On an open field
they would land
magnificent godlike machines
like fortresses they would stand
as if built there by ancient kings
reaping profit off villagers’ toils

Shaped like cones
They were layered like ships
Having decks for each purpose
And openings
only where openings were needed

The top decks were ventilation
Huge propellers circulated the air
Also
They were used for steering
Like top mounted rutters and blades
Cutting the air
Allowing the crew to breathe
On the middle decks
Even when they went into space

The lowest deck held the great magnets
Powered by inductive force
A manually produced electricity
Enabling the ship to repel
Any surface on Earth or moon
And hover like a carion bird
Waiting for its prey to die

One day
There were hundreds in the sky
Magnificent temple like structures
A mystery how they would fly
But they ruled the air
Like gods
Wielding invisible fire
And reversing
The forceful pull from the Earth

In the streets
men would fall to their knees
in thousands
food and water would spoil
in minutes
infected
they did not have time to pray
before buildings would crumble
yet there was no fire
only a blast
and oblivion to follow

discordant qualities
- a layered beauty
worn casually

- a complicated
pretty lady -

i paint her black
lace *******
- i praise her
on her knees.

r ~ 10/24/14

I'm born
Airborne
Forlorn
In war torn
Discord
My ripcord
I pull for liberation
Alienation aviation
Away from a station
Of no relation
Where their elation
Lies in degeneration

The fright fair
Nightmare
In sight there
Is a right scare
But light flares
From an illuminated theater
I dive into art
To fill my meter

I consume
Darkened tomb
Screen in room
Is where I loom
Inspiration blooms
From a sense of doom
My separation reparation
That will lead to veneration

My artistic fervor
Drifted further
Drifter's murmurs
Lifted learners
But gifted murderers
Shifted girders
Of shame and honesty
To my grave of modesty
Where they prey upon me

This plagiarism
Layered schism
Cratered rhythm
Of great decisions
Now I make incisions
With repetition
And the definition
Of words stolen from me
They're all I can see
And I can't get free
Or just let it be

Consumption disruption
At this junction
I can't function
A plagiarist
****** mist
Grips my fist
Makes me wish
I don't exist
I must resist
Before I miss
My chance at bliss

They're ****** me
By aping me
Making me
Shaking trees
Of bumblebees
With rumble pleas
On humble knees
Drinking antifreeze

Nobody cares
What's fair
They bear
And share
Blank stares
Up stairs
Of artistic compromise
Integrity lost in lies
They're not that wise
I hypothesize

My baby
Caught rabies
From Hades
Now ladies
Flock to a thief
Giving me grief
Beyond belief
In my coral reef
Sword in sheath
I drown discreet

oems (48)
Ranked
Links
Gods and The Lesser Kind
They say,  come to the abyss,
the Abbadon, the back of beyond
a place that should be nameless

where condominium men
with cool blue eyes
gyrate coiled bodies
gesturing lambs
and lions,   seething
mean stories
sordid in their constitution,
spitting
bottle blades
******, but still shiny
from sore mouths-  and the girls,
they laugh,    They say,  

          come to the abyss,
the Abbadon, the back of beyond

where their lips
pale white,      cuss the sun, defiant,
longing for it to drop from a sullen sky
and into the decaying harvest
of their itching hands    stained cherry wine,
burning to kindle it firelight

near train tracks and trees,
the woods  rubber band their veined
branches, waiting for my
sweating flesh to melt out
by open flames,    an accomplice
to a crowd ignited,
                caught by
a sickening kind of fearlessness,
I don't feel good here

in the beginning,
boisterous, screaming

leapfrogging steel rods
with pupils the size of ponds
while others
are left lonesome,
staring at the hypnotic wonder light
that comes with a tremor
through stale bones
they never wanted

those people always come back
with their hands
and fingers
and fists   and arms
still alive
******* air
with a frantic disillusion,
digging for cheap thrilled
pennies in their jeaned pockets
just to watch a copper body
tossed into affliction,

