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SøułSurvivør May 2016
Red Poppies grow
Upon lapels
Telling of
War's untold hell

Of green hills
Pristine and groomed
Marching crosses
On the tombs

Marching crosses
Star of David
Where Stars and Stripes
Fluttered and wav'ed

Of buddies lost
Buried in cairns
Of brothers. Sisters.
Thus disarmed.

Of need for morphine
To end the pain
Of bandages
To staunch red stains

To honor souls
Under white snow
Upon lapels
Red Poppies grow.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/29/2016
Let us not forget the meaning of the red poppy. My father won't.
berry Oct 2013
elephants stomp with stone-laden feet
back and forth, back and forth,
creating cracks in my already-battered skull,
weakening the very foundations of my sanity.
their trumpeting echoes through cold corridors
flooding my thought capacity to the brim.

a tightrope walker stretches me, thin -
i feel the shifting pressure of her nimble feet
treading the territories of my weathered frame,
back and forth, back and forth,
my skin reddens beneath the incessant crossing
as the sinew within me starts to atrophy.

in my chest cavity there is a ring of fire,
manipulating my lungs and feeble heart to mere ash.
two golden eyes seen beyond the flames,
ready to leap through them - without the
inconvenience of fear weighing down his agile paws,
both capable and likely to tear my veins to shreds.

a grisly strongman has my bones in his grip.
he smiles malevolently, gloating his strength over me,
squeezing the life from my cartilage - awaiting the snap.
i am cognizant of the sound, but i won't flinch.
next, the imminent collapse of my vertebrae -
i feel them crumble to dust. he laughs.

but it is in the pit of my stomach the ringleader sits -
commanding me into subsidence with every crack of his whip.
i want to meet his eyes but he only averts my gaze.
his twisted circus nearly through, the audience begins to dissipate.
i stare through the blurred smoke, desperate for his visage -
when i see on one of his faded lapels, the embroidery spells out your name.

-m.f.
invisible isotopes
gently rain down
onto the chins
of infants

we whisk
them
away with
soft kisses

tiny
irradiated
dust flakes
float onto
boutonniereless
lapels

we brush them
off with fresh
carnations

Oak leaves
blown from
denuding limbs
by soft puffs of
radioactive
plumes

are shaken
from our
door mats

green grass
sprinkled with
Strontium 90

is mowed
and mixed
into our
compost piles

the pristine
waters
of March
are laced with
uranium
tainted
iodine

it coolly
slakes
our
piqued
thirst

the rouge rose
gilded with
a golden plush
of soft plutonium

is plucked
to adorn late
evening
dinner tables
and exchanged
by sweethearts
as amorous
gestures
of resignation
between
condemned
lovers


Oakland
3/28/11
jbm
HE lived on the wings of storm.
The ashes are in Chihuahua.

Out of Ludlow and coal towns in Colorado
Sprang a vengeance of Slav miners, Italians, Scots, Cornishmen, Yanks.
Killings ran under the spoken commands of this boy
With eighty men and rifles on a hogback mountain.

They killed swearing to remember
The shot and charred wives and children
In the burnt camp of Ludlow,
And Louis Tikas, the laughing Greek,
Plugged with a bullet, clubbed with a gun ****.

As a home war
It held the nation a week
And one or two million men stood together
And swore by the retribution of steel.

It was all accidental.
He lived flecking lint off coat lapels
Of men he talked with.
He kissed the miners' babies
And wrote a Denver paper
Of picket silhouettes on a mountain line.

He had no mother but Mother Jones
Crying from a jail window of Trinidad:
"All I want is room enough to stand
And shake my fist at the enemies of the human race."

Named by a grand jury as a murderer
He went to Chihuahua, forgot his old Scotch name,
Smoked cheroots with Pancho Villa
And wrote letters of Villa as a rock of the people.

How can I tell how Don Magregor went?

Three riders emptied lead into him.
He lay on the main street of an inland town.
A boy sat near all day throwing stones
To keep pigs away.

The Villa men buried him in a pit
With twenty Carranzistas.

There is drama in that point...
...the boy and the pigs.
Griffith would make a movie of it to fetch sobs.
Victor Herbert would have the drums whirr
In a weave with a high fiddle-string's single clamor.

"And the muchacho sat there all day throwing stones
To keep the pigs away," wrote Gibbons to the Tribune.

Somewhere in Chihuahua or Colorado
Is a leather bag of poems and short stories.
Rebecca Aug 2021
Both hands rest on either side;
Resting on lapels;
Gently rubbing down;
Pushing flat cloth with care;
Heavy, smooth blue;
Loving brush of the chin above;
Tender kiss on smooth shaved check;
Soft eyes down;
Hands quietly grasp the smoothed lapels;
Letting go one, more time.
With a pat on either side;
Turn away and let it be.
Connor Reid Sep 2014
An endless ocean,
Pantomime enlightened,
In time.
Red shift,,
Infants Star,
Bending light in chasm.
Our fauna,
Spreading into transition,
Of mind.
Bring holiness,
Home in mason jars,
Sealed tight.
Covering up a stench,
Masked by terror,
A guiding light.
Kingdom come,
Sugar coated ****,
In love.
Empty entrances,
Void, integral loss,
Comprised,
Faculty covered red moss.
Heated, conversation,
Taxonomy towards tethered,
Ulysses used,
Utter degradation.
Pink in clouds,
Weakened state,
Harass the aether,
And melt the unified field,
Synchronicity...
Liz McLaughlin May 2013
I want a nobody.

