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when I reached the age of reason I hit the ground,
running. the thought flits
across compact mirror smudged from years of overuse &
abandon, left behind
in purse bottoms and backpacks every time I switch up my style &
move on to something:
new/ fresh / else.  

a glance into glass &
I'm transported: a babe on white lambskin,
a second-hand nostalgia never wholly mine.
a missing, another memory removed,
a down-to-the-wire tally
added to the roster, unexpectedly
the emotional prodigy, ostracized
alongside destined veracity: as in my absolute
devotion to                                                               ­            TRUTH!
the time skip, a box-out, a blackout, a kindness.
a comfort over the desk chair where homework            completes itself
after countless 'mixtape playlists' limewired maniacally
alphabetized, rearranged & revised until dawn/

another decade/chapter: a bookworm,
a blockout, a maneuver 'round roadblock,
a machination, a manipulation, a deadening, a defeat,
an assistant Mother only a child
self, the intrigue... yet

here I am, a spectacle,  
a miracle, a smashing, a light on an island out at sea,
an accident, a ripening survived.

can I trust myself. to dive in. for/by myself?
when I lift the stretch of lambskin from an atticked brown box,
a painted porcelain plate hits the ground,
shattered.
cptsd is a *****.
judy smith Oct 2016
At any given moment, it seems there is a fashion week happening somewhere in the world - be it Sydney, Istanbul, Dubai, Seoul, Moscow, Toronto, Copenhagen or Lagos (to name a few).

But the latest entrant may be the most surprising: Silicon Valley.

Or, as the organisers style it: Silicon Valley Fashion Week?!.

The punctuation marks as part of the title are a self-aware nod to the incongruity of marrying the location, known for its allegiance to hoodies, Tevas and T-shirts, to a fashion event.

But that does not mean they are any less serious about its potential.

The three-day annual event, which finished its second turn over the weekend in San Francisco, bills itself as "part fashion show, part variety show, part trade show" and is open to the public, unlike the usual fashion industry events. This year, about 30 brands were featured and tickets, at US$20 (S$28), sold out, with about 500 people attending each day.

It was staged by Betabrand, a San Francisco company that builds its clothing catalogue by crowdsourcing design ideas and, after seeing which take off, crowdfunding the production of the prototypes to see which ones people will actually want to buy. Examples include a "mind the gap" blouse that stretches to fit the body's contours and a dress that uses a trademarked reflective material.

The event exists at the nexus of Burning Man, wearable technology and the Maker Movement, home of inventors, designers and other do-it-yourself types. Pebble Smartwatch presented a Smarthole Hoodie, a standard hoodie design with sleeves that extend over the thumbs and have a movable panel around the wrist to make gaining access to the company's device easier; and Tinsel offered headphones that can be worn as a necklace.

Alison Lewis, who holds a design and technology master's degree from Parsons School of Design in New York, showed three items: a lambskin leather handbag embedded with LED bulbs that can be rearranged in different patterns with an app; a T-shirt that does the same; and a dress with lights that undulate with the wearer's heartbeat.

"Technology is a tool. It's how we use it that's really exciting," she said. "We could have less clothing in our closets and have pieces that change and work with our moods and personalities on a daily basis."

Lewis has not had a chance to present her work in other fashion shows and, so far, she has not been able to mass-produce her items. She commended the fashion week as a place to experiment.

She was not the only designer struggling with the challenge of manufacturing what she displayed.

However, as wearables increasingly enter mainstream fashion, with designers from Ralph Lauren to Zac Posen dipping their creative toes into technology, the idea of clothing patterns controlled by apps, of drone delivery, and of customisation that allows - maybe even asks - its wearers to make a choice each and every day, seems less far-fetched and more like fashion's possible future.

Which, unlikely as it may be, puts the Silicon Valley event on the style front line.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/red-formal-dresses
Janette Jul 2012
Naked
She stepped inside his soul,
Breathed her scarlet daydreams,
Beyond contours where miracles flourish,
Reaching for him
Unprotected in the naive light,
A soft tangle of subtleties, wrapped in silk...



Silvered moon, reflected her shimmer,
Like a blue-milk river flowing
Through labyrinths
Of love's first tremulous petals,
Held in her hands like a lambskin prayer...



