fine, he’d cried.
He thought he could see his Mirabelle
In place of the mannequin,
In the gown of grey crushed velvet, so
In a moment then, went in.

‘You know that the gown is second-hand,’
The girl explained to his stare,
‘Here are a couple of tiny stains,
And there is a little tear.
But this, that once cost a hundred pounds
Is a bargain now for a cause,
If you can give me a single pound
This lovely gown can be yours.’

She placed the gown in a long flat box,
And tied a ribbon around,
Then he flew out to his Mirabelle
In hopes she still could be found.
He saw the pearls were around her neck
When she had opened the door,
But once she pulled out the gown, she checked,
And dropped the pearls on the floor.

Her kiss was sweet on that Christmas Eve,
Though he had showed her the stains,
The tears she shed on that gorgeous thread
He said, were like summer rains,
She had no time for the wealthy Squire,
She’d waited for him all along,
Her greatest gift was a second-hand gown
With the love that the gown came from.

David Lewis Paget

an icelandic papaver;
the jeweller's heart.
a froth of veins;
the body part.
a diamond hangs
like poplar fruit.
dew drop death;
the bitter root.

a tightened breath:
the morbid frost.
here they are
left to rot.
past winters freezing clutch:
sear the stem,
yet cold to the touch.

Shilla Shilla oh Shilla
Her name was like the world's tallest pillar
Her beauty shone like the brightest star
None in the neighbourhood didn't know her
She was are perfect description of a jewel by the most dexterous jeweller

We craved to be-friend her
Just to, once-in-a-day, say hi.
The rivalry was totally worth her,
If only she will spare you a few minutes of the time she has
For time is what she scarcely had
She was too engrossed in a fairy life of hers.

Suitors came and suitors went
But she was in no way going to wed
"Marry and enslave myself?" She once said
Every night club she went
Wherever there was hullabaloo, you'll find her there
Life was as fun as it could ever get

In the joy of her beauty she basked
In spite all advise she'd rather pass
She got gifts, those she did and didn't ask
Unaware how much time has passed
Nor how fast it still is passing

Now aged and old
Time has taken its toll
She now is alone and cold
Wishing someone will come by and say "please be my own"
Those rosy days are gone
"Oh had I known" is now her only song.

Shilla Shilla oh Shilla
Now sitting on a mat, in the sun she sees her past
Wondering how fast it came and passed.
Shilla Shilla oh Shilla
Now wishing she should've let one of the suitors marry her
May be now she would be having an old wrinkly sweetheart
One whom will love and cherish her.

Youthful beauty is always temporal
Like the sun, though it rises by dawn
It surely must fade at dusk.

I planted the creeper of love
And silently watered it with my tears
Now it has grown and overspread my dwelling

My beloved dwells in my heart all day
I have actually witnessed the abode of joy
I am mad with love
and no one understands the agony of the wounded.

When fire rages in the heart
Only the jeweller knows the value of the jewel
No one feels the fear of separation
The way I feel for it my beloved dusky one.

I want you to meet my mum

Oh no, not the mum
That means, I could be the one
There goes the fun
Time for a ring
That couple thing
Need a plan
Insanity is in the man
***, I’m slightly gay
It’s always been that way
I try to hide it
But it just won't go away

I know babe
That’s what I love about you
You’re feminine too

Man, what have I done
Where do I run
Okay, plan two
***, think of the kids
What would they think
Daddy wearing a dress
Their little faces
Such a mess

Don’t worry babe
Take my hand
Let me introduce you
This is my mum

My god, what a body
So fit
Where’s that jeweller
Book the church
I’ll marry her mum
And then some
I’m in love

Babe, don’t get carried away
Theres something I have to say
It’s about my mum

***, tell me all
Write it, ten feet on the wall
Watch me fall

Babe, my mum’s my dad
Aren't you glad
You being that way too
So understanding
It was like god sent you

Okay, i've kind of went numb
Something just registered
Call me dumb
But It seems to me
Or maybe I’m slow
Have I just joined a feckin freak show.

moving on from the last verse of girly looking

after girly, we stopped at the jeweller’s window.



the assistant, neat looked bore & very clean. the

rings were                  three thousands and more.



enough to take her        home and more.



“yes sir you may buy the ring, for a
thousand pounds, or choose to save
her life”

I am the roughest small diamond,
        Unset.
    Still loose amongst the shale;
Waiting for that skilled Jeweller
        To polish me,
                 To cut me,
                          To wrap me,
        in gold;
    And sell my soul,
To the hand that holds me,
        and moulds me,
For the rest of their life.