A faceless commuter swearing as the machine ignores his credit card. Or the guy two tables to the left who isn’t checking his watch because he isn’t waiting on someone. Any hoodie-wearing, adidas-laced, prospective english major rambling along the sidewalk.

I want a nobody.

‘Cause there’s never a somebody that won’t say “I love you” because it’s numbed by too many mouths that don’t form their lips the right way. The somebodies slide it off their careless tongues—

because little words are pennies in tip jars.

But Nobody, he’ll say

I love the way you put on a jacket
like some kind of whip-snap in the lapels and collar
tipping your chin up and
hooking your silver-ringed thumbs in the pockets

and I love how you flip through books
eager to break the spine but not fold the pages
holding your breath to hold the focus
propping open a paperback between long tapered fingers

and how the barista at the coffeeshop knows your face!
and blush rises like foam on your cheeks

because it’s so ******* incredible how
when you drum your fingers
you don’t drum you press
into a phantom piano
the treble clef of Linus and Lucy
or The Entertainer
or, if your eyes have already gotten deeper
—in a mossy well of thought—
it’ll be Augustana’s Boston
dancing C-E-C-E-G-E-C-E
in the jumping tendons of your right hand.

                  *

oh darling, I’m in love with
your clumsy movements when you fall into bed
wrapping a thick comforter over your bare shoulders
curling your legs as you settle on your side
hair fanned out on the bedsheet because
the pillow’s too close to the wall


but lovely, I don’t love you
because I’m not real at all
this is a strange abomination between poetry and prose. Thought I'd post it here anyway.
judy smith Oct 2015
He's accosted Kim Kardashian, Brad Pritt and Ciara, but red carpet prankster Vitalii Sediuk tried his luck with a much fiercer face on Tuesday.

The Ukrainian journalist approached US Vogue editor, Anna Wintour, outside the Chanel show at Paris Fashion Week.

Wearing a black headdress and glittery sequinned glove, Vitalli broke through the security barriers and ran up to the notoriously icy journalist as she exited the show.

With a microphone in his hand, Vitalli could be seen attempting to get her attention - but nonchalant Anna kept her cool and dismissed the prankster, striding straight past him.

Anna's security stepped in immediately and removed the prankster, who made a peace sign with his hand.

Anna is by no means the first star that Vitalli has pranked.

He famously targetted Kim Kardashian in September last year in the huge crowd that gathered around Kim and her husband Kanye's car as they arrived at the Balmain show at Paris Fashion Week, in which her sister Kendall Jenner was walking.

In bizarre scenes, Vitalii - the prankster who accosted Brad Pitt at the Maleficent premiere in Los Angeles earlier last year - was reported to have pulled Kim's hair [which he denies] and almost knocked the then 33-year-old starlet to the ground, in front of Kanye and her mother Kris Jenner.

Security quickly jumped in and escorted a shocked Kim into the building.

This was just one of the many times the former journalist has had run-ins with celebrities including America Ferrera, Leonardo DiCaprio and Jennifer Lopez.

Brad Pitt recently spoke out about the infamous run in with the now-notorious Sediuk at the Malificent premiere in Hollywood in late May.

The movie hunk said he was forced to defend himself after the Ukrainian television personality tried to 'bury his face in my crotch.'

Brad said he was having a great time mingling with fans on the red carpet, but things soon turned nasty when Sediuk sparked a melee that left the heartthrob with broken sunglasses.

He told People: 'I was at the end of the line signing autographs, when out the corner of my eye I saw someone stage-diving over the barrier at me.

'I took a step back; this guy had latched onto my lapels. I looked down and the ****** was trying to bury his face in my crotch, so I cracked him twice in the back of the head – not too hard – but enough to get his attention, because he did let go.

'I think he was then just grabbing for a hand hold because the guys were on him, and he reached up and caught my glasses.'

The Moneyball star said he likes people to have fun, but argued Sediuk's antics could end up spoiling glamorous Hollywood events for everyone else.

He said: 'I don’t mind an exhibitionist but if this guy keeps it up he’s going to spoil it for the fans who have waited up all night for an autograph or a selfie, because it will make people more wary to approach a crowd. And he should know, if he tries to look up a woman’s dress again, he’s going to get stomped.'

Sediuk was sentenced to 30 days in jail after attacking Brad at the Los Angeles premiere of Maleficent.

He was already on probation for jumping on stage with Jennifer Lopez when he jumped over a crowd barrier at the opening of Angelina Jolie's new film Maleficient and struck Brad

He was charged with assault, battery, unlawful activity at an exhibition and delay of an exhibition, received the jail sentence plus 20 days community labor, 36 months probation and a $220 fine.

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

www.marieaustralia.com/princess-formal-dresses
st64 Nov 2013
r EVOL ution
uncoils slowly by the fire
pondering of profound-flickering in the reverse-sparks
within the pupils of shifting-light


1.
love(r) dips deep within a hardy fire-maker from another sky
body recycled and soul carried on
mind unlike any other
it’s simply a matter of Time.. holding that rusty-key of long ago
entrusted to a cavorite-place behind silent-wells whose treadle-functions heaven forgot


2.
yet what counts highest sits on a ledge of paradox
as happiness falls short upon the threshold of *fornever and never
after

there are tumult-fears to overcome
and it needs time, once again
as hearty does beseech temporal-cogs to ensure one full revolution

thanks are not enough for things that words fail to express
no specific thing to pin-point
of the immense power the discharged-missile holds
who is ever the same person in the marching of months?