A white mask of incense, spin-drifting
Upon the bridge between;
Rush-lit in the small brave night,
His lips spoke
Butterfly moments against her naked skin,
Planting roses, in the silent fall of breathless...



Blueprints of his sigh, thrummed
Against the soft hush... a fingertip glide,
Seeking the heat of her flame, as a moth hypnotized;
Fluttering across her milk-sea ripples...where
Her pale lips, mouthed silent his name...



She learned to drink the light,
Forget, how the moon appeared in silken secrecy,
A soft veil carried on heart beats, a blue fugue
Balanced by his breath...unspoken dreams.
Folding dew wet love,
Captured under closed lids.................
'Our soulmate is the one who makes life come to life'.............. Remember me sweet Love....... without beginning and with no end....
Anais Vionet Aug 2022
I’m at an (outdoor) dinner, with Peter, some of his doctoral-student friends, professors and their spouses, to kick-off the Fall semester and Peter’s second year in the doctoral program.

“So, what impressions did you take away from your time at the Large Hadron Collider?”
A 60-ish professor asked Peter. In this setting, as a student pursuing his doctorate, Peter’s comments will probably be noted and there’s a watching anticipation.

Peter is a tall, pale, scraggy, 25-year-old with unruly, deep-cove-blue, almost-black hair. Tonight, he’s dressed in a brown, distressed Italian lambskin leather blazer that I got him in Paris, as a fall semester present and his usual, dark, neutral shades of brown. To break those sleepy colors up I also gave him a soft-caramel-brown tie, inlaid with tiny, yellow, rubber ducks.  

“Two impressions, really,” Peter begins, “First, the Higgs Boson particle was discovered a decade ago - but since then we haven’t seen any notable results - the particles we expected, when we expected them. Of course, “no results” is an important part of the scientific process,” he continued, “and those researchers still deserve their doctorates, but it isn’t ****, and it won’t win any Nobel prizes.” He has the room’s attention.

“Secondly,” he says, looking around for reassuring eye-contact, “experimental particle physics is a very expensive business.” This observation generates nods, toasts and laughter all around.

When the reaction dies down, he gets another question.
“Why do you think we aren’t seeing better results?” another professor asks him.

“I think the problem,” Peter twists his head as he turns serious and begins his reply - and by the way, he looks adorable in the soft light of the dancing Japanese lanterns - “is the lag between the theories and our ability to experiment. It takes so long to build a collider, that theories out-evolve them. The apparatuses we have now - like the Hadron Collider - were designed based on theories from 30 years ago.” Again, there are nods and thoughtful looks before the professors move their questioning to the next student.

Later, we’re in the common room of my dorm suite, huddled together, talking hushedly on an overstuffed loveseat while others watch TV or read. “OH!” I say, still in a whisper voice, like I’ve just remembered something interesting, “You know what I heard - about the doctoral physics program?”

“What?” Peter says, I have his unblinking attention now. After all, I was talking with professors and their wives and shards of information are precious, not unlike atom particles, so he’s openly curious, his head tilted in focus.

“I was told, I say slowly and earnestly, “by a reliable source,” I begin playing with one of his shirt buttons, “that doctoral students,” I pause for maximum effect, to indicate this is important, “have equipment that’s 25 to 30 years OLD - outDATED equipment..”

He’s on to me now, and he starts to lean into me and grin. “that might not be able to get the JOB done!” I finished, busting out laughing as he caught my underarms with tickle fingers. I shrieked with delight at my own joke and his reaction.

“We’ll SEE about THAT!” He says while playing my ribs like accordions, producing newer and louder squeals and mutual giggles.