hoping a God will come down
with the feelings of gold instead, but

I am out late at a blue hour
there are no saints or deities
when swallowed drunken, I will not worship
in this kingdom,
swollen bright, layered with gloss,
the hemisphere of this realm is split in halves
to be seen twice like duality,
reminding me
there aren't idols high enough
to live in my heavens,
nor darlings too sweet
not to ******--   these prayers are damp
and intimate. not meant for a drop of water
over the complete sea
or the illuminated commander of a tide, no

for now
I'm feeling human, which
disturbs the transcendence of the grounded sort,
now all I hear is a disembodied      run

run
because the people here
remind me that I will always search for
something without knowing what it is,      run
because they are too close to who I am,

all of us can be seen
lynching limp smiles
from the top of our scalps,
left to sway
halfheartedly
in a grave gesture
of love
sent to the spirit of midnight
who unravels freedoms
and happy notions,

injecting calm dreams
into the arms of slumped and melancholy
purple silhouettes --  a rush of warmth

silent culture, shamed culture,

believing they don't have **** to say,
deadened people

their backs
are down
hard,
almost panting in language,
with a heavy thumping protest
of indecision,
which in the end is a decision
that will betray them, and I am
no different than the last

smacking their bodies
smooth into rough, pulling
on short toughs of grass grown in a clearing,
happily burning greens because
everybody's starving,
I'll die feeding a plentiful hunger.

when it's over,
we are whaling Kerouac lullaby's

a consumed and sallow generation,  
unknowingly gutted
by a clawed sadness,
heeding the suggestion of sedation
to ensure survival--
******, but pretty alive,    ****
is the new love, is a numb love

there's something terribly wrong here

we must look
gruesome to you, Visceral
exteriors,
nauseous,
prodding the hot metal
that fills the chasm of our teeth,
crying a choppy
metallic haunting
shaking like factory machines
and their overworked bodies
heaving chained clunks
through the throat

wishing for goodness
in between bile, to take up communion
where open spaces
are too cold and seeking

an unholy embrace,
otherwise ethereal,
unafraid of sacrifice,
I'll give you what's left of me--
                   you don't know what you've done,
whenever we touch,
it is always an absolution of life

a forfeiture      a creature to shoot
and put down when perceived
to be the lesser kind-  
             angry and hostile
in my own environment

asking why small gods
the size of bullets allow the fearful
to be their messengers,
who tell the people of neon
to Pacific
that runaway consciousness
is a rebellion of truth

yet,  no answer will ready me,
history says I can't keep straight,
if ever you came looking for my life,
I still wouldn't know the difference between living and dying--
the back of beyond is so far away
and the Abbadon is a war that never ends.

How we marvel at possessions, think they make the best impressions;
For with material things we establish a close rapport.
Can’t you see we are infected by this false truth we’ve injected
Into the minds we’ve neglected, directed by commercial lore.
“These things will make you happy,” says the preacher of commercial lore,
Only this and nothing more.

There are nights we sit there spying, through our computer screens buying
Bourbon, books, and onyx watches, razor blades and house décor,
Brilliant scarfs in bright vermilion, cowboy boots coated reptilian,
Stroll through any mall pavilion, civilians shop in every store.
Like clockwork we comeback again, millions spent in every store;
We always want something more.

Like in monopoly we aspire, the best estates to acquire,
So other players can look in envy at our great high score.
With the money we’ve been savin’, we want a home in New Haven,
So we sought a market Maven, craving a house on the shore,
A vintage house with wooden dock sitting calmly on the shore.
Can we find one that’s worth more?

Queerly we lust for assets, keep on buying have no regrets.
Are we dumb or blind or numb to keep doing what we abhor?
Statues shackled to cubicles, doped up on pharmaceuticals
****** fingers raw cuticles, we’re bulls for the matador.
He dances us round in circles, pulls the sword the matador
Is the one we all fall for.