3.
exponential growth is combustion understated and surreal-excitement catches
to find traction in the whistling wind.. only a quarter-whisper away
it has instead.. been phenomenally unreal

.. can't explain it
.. won't deny it


4.
the full idea has near-outgrown its twin-seal flanks
that choices came shaking.. aghast and                                
dripping its magenta-fury in heavy-drips upon the sand
                                                            ­                                            half-spilling lava-filled cups of ire            
near the camp-side        
grabbed it by the lapels        


shaking – I love you so
now, why can’t you say it?
why won’t you declare it?
what holds your yellow-*** back so?


5.
there's a power-burst in the trajectory-whirligig here..
can’t be stopped, won’t be stopped

burnt offering rises up in a scathing-hiss

  and exudes such a sweet-cleansing                                                  ­                                           

   of               ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                           

semi-cinnamon and subtle ginger                                                    




a­nd.. love is but a word whose letters
lie
in the sand






S T – 11 nov 2013
so, yeah.. that’s about the size of it.. lol



sub:  none

none of loss
in moult of moments
let go
to see the new
Mary Gay Kearns Mar 2018
Wide lapels and herringbone
Was what my parents wore
A few years following
My brother and I were born,
Married in a registry office
My Aunty and mother in hats
No flowery additions
Their love was that.

In my father's pocket
A folded handkerchief
Mother held a handbag
An umbrella just in case.

I never got to try it on
That grey suit of my mum's
Lived in the few photographs
After they were gone
The bungalow was sold
My brother took the suits
And dispensed of their souls.


In remembrance of my dearest parents.
Love Mary their daughter ***
cassiopeia miel Nov 2015
Like a squiggle in your eye; blink,
and
I'm
gone
because I am all lipstick smudges left under carefully-pressed lapels, or Sharpied innuendos scrawled on bathroom walls in dingy bars.
A souvenir from one ephemeral moment, a fleeting tryst of dispassion (from my side at least); before I am scrubbed bare and raw.

DON'T YOU TOUCH ME, for I am so tender.
Thrown into the wash;
you can clean me, but the stain remains.
The scent of sugar, sweat and shame.
I wrote it on the back of my hand one day, I told you that I needed you – you wiped the smile off my face with your thumb, like I had smudged the words right out of my mouth. You taught me invaluable lessons I am sure never to forget, I was schooled by you, in ways I never really understood. I was a child, innocent by the very lapels on which you grew me up. Dragged me up, scuffed my shoes at the front and back. Untied my bra strap with your little finger and told me, listen here, love, I know exactly what I am doing. Made me believe in you, you did. Made me fall for every word. Made me fall for every whisper of love. Tenderly I was hooked by you.

You were the machine of my creation. Your greatest ever work of art. You sculpted my very inner being, tied me to my soul with burnt fingers and made me believe I was worth nothing more than ****. Your purpose was excellent. Completely fooled I was, your succinct underhand ways grievously ruined my sight. No longer could I see reality, living in world prepared for, cooked up and served by you. I lost a lot of blood in those first few years, a lot of good stock died. My passion became my greatest detriment, for should I talk you would take the words from my mouth and mark them in the air; deconstructed with a red pen you would make me realise my mistakes.

Thank you for all you have done. To me. For me. With me. My ear is no longer connected to your mouth. I can breeeeeathe without having to miss a step. All my love that I was proud to possess had been given away, but I was proud to have failed you, I was proud to weep under you, I was proud, to have loved you and not gotten away with it. I take full responsibility for all my tremendous actions, the ones I gave for you, laid down in honour for you, to wipe your pretty little feet all over the back of my head. I turned around to face you and slapped that face right off your mouth

Loved I was by you. Needed I was by you, to be, you. I wrote *******, on my ******* fingers and shoved them up your ****. Now you talk my language, now you wait for me to see you. Now you know I am no longer your dishrag, your teatowel or your muse. Got it back I did, got back my heat, my fury, and glory. Action packed with honour and fire, loving and loved. I learnt from you lessons which I shall never forget, I was schooled by you. Wanted to thank you, for I am no longer afraid, my sweet ******, of you and your heart. This is a glorious world, one which you will never feel.
Paula Swanson Oct 2010
Oh, the fine attire.  
Women in low cut, grand gowns.
Men in their finest plumage.
Strutting Peacocks, aiming to draw attention.

I wore tails of silk, with fine brocade work as the trim, down the sleek lapels.  I dressed entirely in black.  From head to toe.

I looked splendid!
I stood out from the Peacocks, as a Raven would
stand out among Doves.
Cunning as a Raven too.  She had not one suspicion.

I was at my best.
Charming, witty, a mystery.  Women fall for that.

I slowly, cunningly stalk my prey.  A vision in gold.
I danced with her.  Her gold, a perfect foil to my black.
I charmed her sweetly.  I maneuvered her easily.

I had previous, had the chance to find the spot,
where she would become mine.  Such a pretty throat.  One that I will drown within.

Once outside, hidden, strategically from all eyes, I began my "dance".
I gaze down into her eyes.  Her precious heart begins to race.  I can feel her blood.  It calls to me with it's song.
A song of need.
Her breaths slowed and deepened.  Her eyes remained locked with mine.

I let her see then, the glory of what I am.  She wanted to scream.  But, I had control now.  

My incisors grew.  Their points very sharp indeed.  My muscles bulked.  I ruined my fine new coat.  Split the shoulder seams right out.


I toyed with her.  I kiss her lips so gently.  She trembled for me.  I tried to hold back, wanting to prolong her fear.