“Hey!” Anna said, turning as she paused her “Better Call Saul” finale.
“Get a ROOM!” Leong suggested, sarcastically, in mid-popcorn scoop.
Lisa eyed us annoyedly over her Chemistry book.
Sophy rolled her eyes, smiling and blood-thirsty Sunny barked “Get ‘er!”
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Shard: a small piece of something.
All I can do:  

snip threads from the skirt all night I have danced in

                                  Too far away

Cut then, a hole in the center of the lambskin chemise I wear over my chest and heart
not the shape of a heart understood
but the form of a heart that does not require understanding


Only what you do not need can you fully
have.  All I
can



do:

stay on this rug between.  Try to wear holes in it
to glimpse the woman I was before the one poet

told the other: this language will
fail.  And it does.  And
they are saved.
Blossom Mar 2017
Weave me blue blanket of lies
Made from young virtuous lamb,
Forevermore, my comfort to keep.
Diminutive truths bearing no power
Mixed within sweet fallacy threads
Create this masterpiece I hold so dear.
Chamomile brewing late into the night,
Screaming black kettle boils over the edge
And sizzling snaps trail quickly after.
Duvet released my hand reaches forth,
Blindly scraping left arm on hot stove.
Howls, yelps, screeches of pain fly out my lungs,
Loud enough for Lupa, Achos, and Ania
To gaily dance amidst- my guttural cries as melody.
Ice pressed against my torrid flesh
I grasp the blue cloth of lambskin,
My defense against harsh actuality.
Fraudulent bliss a path often chosen,
Tis the blind man's way of life,
So a blind man is what I shall be.
Joe Satkowski Feb 2014
lambskin cut the wrong way
to make the wolf more obvious

hanging from powerlines
floating, endlessly ******* floating
motion forced into reality
next to the wall I'm slumped on
Q Oct 2015
Puckered skin, raised high with irritation
I want to see blood tonight.
Whistling tunes and silent croons
Thin leather dancing in the moonlight.

Encircled, enclosed, enveloped, protected
Asphyxiation is barely a concern.
Claimed, owned, treasured, coveted, needed
In fact, it ignites me, good lord, I burn.

Neck, wrists, ankles; you wouldn't understand-
Security isn't tangible for most.
Hair, nape, knees; wordless, silent command-
Never made for a 'benevolent' host.

Heavy and wooden, regal, polished to a glisten
Anticipation and heady floods of endorphins.
Pain comes in forms: blunt, sharp, under the surface
Not a single one of those fail to make the body anxious.

There are words to be said that contain more THC than marijuana
More nicotine than a cigar, a greater high than *******.
There are words to be said that shoot electricity up the spine,
Shiver pleasure down the nerves, and overtake the brain.

There is a doubled band of leather with nickel accents
With black lambskin and white embellishments.
There is a double band of leather that wraps so comfortably.
There is a double band of leather for me.
i have no idea why youre reading this but i personally advise against it. that said, if youre seeing this you probably already finished it so, sorry for this vague mess.
storm siren Oct 2016
My father used to pour me
Blood from the steak he was cooking
So that way I'd grow up strong,
And I'd grow up passionate.
He regrets it, I know it.

My mother used to
Fill up pouches made of lambskin
With wilted flowers and salt
And paint angels on them
And hang them from my doorknob.
It was for protection but I don't quite understand it.

I'd write about what my older brother
Used to do,
But I'm just not in the mood
To cry.

My little brothers used to
Hold onto the hem of my dress
When something scared them.
They used to come to me
When they were sad,
And sleep on my shoulder
When they were young
And tired.

I used to
Keep rocks from the playground
In a hat box
Under my bunk bed,
Along with letters I never sent.

And I used to have so many stuffed cats and dogs and lions
That all had specific names
And stories
And when I moved time and time again
And when I was scared and alone,
They were the closest things I had to friends.

I used to know
What it was like
To be alone.
I used to be
Okay with living and dying
Without being known.

And I would rather,
Sit in silence with someone I love,
Than sit alone with the noise in my head,
Replaying every horrific and terrible memory
From the last ten years.

And sometimes I think about
How people miss being kids,
And how things were so much "easier" then.
But it wasn't that way for me.
Being an adult is hard.
But while I'll never really grow up,
Growing older is the best thing
I've ever done for myself.

And I wonder if you ever looked back
At the broken, little listless thing I was,
And saw something off, something wrong.
But I still doubt anyone puts that much thought
Into things like that.

All I can say is that I'm thankful
For you and your kindness,
And for the love that you've shown me.