But the Maven respectfully will encourage us helpfully,
“Follow your path of senseless sorrow, leave your qualms at the door,
Carry on with inhibition, keep working for that commission,
Please don’t mind your intuition, fruition comes from spending more.”
But like layered lies there’s a pea of truth on the mattress floor;
A princess would wake up sore.

We must move past our gluttony, and join the better company
Of men meek in spirit who act humbly like the days of yore.
Realize that joy stems from passion, not this sorry thing called fashion;
Embrace others with compassion to truly make our hearts soar;
And our souls from out the shadows can truly begin to soar.
Let’s be greedy – nevermore.

Some of the hardest things in life are impossible to see..
Feeling and emotions grow like the gnarled roots of an old tree..
Embedding in the soil on which they stand shedding their debris..
Leaves of happiness and joy mix with those of pain and agony..
As time goes by it becomes a layered pile of beauty and tragedy..
I admit it’s not a perfect system but this is how it had to be..

Cause if you never had a bad day then what would a good one really mean?
What else would give you the inspiration to break up a negative routine?
I finally saw this truth after avoiding it since the age of thirteen..
I stopped running once I came face to face with myself in a dream..
From now on I’m only sippin cocktails laced with self esteem..
I’ve released my addiction and sent it floatin down the stream..

I sit on one side of a splintered park bench,
its weathered plaque telling me
Harold Finch loved this spot
before dying.

My finger traces
my watch's sharp cracked crystal.
Scratches layered on scratches,
hard to tell if it's three o'clock or four.

Horns blare,
and sirens wail,
the city pushing through.

An ant scales my shoe-mountain.
This day's Everest.
His tiny legs a blur of purpose,
unaware of the danger that awaits.

Across the path,
a neglected hollow metal general
reigns over his dry, rusty fountain,
pigeons crowning him white.

Gumballs lurk in the lawn,
tiny maces waiting for tender feet.
Once, one got me.
I was seven.
My soda and tears
staining the soil brown.
Mother's embrace saying,
it's okay, it's okay.

Grass offers itself
to all that pass.
Two lovers lie back,
and melt into its willing green.

My foot pins and needles.
I shift against the hard bench.
Everest sits empty.

A lone bee zigzags past my shoulder,
hunting flowers
summer promised
but autumn stole.

Above, a hawk circles,
a black speck drifting
in empty blue.

Below, a squirrel stashes acorns
for a winter it will never see.

And a single red leaf
falls upward
into the blue,
unaware it is dying...

But I see
its shadow dancing.

I like your hands because your ******* is the prettiest
I like your eyes because there's a ring of forest green smoke around a pool of olive oil
I like the way your skin smells—
I can't even describe it—
it smells warm and it smells of you
I like your hair because it's layered like down feathers, it dances when you move
I like your feet because you can spread your toes out like a duck's webbed feet
I like your milky skin because you can see the tendrils of blue veins map across your neck and inner wrists
I like the shape of your face
I like your hair because I can't stop touching it
I like those birthmarks on either of your hands that can be connected together
I like how your cheek is soft and doughy
I like the shape of your eyes, the size of your palms
I love your voice, the distinguishable sound, the perfect tambour of your tone I could listen to you speak all night, all day
I like your strong hands and your lean muscular body
I like the way you toss back your head when you laugh sometimes
I like the lull of your heartbeat when my sleepy head is on your chest
You have five fingers on each hand just like me

it’s fresh sticks of vanilla deodorant,
cap’n crunch going on sale,
ladies selling mangoes in midtown,

it’s the pictures of baby cows,
the most specific dream tattoos,
documentaries about unsolved ******,

it’s an oxymoronic vegan cheeseburger,
striped shirts with a graphic one layered on top,
the clear memory of pacific air,

it’s all of robert smith’s hair,
prodigy kids on cooking shows,
stinging sunburns quickly fading,

it’s the perfume of onions and garlic sautéing,
smooth sidewalks where mom’s back is safe,
well-loved shoes that used to be white,