Blood lust is, what is.  I could smell her rich, thick blood.  I wanted it all.  I wanted to bathe in it.  Feel it glide over my skin.

My fangs sank deep.  Drawing up the precious blood.  Elixir of life.
As I fed, I heard her heart slowing with each draw I took.  

And just before death could claim her, I released her from her thrall, to scream.  It was the last sound I heard as the men came running.  I took my leave.

I am a monster.
I do it well and I love it so.
Soon the sun shall rise again.
I will sleep as the dead.


~Lord Kellington
PJ Poesy Jan 2016
Reckoning gaze, learning ropes, knotty pine encasement, knowing what the box looks like from inside is preeminent inimitable. I was so certain last year would be it. Likely even, I thought the same the year before and years before that, all whilst whittling away, planks of this coffin, scratching to get out. Sealed in a fate, this vampiric rising, doomed to eternity of night crawling. Yet, by no means has glamour of Hollywood realm flickered any sheen, this direction. Not all vampires can afford tuxedos. Grosgrain lapels, and red satin lined capes do do wonders for former stars of silver screen, but this succubus prefers his naked lot. Apparently, malignant rogues who lie amongst worms don't always have the wardrobe to go with it. New Year's resolution: a tuxedo, perhaps some tails, and somewhere to wear them.
Rising from the dead.
Lewis Bosworth Sep 2016
The second amendment might
As well be the sixty-ninth, for all
The life-long days it saves by
The transparent and glossy shields
Adorning blue-skied uniforms.

The strike zone is limited to the
Mobility-enhanced limbs, out of
Reach of the cardiac plateau, in
A line guarded by “I heart NYC”
Leftover campaign buttons.

Crowds question the timeless yet
Disintegrating rhetoric, and they
Sing along with misspelled threats
To sanguine attempts at love and
War, while grade schoolers watch.

What’s missing from this libretto
Is a slogan like “if they go low, we
Go high” and the money to borrow
It, or the right to use the copyright,
As long as it doesn’t get ******.

“Now hear this,” bellows the man in
The crow’s nest, stepping in front
Of his stepson who brandishes a
BB gun proudly in his arms, “the
Curfew starts at midnight!”

Dona nobis pacem, a canon of
Faith, is hummed by the last ranks
Of veterans in camouflage, hoping
To initiate a temporary calm among
The bleak and ****** crew.

A clown-faced poet attempts to draw
A smile, as she calls for an absentee
Ballot, a circuitous frontage road
Away from destiny, some think,
And a short breath of recess.

“Take away their weapons,” hollers
A very pregnant woman, who goes
Into labor, blaming the guns for her
Untimely reward, and for a moment,
Just minutes, the midwifery begins.

All this while a small coterie of men
Gathers, silently taking in the show,
Unnoticed in their pretense, but
Sporting the heritage caps of the
NRA, stars and stripes in their lapels.

The disingenuous players in this sad
Drama are about to fold their tents,
To chicken out, to return to tacos
And beer, when stillness breaks,
So much so that crickets rule.

A small boy crosses the street, his
Smile contagious, his gait strong
As he approaches the men and
Says “I am you before now, be
Of peace and good cheer.

“My commandments have no
Amendments, no magic exceptions,
No golden calves, no wicked step-
Mothers, only a heart and soul,
I am the moral of your story.”  

© Lewis Bosworth, 2016
Geno Cattouse Jul 2014
Makes demons scatter
They cower in distant lands and await skyfall when only incandescence provide small detours but never refuge.
Sleep ?
Is a demon's bazar
They whirl and cavort  gleefull that I have let them in on these rare occasions,much lost time to recapture.

Spectacular spectres. Portents.unbridled daymares with thundering flashing hooves,they gallop with boots reversed in silver stirrups.

A bagpipe dirge is on rotation as goblins and cadavers saunter in with dead carnations pinned where lapels should have been but by  now  only rotting and putrid skin.

Chain lightenin creases the night.
An eerie glowing light pulastes from atop twin peaks.Castle Frankenstein sits one hundred feet above the witches haunt. An antlike procession crawls to and fro between. Lost souls seeking refuge or small comfort.
Stagecoach trundled, rutting, wheels
Soily grasp, grabbing at the earthy recipe
Cart....horsing around the outdoorsiness
Ferris wheel spun, gathering passengers
To overlook the show ground, smattered
Four legged races, saddled with encumbents
Bobbing in display formation.  Far above
I caught sight of circular ribbons emblazoned
Lapels holding onto prize winners, suffering
The pin ***** jabbing at willing winners
Left foot first, hopscotch to the flap of tarpaulin
Billowing their precious overgrown greatness
Of perfect vegetalia, proud, excessive....of the
Dinner plate variety.  Don't touch their polished
Surface, they deliberately await photographic
Validation; future growers, challenging champion
Chompers, terrorising super-veggie heros
I wonder what becomes of former ground growers
Do they take a back stage bow? Uprooted with
Those of a lesser kind, jostling for saucepan space
judy smith Mar 2017
The streets of Paris were clogged by rallies and demonstrations on the Sunday of fashion week. At the Trocadero, a pro-rally for embattled French conservative presidential candidate Francois Fillon, blocking the route between the Valentino and Akris shows; at Bastille, an anti-Fillon demonstration.

The French elections — and ever-increasing security — were providing a tense backdrop to the autumn-winter collections, much like Donald Trump, Brexit and Matteo Renzi did on the fashion circuit of New York, London and Milan this season. Politics and the changing of the guard, women’s rights and diversity may make fashion seem irrelevant until you add up the value of the industry to the world economy. In Britain it is £28 billion ($45bn) — and that is small fry next to France and Italy.