Night, the jeweller,
Got me quickly bedazzled;
With the depth and spread!

i don't remember being this nervous in a long time:
not that i should: well... i should be...
long gone are the days of Jack the Ripper
or for that matter Samuel Little...
                      take such lengths to enact revenge on
prostitutes? slim pickings... they're the one that
will get any man "laid":

let's face it, i'm not a Westerner, i have more Russian
and Oriental inclinations than any Westerner:
who were the last defenders of European paganism
i.e. of Lithuania? the Polacks were...
i have more akin to the Islamic world since
the Northern Crusades were staged near "my" peoples'
vicinity... if it wasn't the Lithuanians
it was the Prussians... funny: how the Prussians
became the dominant force in German politics
(after their forced conversion)...
    a little bit of history...
      
i'll be on the forefront of the complications of a rise
in living standards, sorry: cost of living standards...
i'll tell you when it becomes unbearable...
how will i know? well... if litre of whiskey goes
above £16 / £19... then life will become difficult:
i'll have to cut down: until that happens...
oh... and if she starts charging me more than £120
per hour... well i figured the dynamic of the brothel
a few months ago when i started earning decent
cash... rather than saving it up: incrementally...
that's why i work: to spend the money on prostitutes...
who else is going to keep the economy going?
you can't exactly keep the economic model going
solely on: whiskey, vinyl records... oh... socks that
need replacing... shoes that need replacing on the verge
of falling apart... trousers that need replacing:
chemical paraphernalia: shampoo etc.

   how many nail clippers do i need? for ****'s sake?!

summer is "officially": thank god for that!
the cold, kühl, die kälte: CHŁÓD!
it's in the air, come morning and come evening:
and all throughout the night... finally!
i missed it for almost forever: the almost eternal
night has finally lifted up her skirt and spread
her legs: next on the "menu": the frost...
MRÓZ! unlike English: other languages have
nouns that are of either masculine or feminine nature...
this "trend" can be found in English: but it's rare
and by rare i also invoke the verb: forced into
being attributed a masculine or a feminine tendency:
most nouns are gender-neutral: neuters....
the sun is a he, the moon is a she... the earth is a she...
nature: by definition is a she, i.e. mother...
maybe that's why there's this neo-Marxist "revolution"
taking place in the English speaking world...
"grammar revision": fanatical pronoun sects...
there's more to language than the veneer of shouting
down one's opposition...
i just can't wait for the frost:
the paparazzi glitter of flashing diamonds
on the pavement when the magnolias start blooming
in mid to late February...
i used to roam the streets at night looking for the earliest
signs of spring...
i think i'll pick up on my most favourite of pastimes...
walking, drinking into the vivid night...
alone: best alone...
footsteps as the echo of my thoughts...

but of course i'm nervous...
   i just spent £50 on lingerie at Anne Summers' yesterday...
i walked in cool as a cucumber (sorry,
cliché, unavoidable, sometimes)...
and started talking to this mouse of a girl: nerdy looking
thing... i said to her something along the lines:
she has your complexion...
olive skinned... Turkish... she could pull off Pakistani
or a higher caste of the Raj...
Spanish? eh... i like AQUAMARINE...
each time i asked her for directions she guided me:
what would you like?
come to think of it: if all she gets are transvestite perverts
that want to wear **** lingerie...
i must have been her first genuine customer in
a long while...
i just stopped caring...
               while we were trying to figure out the measurements
she sent me: 36B... i looked at 36B...
you know: i think she's exaggerating...
she's much smaller...
the 36 might be right but the B?
i was abstracting her breast in my hand...
no... not a B...
obviously still talking to the girl helping me out...
******? she showed me a pair: again i abstracted
me slapping that fine piece of ***... yeah...
seems about right... tights' suspender belt:
oh: very much necessary... colour tights? WHITE...
with that complexion black would ruin it:

which is why i never understood why Muslim
women never rebelled against Muslim men...
why... a black niqab? why a black niqab / hijab...
and why something so horrid as polyester and the likes?
why not white: and linen? breathable material?
**** it: wear your "pride of a religion that
was started with the birth of Isaac by Abraham's
concubine... running up and down two mountain
ranges"... or how the story goes...