it’s an avocado perfectly ripe,
girls riding skateboards alongside boys,
rings that don’t turn fingers green,

its bras that won’t make memory foam of me,
jars full of change -- saving for something,
still going strong senior couples,

it’s an anthem that came up on shuffle,
the last clean socks without a hole,
chipped tooth smiles, snaggled ones too,

it’s just the word hullabaloo,
three new albums in a day,
someone else’s king sized bed,

it’s the **** pieces of loaves of bread,
an empty train after a long night,
dog tails that are just teeny nubs,

it’s sour candies and numb tastebuds,
weezer’s ever expanding discography,
end-of-day hair thrown into a bun,

it’s cobalt.
it’s b flat.
it’s twenty one.

it’s whistling.
it’s goosebumps.
it’s serendipity.

it’s getting out of the sound of the city,
untangling tiny necklace knots,
reuniting with my long distance cats,

it’s tongues to the tune of soundcloud rap,
learning a language even a little,
finally seeing real lighting bolts,  

it’s tourist dominoes when the train jolts,
finding keys -- being able to leave,
breaking in the most stubborn shoes,

it’s the empty after puking up *****,
flirting with customers and getting paid,
knowing every word and singing along,

it’s not breaking my friends’ bongs,
still doing cartwheels because i still can,
getting a thirty but taking an hour,

it’s waking up first, getting the warmest shower,
cutting my own hair, well, when it goes well,
having an umbrella when it starts to rain,

it’s getting out a demon stain,
taking pens from work, they don’t pay me
enough,
walking in to no lines at trader joe’s,

it’s picking things up with my toes,
learning the chord i’d been looking for,
tacking knick knacks on the walls,

it’s loitering in suburban shopping malls,
frosting cookies during christmas,
laughing for the first time in a while,

it’s getting told someone likes my style,
feeling a heartbeat other than mine,
sneaking in a second to breathe,

it’s witnessing every single thing,
picking through the good and bad,
and letting the little guys win,

it’s seeing.
it’s living.
it’s taking it in.

i am split between barely-different
desires, or rather,
equally-addictive inclinations:

you see, half of me wants nothing
but to strip away the sticky sweet
self-hatred, just say **** it
and be happy/
relive the day-after-day
same sensations, but this time
enjoy them freely, without the hesitation
usually harbored within,
fed again and again;

the other half of me wants to live
sort of slovenly: one day, purchasing
scarves and layered plaid garments,
hiding behind charcoal eye liner
and perhaps a full sleeve
of amateur ink (tree leaves changing
into full-piece stories);

half of me hates me, and the other
wants so badly to grasp hold
before I tumble full force
into the cracks out of reach from the future
created for me, by me, waiting
patiently.

Orange hazards blink in gloom
Autumn mist in early light,
Traffic cones direct the flow
Attenuators keep it tight.
Through the mist construction looms
A mighty swath comes into sight
A structure massive, incomplete
Sweeps past the Birdcage portal light.

Burrowed deep within the Park
Surmounted by its stark white beams,
The tunnel curves towards the Bridge
To emerge near the Victory screens.
Symmetry in huge largess
Biblical in size and form,
Built by puny hands of flesh
Man inspired, conceived and born.

Columns in the concrete mass
Loom as sentries, side by side,
Level in majestic sweep
Through the tunnel’s corner glide.
Massive beams locked overhead
Cap the roof’s gigantic clasp,
Reinforced by gridlocked steel
Bound within the concrete’s grasp.

Mounds of blue, congealed wet clay
Layered in an old sea bed,
Hauled away from ancient crib
By Fletcher excavators red.
Roaring diesel truck and tray
Loaded overburden high,
Water blasted ***** and span
Keeping highways clean and dry.

Monstrous cranes with hanging rig
Lower weights of ponderous steel,
Gently to the tunnel base
Led by Dogman’s coaxing feel.
Urgency in every move
Hard hats drill with diamond core,
Fixing massive panel slabs
To the looming concrete’s bore.