Perhaps politics and social change have influenced the French designers for there was much less street style this season and a lot more tailored, working clothes on the catwalk. They used mostly masculine fabrics but worked in such a graceful way. You need only look at Haider ­Ackermann, Chanel, Alexander McQueen, Christian Dior, Lanvin, Akris and Ellery to see this — lots of great wearable clothes.

Karl Lagerfeld wanted to fly us to other worlds (to abandon the mess here perhaps) in his Chanel space rocket. There were checks, cream, silvery white and grey tweeds, for suits and shorts and dark side of the moon print dresses that cleverly avoided the 60s’ ­futuristic cliches. Silver moon boots, space blanket stoles and rocket-shaped handbags were as space-age-y as it got. There was quiet, seductive tailoring at Haider Ackermann — tapered silhouettes in black wool and leather softened with a knit or the fluff of Mongolian lamb for a blouson or skirt. At McQueen the asymmetric lines of a black coat or pantsuit were ­inspired by the fluid lines of ­Barbara Hepworth’s sculptures, whereas David Koma reclaimed the soaring shoulderline of Mugler’s 80s silhouette for pantsuits and mini-dresses for the brand.

Christian Dior’s uniform-inspired daywear was produced in tones of navy blue with 50s-style navy belted skirts suits, long pleated skirts and some denim workwear. “I wanted my collection to express a woman’s personality, but with all the protection of a ­uniform,” explained Maria Grazia Chiuri before the show.

There was more suiting at ­Martin Grant with voluminous trousers, cummerbunds and men’s shirting. The cut was more mannish at Ellery and Celine with ­Ellery balancing her masculine oversized jacket looks with feminine bustier tops with giant puff sleeves. The mannish look at ­Celine was styled with sharp ­lapels, slim-cut trousers under crushed textured raincoats, whereas ­double-breasted jackets (a trend) and peacoats over loose-cut trousers appeared at John Galliano.

Checks jazzed up the tailoring at Akris where there were more sophisticated double-breasted jackets and swing coats, and at ­Giambattista Valli from among the flirty embroidered dresses a dogtooth coat emerged with a waspie belt and a suit with a peplum skirt.

Stella McCartney displayed her Savile Row skills in heritage checks for her equestrian-themed show. Of course, she is crazy about riding and her prints featured a famous painting by George Stubbs, Horse Frightened by a Lion. It turns out Stubbs was another Liverpudlian, like her dad Sir Paul.

Of course Hermes’s vocabulary started with the horse and there were leather-trimmed capes and coats that fitted an equestrian, or at least country theme worn with woollen beanies and big sweaters, offering a different way of tailoring, in an easier silhouette with a soft colour palette.

The highlight of the week for Natalie Kingham, buying director at MatchesFashion.com was ­Balenciaga. “Great accessories, great coats and great execution of ideas,” she says of Demna Gvasalia’s off-kilter buttoned coats, stocking boot and finale of nine spectacular Balenciaga couture gowns reinterpreted in a contemporary way. “It was wearable, modern and the must-see show of the week.” It was also, she pointed out “the must-have label off the runway with every other person on the front row decked out in the spring collection”.

Although tailoring worked its subtle charms on the catwalk, there were flashes of brightness, graceful beauty and singularity. Particularly bright were Miu Miu’s psychedelic prints, feathered and jewelled lingerie dresses and colourful fun fur coats with furry baker boy hats. Then there was the singular look evoked by Austrian-born Andreas Kronthaler in his homage to his roots, with alpine flowers, Klimt-style artist smocks and bourgeois chintz florals worked in asymmetric and padded silhouettes for Vivienne Westwood — some of it modelled by the Dame herself.

Pagan beauty, the wilds of Cornwall, ancient traditions such as the mystical “Cloutie” wishing tree led to Sarah Burton’s enchanting Alexander McQueen show, which was another of Kingham’s favourites with its unfinished embroideries inspired by old church kneelers and spiritual motifs. “I loved the artisanal threadwork and the spiritual message that was woven throughout,” she says. The artisanal and spiritual she considers an emerging trend around the shows. “It had a slight winter boho vibe but much more elevated.”

Chitose Abe shared that mood for undone beauty with her Sacai collection of hybrid combinations of tweed and nylon for an anorak, and deconstructed lace for a parka, and puffers with denim re-worked with floral lace for evening.

There was more seductiveness at Valentino and Issey Miyake. The latter’s collection shown in the magnificent interiors of Paris’s Hotel de Ville, shimmered with the colours of the aurora borealis and used extraordinary fabric technology to create rippling movement as the models walked.

Valentino was a high point. On a rainswept Sunday Pierpaolo Piccioli cheered us with high-neck Victoriana silhouettes and long swingy dresses in potentially (but not actually) clashing combinations of pink and red in jazzy patterns of mystical motifs and numerology inspired by the Memphis Group of Pop Art. The sheer loveliness of the collection was enough to drown out the world of politics only a few blocks away.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/blue-formal-dresses
david badgerow Nov 2013
i woke up in a place where white girls
don't wear socks and she tickled the small
of my back with her icicle toes under the sheets

now the bulge of a small animal
is confronting fear in the form of
one loving glance

i was not poetic enough
until i lifted you from behind and
set you on a cloud

you pushed me towards a megaphone
and i announced you to the world, saying
she's a wild dove

and the wind pushed back
the lapels of my jacket and
you kissed me on the collarbone
without fear and then we
doubled up in laughter
like two souls tossing in hell,
on a grill
Mary-Eliz May 2017
You've cut ff your feet
to spite your head
Is there nothing left
in between?
is your whole life
blackened
and squandered
rotted and
gnarled
by gangrene?