once upon a time Islam was the envy of the world...
Averroes (ibn Rushd) & Avicenna (ibn Sina):
i actually own a copy of the latter's Book of Wisdom...
in it there's this pseudo sudoku schematic... fun read:
but i mean: Islam used to be the envy of the world:
now? with the decadent Saudis it's a ******* cesspit
of degenerate thinking: or rather: not thinking...
it's a bit like the story of Poland:
Poland never had a truly competent steward...
caretaker... not really: well: if you invent a *******
monarchial system based on: electoral monarchy:
sure, the noblemen elect the new king:
but! but... the king is a foreigner and not someone
of your own flesh and blood...
just like Big Brother Swede attacked Little Brother
Swede in the acts of the Deluge:
mix into the cocktail the Turks...
spice it up a little with some Russian paranoia
and then top it off with a cherry akin to
the Cossack rebellion: what nation will survive
a four-fold threat?!
mind you: the Hebrews might have played a sly
hand in undermining the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth:

yes yes, i know... on the Western World is allowed
to have a history: us Eastern paupers are without
any historical motive, or, ancestry...
but Western historiology is a husk of its former self...
self-deceptive: it has been allowed to pass into
the hands of people who know very little but
say: a bit too much...
in the department of historiology who else to read
up on if not Heidegger: the man was obsessed by it:
because historiology is not journalism...
journalism is a bad joke with poetry being
the worst joke: given the span of time...

tongue in cheek...

but not today! what the hell! i wish i could be a philosopher
through and through... but sometimes the most idiotic
"thing" catches up to you...
today.. seriously?!
i do know that having unprotected *** with
a *******... actually: ******* into her has consequences...
but... i don't remember anyone scratching my
phallus...
SUCCUBUS... i swear to god...
someone is ****** jealous that i bought this
******* lingerie... toned downed pink...
now i'll go to the brothel and try to explain to her:
yeah...

what? my cat done it? i know that i drink
the worth's of 3 men's capacity...
but that's why i write: so i don't black-out
and don't forget anything... which is why i drink
and write to begin with: i need to write something
truthful... i'm done with stupid lies
and inhibitions: the ugliest truths: come, to, the, fore!

like the last girl: because she was a girl back then:
she's still the same rich brat, girl she was back then...
the last time i bought **** lingerie for a girl:
she was, absolutely: un-fuckable...
body-wise? fine fine... but face? ****** dreads...
three piercings in her lips: all crusty and... ugh!
i'm lucky with this one, tonight...
i'm shaking with thrill, with delight...
i'm hot in the cold i'm feeling:
pseudo-Parkinson's disco dancing while i type...
ooh! yeah... now i'm feeling it...

never once used a dating app: i figured:
there must be a clarifying barrier between men
and women... a transactional barrier:
but hell... if the western world has such high standards
to eat an oyster or some: ****...
good luck...

i'm borrowing a concept from the Orientals:
well... "borrowing":
if it's not going to be the brothel then it's a quasi-
ラブホテル (rabu hoteru)...
it's ******* ridiculous:
you are only expected to get "laid" if you
have the sort of social standing as an old man...
no! no!
me, get a mortgage first? get a car?
what the hell happened to the pre-baby-boomer
fun-**** party?!
i'm going to have one myself, **** the older generation:
if they could desecrate their heritage:
they: clearly didn't give me much to work with!
Ginsberg drug induced poetic *******!
Ginsberg is no ******* Aldous Huxley!
me? i'm just going to brush this little bit of "interest"
then shower and then pamper myself
and then walk into the night like either
shadow or ghost and lay the lingerie on the altar
of her naked prettiness...
why? because: i can....
   and i will feel richer than any man who has to
swing round getting a piece of ***
for being short via the acquisition of a house on
a mortgage: why? BECAUSE, I CAN!
i am freed from the bondages of societal
unrealistic expectations! i just don't give a ****... i just ****...

it would be ridiculous otherwise:
just to get "laid"... i would have to, do what?
what's expected of me?! what's expected of me?
father ******* children or leftover children?
like ****... i'd have to own a car?!
in London? pointless: i have two bicycles...
put up with a mortgage?!
rent with a bunch of losers who would complain
should i bring a fancy one-night-err?
sure... i'm a "loser" still living with his parents:
but i'm the steward of the house:
i cook i clean... i pay for food and chemistry (shampoo)
but at least i'm not renting:
do you think my parents will be entrusted
to a care home of abuse?!
but i still need to ****! like i need to breathe and eat
and: finally! ****! stop it!
i shat further than i can see with all the juxtaposing
nerves at the prospect of seeing a woman
i love ******* in **** lingerie...

i'll just text her and tell her i'm coming with
her 17th birthday present...
she's no 17 year old: i think something clinical must
have happened to her at 17 when she discovered
she enjoyed ******* so much:
like i enjoy ******* so much...
i know why i enjoy ******* this much...

two pivotal events... well... three...
i'm a first generation immigrant to these shores:
hence, i still retain my mother tongue...
unlike those 2nd generation "desperados" with their
supposed "heritage": England failed them...
i can see it plain as day bound to the shadow
blinding the depths of night...