Well below incoming tide
Pounded by the drenching rain,
Four inch pumps snake to the sump
Ensuring flood control’s maintained.
Foremen bark and keep control
Hard hats share a secret smile,
Safety first for every man
Think before you lift that pile.

Gate girls smile at passers bye
Politely chiding those who stray,
Holding up a halting hand
With trucks inbound in hazards way.
Smoko at the Bowling Club
Murmur of a hundred souls,
Grubby in their hi vis vests
Munching on the caterers rolls.

Morale amongst the working men
Is high because they feel the cause,
A project that is so worthwhile
They KNOW that it  deserves applause.
Traffic roars above it all
Passing in a steady stream,
Brake lights on the viaduct
Cop cars flash and sirens scream.

This project has a consciousness
A Heart, a mind, a soul.
And an inspirational spirit
Which guides us to the goal.
To eliminate the bottleneck
In Auckland's traffic day
And to streamline the system
Of our vehicular motorway.

Politicians snarl right now
Champing at the huge expense,
But by next year’s finish date
Congratulations will commence.
The jewel in the crown they say
Is found within our park of green,
The Victoria Park Tunnel, friend,
Is a true magnificence, to be seen.


Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
5 February 2011

~

My pen pleads

Lonely nights offer moments of silence
and one dish suppers where candlelight seems a waste
Seated with pen in hand, I smooth the ruffles beneath
as if that will help the words flow

Upon closer inspection I find
heart shaped patterns on the dining room tablecloth
mimic the movements of my hand,
layered one atop another, calling on each to oblige

Crossing lines, intersecting at pre-destined points,
repeating in harmony with one another
as my thoughts gather in the tiny squares
of this colored graph paper staring at me, waiting

Moving in sync with butterfly curves on the corners
and scribbled etchings along borders,
fantasies of a mind in a dream state
swirl, touching each box of this formatted design

Folds neatly collect the shapes of spilled ink
seeping slowly through the cloth
like raindrops on a leaf following the veins
in an abstract yet confined flow

To the blurred eye sits nonsense,
a collection of nothing on a vast white sheet
dancing like uneven feet on a rounded floor
of no particular meaning or feature

Yet to me, my penned doodling calls loudly,
even in the darkness of lost words, these patterns,
as is everything found filling me is you…
and my pen pleads in heart shaped longings

“Half sick of shadows,” cried the Lady of Shalott,
half sick of darkness growing, doorways
twisting, with faces grotesque on yellow wallpaper

and speaking woe in whispers passed
dream-thin through limbs and veins and minds
because a window is a stop sign until

opened, and locks are stitches sewing chapped lips
tense as the web woven, intricate designs
layered vibrant color on a lonely loom in a tower

otherwise lightless, heavy with pressure,
bearing down on the Lady of Shalott and her art--
made up in the image of Camelot.

Papeles pa’ que los quiero

Si tengo mente pa’ pensar

I think therefore i resist

My humanity is not made of plastic, ink, paper or congress



It’s made of flesh, soul, sangre



Who will be a citizen?



            Silent tongues, grateful bowed heads, patient hands, traumatized spirits, beaten souls, tired eyes, tinted dollar bills, recycled cans, college degrees. Corporate dreams.



Who will you have to become now?

How many more masks should you wear?

Where will you leave your soul at night? Before the sun shines and you go off to Corporate America, soulless and blind.



Will you also be genetically modified? Layered, self censoring resistance thoughts… who will you be? Who will you have to be now?