Join me, come in.
Cavort with the dead
Join me, come in.
I can't be alone in my head.


How can you sit
there
with blood on your face
and not feel
it dry to a crust?
How can you sit
there
with gore on your hands
knowing you shiver
from lust?

Join me, come in.
Cavort with the dead.
Join me, come in.
I can't be alone in my head.
You, too, must feel torment
and torture.
You, too, must be plagued
without cure.


Where are you going?
to hell and not back?
Did you buy your ticket
to ride?
or
will you walk
into
the bottomless pit
draped with your badges

flesh putrefied?

Heads on lapels like
an Easter corsage
dead lilies like
those on a grave,

a grave that you dug
then
stepped in to forage
to eat as a worm of the flesh.

Flesh young and tender
that flamed with desire
till your curse
extinguished
the fire.

*Join me, come in.
Come into my fire.
Join me, come in.
We'll wade through
the mire
with blood
in our mouths
and our eyes.

Taste of the pain,
the glorious pain.
Like a gift
I give it to you,
offered again and again,
a philanthropist
swollen with bounty,
who bestows what
he has
like a prize.
After seeing "Silence of the Lambs"...and wishing I hadn't!
irinia Jan 2017
'Traum ist des Besuchers Schaum'

love,
imposition,
matryoshka dolls
sore cage-ribs
stories are replayed,
everywhere crossroads with no signs

we cross each other
heads are heavy like pumpkins in the sun
hearts weary of keeping hope alive
I recompose myself within the confinement of sunrise
falling falling further further down
to the anarchy of living
the seduced seducer, the ripped ripper
the air collapses on collars, lapels

we all visit the fountain of thirst
secretly

they still want to learn what love is
the visitors with hurricane hearts and hungry hands
the trainers of dyeing darkness

dog days are over
healing hands are genuine and humble
he finally feels the lightness of the heartbeat

(I no longer look like a fool to you...
yes, you!)
Tammy M Darby Mar 2019
Late one nice warm evening
Came a very loud knock upon my door
It was a complete stranger
Tired bewildered and lost
Now imprisoned in my dark magical woods

A gracious host of course
I bowed and extended my hand and stated
Please come in, dear friend take a seat and let’s discuss pressing matters
Such as the ghost to my left or the ghoul to the right dressed in tatters

As you can plainly see I am playing poker with the 3 eyed demons of the 4th night
Who infamous cheaters like the mummies rarely ever get a second invite
The vampires are sitting in the shadows where they think no one may see
Putting visine in their red eyes
White roses in black lapels and sharpening their pointed teeth

The werewolves yellow dripping fangs
Are climbing the curtains growling
Come the rising of the round moon
The goblins little monsters stroll in nosily
Angrily demanding recognition which is rightly their due

The witches spitting and cursing their hats
Hopped clumsily off their brooms
While the strongest warlocks were locked in battle
Throwing spells across the amber walled room

They have arrived for my banquet
As all have received the coveted invitations before
When some foolish stranger like you
Unaware knocks upon my door,

All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M Darby March 2, 2019.
All Material Stored in Author Base
Humorous Dark Poetry
Stephan Jul 2016
.

White Cliffs of Dover now sponsored in daydreams
Reading each billboard that rusts on the sky
Checking a map though it’s for the wrong city
She sends a smile to the wink of his eye

Overhead cords hang to signal a stopping
Pulled like a kite that is fighting a breeze
Setting his watch as if time is most urgent
Tiny the gesture to put her at ease

Anxious she strums atop metal and leather
Songs in her head dance at half past the price
Suddenly yanks as the trees are enormous
Grabbing her bag she does not ask him twice

****, screams the brakes and some passengers flying
Coffee and biscuits collide in the aisle
Fixing her hair like a debutante princess
Waits on the door and then exits in style

A tip of his hat to the fatherly captain
Treading deliberate, the stairs leading down
Adjusting his jacket lapels till they’re even
Spun, is her skirt as a fine evening gown

Coughing a hairball, the old engine rumbles
Sigh, moan the bi-folds directed to close
Noticing now that her left hand is empty
Lifting a stone from the shoulder, she throws

Causing a crack in the bug spattered windshield
The bus driver digs for his insurance card
Grumbles a curse word, his bible forsaken
Just a small pebble and not tossed so hard

She stands at the portal awaiting admission
Watches each eye as she fumbles about
Cheers to herself when her fingers meet plaster
Knows all too well it is no time to shout

Apologies gifted like Christmas in August
Promising beer with a head made of foam
When she appears on the exit step lower
In her left hand she now clutches her gnome

Into the lobby of lemon cake ceilings
Chandeliers glisten like ***** champagne
A tap on the bell wakes the concierge sleeping
“That was my dream!” comes his groggy complain

Currency shoveled the counter of granite
Not yet a bride nor a non-shaven groom
Still it is felt like a pink feathered boa
Lovebirds want cages, these two need a room

Holding his hand as they shuffle the staircase
Ornate the copper reflecting her grace
Wearing a smile that is sheepish and woolen
What waits the night paints the look on her face

He calls the bed, fears his ankles are swollen
She shuts the door to their quarters superb
Then slightly opened for placard replacement
Written in English reads, Do Not Disturb
The continuation of An unlikely duo.
Here is a link to part 1 in case you stumble onto this one first
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1717591/an-unlikely-duo/
Lewis Bosworth Sep 2016
The second amendment might
As well be the sixty-ninth, for all
The life-long days it saves by
The transparent and glossy shields
Adorning blue-skied uniforms.