1. i started ******* early, of my own accord...
8... those stories of geniuses composing
symphonies so early: me? i was jerking off
too early... prematurely: long before i had the capacity
to ******* any *****...
so? well... the living arrangements where less than ideal...
mother, father, me... in one room for about 2 years...
a house filled with migrant men working
for their families back home: i was already familiar with
*******...
i was having a bath with a boy of the owner
of the house: a Jew and a ****** woman...
mother was ironing some shirts in the background...
an uncircumcised **** teaching a circumcised ****
the pleasures of *******...
i told him: you stroke it long enough:
you'll get this "funny feeling"...

2. playing Sonic the Hedgehog 2... on my SEGA...
looking back... seeing my father perform oral
*** on my mother: through her *******...

3. this one is a bit "traumatic"... we were on holiday
in Bourthmouth...
i remember him buying her a pink dress so she might
look like an English lady...
taking a photograph with the Red Arrows outside
of a jeweller's shop: showcasing wrist-watches...
i was wearing a green and yellow NIKE tracksuit...
we were sharing a single hotel room...
i went to sleep eating M & M's...
fell asleep, they went out...
i woke up in the middle of the night to the sound
of *******...
i was lying in the same bed as my father was *******
my mother...
after they finished i pretended to just wake up...
i called out to "mother dear"...
she turned around already hot from the sweat
of ******* and "cuddled" me back to sleep...

ergo?
why do i visit prostitutes?! well... d'uh!
i'm a ****-wit! i'm mash potatoes!
no wonder! my mother saw the potential in me
when she saw me teach another boy
oh so innocently how to *******: she decided:
better elevate this ****** up!
that's the whole point of my drinking and my writing!
i need to show man the ugliest of truths:
so there won't be any
"faking it": nothing human is alien unto man...
this should be the first lesson...
better this: this shamelessness than some cowering
inhibition spilling into a profound violence
(against the opposite ***)...
no no: THIS... first!
this nakedness, first!

you die by a quest of: curiosity?!
just asking: perhaps... you should have.

There once was a rare flower
A bloom that flourished in shade
Few could see its power
And that's how it might have stayed

For its planter derived pleasure
From floweret's love for obscurity
And as a golden treasure
Delighted in the bud's soft purity

but within the perennial's gene
there was a cancerous spot
a desire to be known as queen
to be recognised and not forgot

so there came a well-meaning person
who beheld the bloom's beauty
and opened it up to light and sun
thinking he was doing his duty

he wished all to benefit from its sweetness
all be blest by its aroma
for he'd not appreciated its discreetness
true secret of its persona

for the secret of its pulchritude
of its grace and its allure
was its modesty in its attitude
which kept it chaste and good and pure

and so the flower that once was
a bloom of rarefied scent
withered because of one faux-pas
and its own malcontent.

many a winter and summer passed
since the flower had stopped blooming
as by-and-by it became overcast
other foliage, it subsuming

but slowly within the darkness again
it awakened and started thriving
this time it'd learnt to contain
detrimental want and driving

to let its nature bloom 'n flourish
while none knew its charm 'n grace
and its concealment would it nourish
in its small secluded place

for there are souls destined 'n made
to act as king or queen or ruler
whilst others must act within the shade
'n thus know their loving Jeweller

As car must have a steering wheel
an axle, brakes and engine
as a person has a heart and a heel
a brain, veins and tendon

so the world of souls contains
the hidden and the visible
and this world has many planes
of Unity indivisible

each soul is perfect and complete,
with radiance incomparable
and no soul need with other compete
for its uniqueness irreplaceable.