beastly
you promised
to break me in
like a rich mans house
promised you were right
and liked to slide me under your shoe
and bring it down hard

thought I belonged
to the cracks I created
one second thought you won
you didn't expect me

beasty best
layered like mahogany
cobra dangerous
with the same weight as the sky
pounding canyons into skin
beat of the earth blood
glistened eyes threaten pray
subtle as thunder
black leopard sleek

my stare undoes you
I take you away in pieces

Have you seen my ring?
Its old now, and worn out
Its seen fights, and tears
Through the years, through every outcome
It sat right between my pinky and my thumb
Not the finger I used to point out what was going wrong
Or the one I used to say "I never loved you either"
It was on the next one, over.
I wore it proudly, it brought me a sense of worth
Now that its missing i'll move heaven and earth to find it
My hand is confused
That finger forever internally bruised
From the force of losing it so quickly
It thickly layered scarring on my heart
It is tarring me apart
I would give anything to find my missing ring

and my head surrenders

take my knife
that I so willingly abandon

take my armor
that I misuse;
never for protection

attempt layered on attempts
to steal my most prized possession..

but I may be standing in a battlefield
with my hands across my chest

It's not my life that is this see saw of emotional imbalance-
it's my day, maybe even tomorrow

but not forever

From fairytale princess gowns to feathery mini-dresses, bold skinny trouser looks and showgirl sequins, Bridal Fashion Week had something for brides of every size, shape and style inclination.

White reigned, as did classic silhouettes to please the most traditional bride. For everybody else, there were splashes of color, plenty of fluttery floral applique and sparkle, sparkle, sparkle.

Highlights from the Spring 2017 collections:

CHRISTIAN SIRIANO FOR KLEINFELD

After a smaller, capsule collection for the famed bridal shop, Siriano teamed with Kleinfeld again on a broader range.

His show stopper was a pricey pink ombre ball gown with a sweetheart neckline and skinny straps. As an evening wear designer, Siriano said bridal was a natural fit. He created in a range of sizes up to 24 or 26 — and a range of price points from about $3,500 to about $19,000.

Noting most dresses can be modified, he showed a lot of sleeves. There were long lacy ones on a column gown and a structured, off-the-shoulder pair in satin, embellished with tulle and strings of pearl.

One of his mermaid gowns included cascading ruffles. He used four tiers of ruffle at the bottom of a white, tailored suit jacket with matching boot-cut trousers.

Siriano also offered a range of hem lengths, from well above the knee in an appliqued mini to a fitted tea length with an ornate high neck and dramatic train.

In a backstage interview, Siriano said he's enjoying his first full push into bridal with the 27 pieces for Kleinfeld after focusing most of the time on evening.

"But the customer is so different," he said. "There's not as many rules. You can get away with trying new things, doing new things. It's a little fantasy dream world."

And what will Siriano wear when he weds his longtime boyfriend, Brad Walsh, at their Connecticut house this summer?

"I don't know. Literally we've got nothing," Siriano laughed.

INES DI SANTO

This was a **** runway dominated by sheers holding lots of floral creations in place. Romance meets sensuality is how the Toronto-based designer likes it.

While many of her looks were fit for royalty, complete with extra-long trains, she also ventured into over-the-top. An ultra-short hem with just one long lace sleeve had tulle skirting that skimmed the floor in back and leggings mismatched with floral embellishment, offering the appearance of one bare and one covered.

Spring itself was her inspiration this time around.

"The flowers, the garden, the beautiful trees, the sky, the sun," Di Santo said in an interview.

There were other vibes, in a sleeveless illusion Palazzo romper, for instance, with an encrusted bodice and dramatic detachable bell sleeves.

"I went very soft, romantic. You can see through the layers of the lace, the legs, the tulle," she said.

Like other designers, Di Santo included fit-and-flare looks along with sheaths, A-line silhouettes, halter necks and princess ball gowns.

Her backs and necklines were often illusion style, offering a barely there appearance. She included open bolero jackets for brides looking for a little cover, along with detachable skirt options for those who want to change up the outfit for the reception.

At the core of any bridal collection, Di Santo said, is how the dress speaks to budding love in marriage.

"It's so important," she said. "You can live without many things but you cannot live without love."



OSCAR DE LA RENTA

Designer Peter Copping is making his mark gradually at the storied Oscar de la Renta label, with a mind toward both preserving his predecessor's legacy and modernizing the label in his own way. In his bridal collection, Copping included some looser shapes — not everything was cinched tightly at the waist, princess-style — and even some short bridal gowns.