The strike zone is limited to the
Mobility-enhanced limbs, out of
Reach of the cardiac plateau, in
A line guarded by “I heart NYC”
Leftover campaign buttons.

Crowds question the timeless yet
Disintegrating rhetoric, and they
Sing along with misspelled threats
To sanguine attempts at love and
War, while grade schoolers watch.

What’s missing from this libretto
Is a slogan like “if they go low, we
Go high” and the money to borrow
It, or the right to use the copyright,
As long as it doesn’t get ******.

“Now hear this,” bellows the man in
The crow’s nest, stepping in front
Of his stepson who brandishes a
BB gun proudly in his arms, “the
Curfew starts at midnight!”

Dona nobis pacem, a canon of
Faith, is hummed by the last ranks
Of veterans in camouflage, hoping
To initiate a temporary calm among
The bleak and ****** crew.

A clown-faced poet attempts to draw
A smile, as she calls for an absentee
Ballot, a circuitous frontage road
Away from destiny, some think,
And a short breath of recess.

“Take away their weapons,” hollers
A very pregnant woman, who goes
Into labor, blaming the guns for her
Untimely reward, and for a moment,
Just minutes, the midwifery begins.

All this while a small coterie of men
Gathers, silently taking in the show,
Unnoticed in their pretense, but
Sporting the heritage caps of the
NRA, stars and stripes in their lapels.

The disingenuous players in this sad
Drama are about to fold their tents,
To chicken out, to return to tacos
And beer, when stillness breaks,
So much so that crickets rule.

A small boy crosses the street, his
Smile contagious, his gait strong
As he approaches the men and
Says “I am you before now, be
Of peace and good cheer.

“My commandments have no
Amendments, no magic exceptions,
No golden calves, no wicked step-
Mothers, only a heart and soul,
I am the moral of your story.”  

© Lewis Bosworth, 2016
Terry Collett Nov 2012
Sonia closed
the door
behind her
and leaned

against it
you go out
with me?
she asked

her Polish/English
grated on your ears
look I can’t
I have other

things to do
you said
running a hand
to smooth

Mr Dubbin’s bed
she looked around
the room
and said

what if someone
come in
and see you
here with me?

what if they think
you been having me?
but it wouldn’t
be true

you said
standing up
and moving away
from the bed

you know that
and I know it
but others
they do not

she said
her voice
crisp and cool
what if I undo

my uniform
and show my *******
and say you did it?
you blushed

at the thought
look
just leave me be
you said

she stood firm
against the door
her hands
on the lapels

of her uniform
you could say yes
she said
you could take me

out to cinema
and then
it would be good
huh?

you watched
as she undid
one button
at a time

you watched
her fingers undo
each button
with deliberate

slowness
if I say yes
you’ll stop this folly?
you asked

if you mean it
I will walk
from the door
and we can leave

and I do up
the buttons
before others see
she stared at you

her pale blue eyes
on you
her lips parted
just so

you could see
her small white teeth
where do you want to go?
you asked

cinema is good
she said
in the dark
we can kiss yes?

the buttons
were undone
to reveal
her compacted ****

ok ok
you said
the cinema
it is promise?

she said coolly
you make promise
and keep?
yes I make promise

and keep
you repeated
she began to do up
the buttons

her eyes
looking at you
and she smiled
and said

good boy
we have fun no?
you breathed out
the held in breath

sweat dampened
the back
of your shirt
and trouser legs

but if
you do not
show up
she said

brushing her uniform
I’ll say you make love
to me on this
Mr Dubbin’s bed

and I make bed
look all untidy
and they believe
me yes?  

I’ll be there
trust me
you said
just let me go

I need to get
the other beds
made before lunch
she moved aside

and opened the door
her perfume
filtering your nose
off you go

she said
and be good
you went off
to make the beds

and show up
that night
as she knew
you would.
b for short Oct 2016
One more dusty rotation
around this earth,
following deep grooves with stories
that suggest
this ain’t my first rodeo.
I can’t manage to keep hold of
a single thing they boast of worth,
but I have a finger on my awareness,
and that’s a start.
Meanwhile, the universe simmers
and bubbles, unsteady—
her shaky fuse lit and ready to go.
Restlessness and an urgency
felt with every passing second,
but she hasn't told me why.
And when I squint for a solution,
all I make out are
muted colors and shapes with no edges.
Abstract suggestion of a journey I know
I was born to grab by the lapels—
to collect lessons from grooves
and their dust
and gut feelings—
to allow them to transform
my armfuls of nowheres
to somewheres.
So, I tighten the grip of my thighs
on this carousel horse of mine,
careful not to let the circles
ride *me.
© Bitsy Sanders, October 2016
Jason Jul 2015
Feast your eyes
on this!
100% Super One-Twenty,
Windowpane, chalk-white,
on a navy backdrop.
Fully Canvassed, mind you,
for the elegance of the suit
is dictated by its drape,
the structure the cloth streams
from shoulder to waist.

Here!
Do you see it? No?
The shoulder, it’s expression:
Spalla Camicia!
Simplification of the cumbersome Neapolitan,
shedding all the padding
of the English shoulder.
(Padding, I emphasize,
is for insecure prepubescent girls.)