The Teeth
I sit under a skylight the sun is benign
this February day and its Friday come to think of it.
It was not a good night; sleep was interrupted by
this sense of being a failure, although I had not set out
to win the world's admiration, but I know of a lad
that had plans he ended up peeling potatoes, and
which can be an art in itself not peeling to deep.
It is my wife’s birthday, and we are going out for lunch,
Then we are going to the jeweller to change
The gift I gave her to something more to her liking,
I dislike when she does this, but it is her birthday and
as it is a said her only day to shine; of course, for me, she shines
Every day when she has taken the teeth out of the water
solution and put them into her mouth.

ACT ONE

That night a savage tempest raged
the lightning flashed, the thunder roared
And boomed as loud as cannon-fire
While rain in giant torrents poured

But in his room, the prince just yawned
all tucked up in his feather-bed
With perfumed pillows made of silk
and cherubs swirling overhead

He did not think about the storm
or all the soaking serfs outside
The only thing he cared about
was how to bag himself a bride

And though he'd travelled far and wide
he could not find a maid to wed
For each of them just paled beside
the bride that lived inside his head

This girl she had to be, you see,
a "real" princess of bluest blood
Whose lineage stretched back until
that misty age before the Flood

He'd hunted her as if she were
the greatest prize a man could snag
To mount upon his wall just like
a roe deer or a trophy-stag

But still he went to bed alone
until he grew so tired he swore
He would not wed a real princess
unless she knocked upon his door

                ACT TWO

Well soon that knock came loud and clear-
so loud the prince fell out of bed
And there she stood inside the hall
a real princess, or so she said

Her hair was dripping wet and yet
it shone as bright as leaf of gold
And like a young gazelle she was,
though blue and shivering with the cold

She seemed a Tudor miniature,
with such a sweet and pearly face
It was as if a jeweller's hand had
set each feature in its place

But when the Queen came rushing down
to view her through her gold lorgnette
The girl twitched like a butterfly
ensnarled in an explorer's net

This queen she seemed to be the kind
you find in children's fairy-tales
A stiff, white ruff around her neck
and bony hands with claws for nails

A Gorgon in a diadem
with beady eyes and puffed-up hair
A dowager who could have turned
a man to stone with just one stare

And glaring through her opera-glass
with eyes of bloodshot sapphire-blue
She fixed the girl as if she were
A beast to gawp at in a zoo

"But is she real?" the old queen asked
she seemed to think the girl might be
An ignis fatuus or a ghost
and even poked her, just to see.

And so the royals hatched a plot
to see if she was who she said
They'd let the princess stay the night
and hide a pea inside her bed


                ACT THREE

The old queen led the princess through
a labyrinthine corridor
With peacocks staring from the walls
and tigers sprawled across the floor

Then showed her to a cosy room
with tapestries hung all around
A fire was popping in the hearth
and mossy rugs lay on the ground

The weary princess looked about
at all the gilded finery
The mirrors and the silk divans
the crystal and chinoiserie

And there, beneath the rafters, she
could see a bed piled up so high
With mattresses and blankets that
it seemed to tower to the sky

You'd think it would have been a dream
to lie on such a comfy heap
Instead the princess stirred all night
and did not get a wink of sleep

              ACT FOUR

But in the morning when she rose
and grumbled of her wakeful night
The prince seemed not to care a jot
and viewed her with a strange delight

"I've never tossed and turned so much
I'm black and blue," the princess said
"It seemed that something razor sharp
was trapped beneath me in the bed"

"A real princess! " rejoiced the queen,
for only a princess could be
Kept up all night for something quite
as trifling as a garden pea

The girl looked sheepish for a while
and then she said, "I must confess
I'm not, nor have I ever been,
what one could call a real princess.

I told you both a lie for I
was fearful if I did not say
That I was born of royal stock
you would have sent me on my way

The Queen turned pale and stared aghast
then viewed the girl through narrowed eyes
"You're nothing but a fraud!" she hissed
"A lowly peasant in disguise,"

            ACT FIVE

"But what is in a name?" the girl
asked, rising proudly to her feet
"That which we call a rose by any
other name would smell as sweet"

"The treasures that a person has
are not a measure of his worth
And he may be a king though he
is but a man of simple birth."

"Indeed, she's right," the prince agreed
"Who cares if she's of royal stock?
This talk of keeping bloodlines pure
is just a load of poppycock."

Besides this girl is more refined
than any royal I have met
She has no gems or castle for
a princess she is not... and yet

Her hair shines like a diadem
her eyes like jewels of emerald green
With her, for sure, I could fall more
in love than I have ever been."

                EPILOGUE
And so the two of them were wed....
much to the chagrin of the Queen