"I was thinking of the different women who are brides and the different ways women can get married," Copping said in a post-show interview, "because it's not always the same rules or traditions that people are looking for. So I think it's important within the collection to have a good cross-section of dresses, some short, some big columns, a real mix of fabrics."

Indeed, some of the gowns featured the sumptuous, extravagant embroidery for which the house is justly famous, and others featured much subtler embroidery for a more modern look.

"I think it was really just having a complete range of dresses," Copping said. The most striking were two short numbers, a nod to the popularity (and danceability) of shorter lengths, even if you can afford the big princess gown. "Yes I think it's popular," Copping said of the shorter length, "and I also think it's very relevant for rehearsal dinners, where a woman can still feel bridal the night before."

A highlight of the de la Renta bridal show is always the impeccably attired little children modeling flower-girl designs. "Having children here reflects what a real wedding is," said Copping.

And then there was Barbie.

Guests were sent home with the de la Renta Barbie doll, wearing a strapless white lacy column gown with a light blue tulle overskirt — something blue, of course. And in case you were wondering, under the skirt were some teetering white heels. No flats for this miniature bride.



REEM ACRA

For a bride looking to be just a bit daring, visible boning in corseting lent a uniqueness to some of Acra's fitted bodices.

There was an abundance of drama in ultra-long trains and encrusted sheer overlays. And Acra, too, offered a variety of sleeve options, including a web design on a snug pair that ended just above the elbow. The design, almost twig-like, was carried through to the rest of the full-skirted look.

Many of her dress tops were molded at the chest, bustier style, while she played with the lower halves. And some of her silhouettes fit tightly across the rear, sprouting trains where some brides may not feel entirely comfortable sporting one.

Acra put a twist on other trains, creating them to detach and also be used as veils. And she went for laced-up backs, both high and plunging, on some dresses.

In an interview, she called the collection "very airy, very light." Indeed, the stage lights during her show shone right through some of her dresses.

For the edgier bride, one who might appreciate the James Bond music Acra used for her show, she offered an unusual embroidered illusion gown adorned with pearls, white jewel stones and metal grommets.

Today's brides, she said, "have to have fun," adding: "She can't stress out about her wedding. Enjoy the ride and be the bride!"



MONIQUE LHUILLIER

There were lingerie-inspired elements here, too, with a touch of color in rose, pistachio, antique ivory and caramel. There were pops of fuchsia in bloom applique fitting for the outdoor garden where she staged her show.

Lhuillier decorated some organza gowns with hand-painted floral designs in asymmetrical layered tulle and silk organza. Deep necklines were prominent, with simple slip dresses offered along with bohemian gowns of lace and sheer skirts. Lhuillier also used corset bodices paired with cascading tulle skirts.

The collection felt like a chic romp, complete with high slits for a run through nature.

"My woman this season is in love and care free," Lhuillier said in an interview. "A little bohemian but just carefree."

The only clear trend in bridal these days, she said, is the need for designers to present more options.

"My core bride is somebody who loves femininity, she loves tradition but with a modern twist. And she wants something interesting with a lot of details," Lhuillier said.

There's definitely more fashion involved than when she began in bridal 20 years ago.

"One of the main reasons I got into the bridal business was when I was a bride in 1994, looking for a gown, I thought the options were so limited, and there was not a lot of fashion ideas," Lhuillier said.

Her bride doesn't want to be weighed down, however.

"She wants to look effortless," Lhuillier said. "But she wants to feel **** on her wedding day."

Are we all romantics on our wedding day?

"For me it's a really happy business," Lhuillier said. "We all are romantics deep down inside."