Ah, but the star of the show,
the six by two,
the armour of choice of all dandies,
the de facto of the eternally stylish,
the double breasted jacket!
Shoulder wide peaked lapels
drawing horizontal lines
that elongate the torso,
nipping the waist.

(And as they say,
I like my jackets like
I like my women:
Double-breasted.)
Olivia Kent Dec 2014
FUNNY FELLA
You wear a coat of many colours.
An eccentric soul you bear.
Your colours,
they're all stripey.
You sport a baggy jumper,
all full up with holes .
It flops from your lapels.

You jangle while you're walking.
My man of jingle bells.
They match your make up and your hair,
absolutely perfectly.

Your trews all brown and baggy.
They're just a little grubby.
Attached to your fragile ankles,
with bending cycle clips.
You wear a floppy sun hat.
In the depths of winter.
You're really a rather strange one.
Sometimes seen wearing flip-flops,
in snow and ice,
I'm told.

We'll see you in a few weeks,
as on your sleigh you play.
For in a few days out to play,
nice and neat,
all dressed in red.
You'll visit us, 'twill soon be Christmas day.
(C) LIVVI
bri mylyn Jun 2015
a list of things i keep having dreams about:

1. underwater. not drowning, but free to pull my head up towards the white, bubbling sunlight. my head pushes through but then it is night and i am in the lake, weighed down by white dress. men put hands on my shoulders, words murmured in rapid prayer. i am baptized but there is blood on my hands. and then those hands join with others and we dance around flame, murmuring together. we are are all arriving we are all arriving we are all arriving. i did not believe in dancing but i dance among the pagans and the black trees look like obsidian knives, jagged, pointing towards lady moonlight. and my face is aflame and my mother says my grandmother spins in her grave each time i pray to a god who is not of abraham but then i realize that i have become my own god and i pray only to myself. and then i am the one spinning and spinning and then i am the water again but it is deep blue like melted velvet and now hands do not pull me up do not pray for me they push down and this time i am drowning.

2. we are lying in bed. my sheets have little roses on them and the lamplight is warm and forgiving and i am in satin and you are in nothing and we kiss and touching you feels good again. and i sing Dylan to you and i guard you with my own heart. and my feet rest in swimming pools that reflect me into you and suddenly there is no me and no you there is just dimness and an airy room where you are showing me such love and tenderness with your lovely blood and bones and i clutch my necklace and wonder what this would feel like if it were a cross instead of a moon. i cry because this was all that i had left because i feel thirteen again like it's the first time i said i would wait until i had a husband and so that's why i say i will marry you yes my love yes because we must atone we must always. atone.

3. barefoot. running. muddy dress, american forest, it smells like home only different. smokier, damper, sadder. gunshot. i slip behind the reddish brown trunk of one of the giants living in the woods and breathe. breathe. scream. hands around my stomach, pull and tear, drag along wet red clay. barefoot. my dress is red and my face is red and my hair is a dark night sky for a single moon. they chant. **** the witch **** the witch **** the witch **** the witch. i was buried in a churchyard. i wake up feeling thirsty and needing to check my voicemail.

4. a thousand mirrors. like versailles, only not. my hands on your lapels. you are seven feet tall and you love me. your hair is wild and i am an enchantress in lavender. we dance to piano and mournful horn, a thousand miles away. i am two inches tall, but you love me like i am the new moon.
mark john junor Nov 2014
there are days when the words come
like fevered friends grasping at lapels
urgently telling the tale with gasping breath
other times they come like a sweet river in the sunshine
they flow like bright beauty
the words can ignite you or ******
like a simple phrase sweet to the ear
like her playing her guitar
melody brings the heart such joys
the concept brings such beauty
just a fragment of song
but in it i hear night caravans on high desert road
i hear autumn sunshine laying on soft grass
i see all the creation possible to me
so play a little longer
let me hear another summer day
let me find the words to my next heart's song
let me see the beauty in you
Please hold for an obligatory moment of silence, mute in its act, wordless in its perpetration.
Place artificial flowers on outer lapels, held in place with no concentration.

Feudal rivalries resurrected for resources and land…to be ripped from the native source’s hand.

Pitiful glances at battle worn soldiers, still praising ideology projecting them as a supported saviour.
Unregretful acts lead one to question their behaviour.

Service dogs doled out in bulk, preventing an army of PTS Banners from turning Hulk.

These discretionary acts of ill will mutilate the concept of freedom, and men who fought to uphold its worth.
These incendiary pacts on parliament hill, fumigating for roaches of aspersion, are bastardizing a new world’s birth.

Carriers’ return home, housing the long departed, not to be thanked, not to be appreciated, but to be ******, for unholy, sanctified acts.
Permitted parade zone, rousing the socially guarded, to be spanked, depreciated, and deemed unworthy to stand, before coyly rectified rats
Campbell Jan 2016
a drop in my vision, a field obscura
it's as clear as the shade of your mascara
seismic proximity and i'm growing limnic I
can't help but skim the shards I trimmed to
where I can't begin

she was with you in the tiles
my cheeks tore at your custom smiles
rascal rolling among the red and the black I
know there's a reason Lib pinned you down
what whisker sensed your gold

never to infinity or to zero
but if it tends
the tenderness will never grow

when I felt of you the thousandth time
and kept me guessing in my rime
grab my lapels and make me ruby I
would be Faust for a hypocaust
please just let me in

I'm sure I will be ruined for a while
but in the end
my friend for you it's worth the miles

— The End —