I am glad I have seen
And been through
What I have,
It has made me who I am,
And it has made me the woman
That you love.
One week and one day. Nyaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Leroy J Harris Apr 2014
Kevin stood by Johnathan's right side,
Inches from an axe covered by lambskin,
Dried and made in their old home,
An orchard, orphanage and music school,
All wrapped up in a bow of optimism,
Protected by a single dagger imbued,
With all there is to live for.
He was shown how malicious melodies,
Corrupting sound deviled by malice,
Words stolen from Sharin's lips,
Could be silenced by the real thing,
Etched onto his runed blade,
Written into its steel frame,
Handwritten by Sharin herself.
REDACTED Jun 2019
Let me be drunk,
Let me be drunk,
Let me be fine and drunk,
Let a bottle of dark be a light to where I am going, to shade out where I've been and the song to settle me now.
You, a crystal natured decanter, muddled to the wishing eye.
You, that will lead me by the glistening, babbling, dribbling lip.
You, the warmth in my distended belly.
You, the burning down my throat, the fire in a broken heart.
You, the shaper of ideas, of loves and hates, of sorrows, oh such sorrows, such deep and dark and gloomy sorrows but you also of such light.
You, that takes me by the throbbing, beating soul of a night-time and wraps me squealing and crying in your lambskin spread and soothes and caresses and cares.
You, a hot-blooded simmering mess of teenage spirit.
You, the answer to the great pubescent question.
You, the real gateway drug.
You, the peacekeeper.
You, the antagonist.
You, a swollen king on your enabling throne.
You've been here long enough. Just tell me what you want. Stop filling my head with these lies and loves but don't leave me unattended. You've led me far into the valley of the shadow of death and you have taught me why I should fear those evils. Those that are deep and dark and terrible.
Zywa Jul 2020
It started with Ox House donkey
In the housebarn of the manor
The room was full of family

It was warm, with mum
and the aunts who know all
about childbirth, the men also

stayed up and drank to the new
king, his little bed with lambskin
in a manger was next to me

After Passover in the capital
we had to leave, the news
of our son was buzzing around

people came to warn:
Ox House Camel, the alphabet, Door
to open and to close

Hand that reaps the fruits, Eye that sees
and Mouth that speaks the truth
My heart that knows the concealed

breath of the breathing, spirit
over the waters, the words
it once started with
Maria (in Bethlehem, 5 bC)

Letters of the Phoenician alphabet – In the beginning was the Word

Collection "From Sacred Scriptures"
Michael Stefan Nov 2020
A purple thing of thick and soft
A velvet lace at wrists and knees
A rebellious lock of crimson hair
Fluttering in the winter's breeze
Held aloft on freckled cheeks
And billowing in all-seen breath
As wicked flakes began to gather
And bury her beneath their depth

A lambskin glove on flushing fingers
Helped to keep the heat within
As bitter winter-whitened landscapes
Hid away the Autumn's sins
And in this path towards the cabin
Her leather boots began to trod
And once again the cruel curl
Swung about with every nod

Her head was swaying with each footstep
Her heart was beating with each sigh
Her purple winter velvet doublet
Would keep her warm through winter's night
She closed the door as winds would howl
And scratch at cracks to get inside
As the fire spread through her face
She cracked a bone-white smile, wide

Another jaunt into the forest
Another scrape with nature too
Another night of simple pleasures
Of reading Proust and cooking stew
Her traps were set
Her ax was sharp
Her bow laid by the door
She had healed from the pain of Summer
And she hoped she'd see the Spring no more
This simple poetic rhyme scheme was inspired by a friend who picked herself up after some terrible issues with work and a failed relationship.  She had always been soft and loving.  But now she's tough, boisterous, and not going to take s**t from anyone again.  This poem is meant to tell you that no matter the harsh environment you face, you too will thrive one day.
S G Feb 2020
Yesterday I looked out at the view
Planned to climb mountains, buy houses, make friends.
Today I don’t open the blinds.

Yesterday I put on my trainers
I stretched, I flexed, I ran.
Today my lambskin slippers are chafing.

Yesterday I called a friend
We talked, I listened, we laughed.
Today there is not a number in my phone.

Yesterday I spent the day living
I dreamt, I pondered, I planned.
Today I am not sure I am breathing.

Yesterday was a million years ago
It went by in a blink, so fast, unstoppable.
Today is going to last forever.

— The End —