Associated Press writer Jocelyn Noveck contributed to this report.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-melbourne | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth

It’s a winter late noon,
Is it a town or a village?
Or, just a soft earthen box?
Soon everything is about to be wrapped by the twilight.
Birds are returning home.
And, I am here with my sum up anguish.
Under the grey carpet sky,
Trying to organize some puzzled thoughts,
scattered on my rainbow surface.
Thinking about the slash I once bore.
I remember the merciless soil has just smashed my flesh!
I often feel the rustling sound of human feet.
But no one is there to rescue me.
I am circling, circling…
around the emptiness!
Remembering my lost verses.
Embraced by the haziness.
Where am I?
Suddenly,
I hear the chirping sound of a bird.
Has arranged a cozy seat on my window.
Its emerald feathers are layered with endearment.
And the crystal eyes carry blessings.
I wonder is it a bird from paradise!

Vain love,
a low blow
hung in the air,
an echo.
Throwback,
Go ahead, laugh.
Still trapped,
all my selves still overlap,
layered lives,
thicker skin,
various fractal faces.

another year older
but it feels as if a life time has passed since i last stood in this place
my face hasn't aged
     per-say
just changed

there isn't a **** thing that stays the same
these days

the boys are going grey
the girls have all run away
and those who haven't
     stayed behind to master the art of procreation
we haven't been bright eyed kids
for quite some time now

we cry now
twice as often
and thrice as sly
our eyes stay dry in the daylight
for the sake of acting strong for those we love
but we'd love nothing more to unwind
to hide behind the curtains
     and watch our sorrows flow downward
forever pirouetting towards the sea

happy birthday to me

birthday cake taste like a musty wake
when layered with day-old whiskey breath
and somber advice for the future
shared by older souls
     my best-dressed celebration turned death-day contemplation by the ill-fated sands of time

hot ****
     i'm getting way too old for this ****

I wear my skin like a suit everyday
for underneath I am many people
but one, for the outer me which is
first to see.

It is new but over time rips do happen,
but sewed up kind of like new. Over
time it may crease, look old and worn
some times ***** but inside it is still me.

As  time passes is not the real me that
is just a suit I wear to the outside, for
those that dont look under, that only
care about the out side and what they
see is me.

I am many layers pealed back you
would notice that I have diffrent emotions
in each layer depending on how deep
you where to go.  Would you be happy
with what is seen.

To know me, is to know who I am on
the inside. What makes me tick, for
my skin is just one layer a suit worn
each day. To know me you have to
go beneath the surface to see the inner
beauty that is inside of me.

A world wide phrase known so well as a lie, but as I say this to you, a lie, is the furthest it can get from the truth
I will not curl my pinkie around yours like kids do in elementary, I will not look into your eyes and say these words because that's just too simple, I will spend my lifetime making you believe
Making sure you do not have the slightest doubt in me, in us, in this ring I'm putting on your finger, this I promise to you
I promise
I will kiss the tears off your cheeks when you cry, I will tell you you're beautiful over and over and over even though I know so well that you'll deny it time and time again
I promise
That every word coming out of those soft luscious lips will be heard, never ignored, and when you feel like you're free falling down to the rock bottom of your life, I will be there, arms outstretched and ready to catch you, cradle you in my arms, happily walking you down the path of the journey you're destined to take
Whether it means carrying you on my back like a backpack, on my shoulders like a toddler, or in my arms like a newborn baby
I promise
I will never live without you
I will never let go of those bright blue eyes so detailed like the deep color of the ocean water, illuminated by a layered color palette of sunset
The gleam of your soft, smooth dark brown hair that catches my eye every time will always be mine, the coconut smell so enticing I lick my lips and beg for more
I promise
To always follow along to the orchestrated love song your voice plays for me every time you speak
To never stray from the beat of the drum your heart pounds every time you breathe or the wonderful wave of your laughter that bounces on air with every joke
To never let any challenges come between us or keep us apart because I will always find my way back to you like a lost puppy looking for it's owner, a baby bird trying to find it's mother, or a turtle making its way to the sea
You will stay a tattoo on my heart and a stained picture in my mind, never once leaving my thoughts, always in my arms
I promise
To think of you when my eyes are open and when they are closed, as the sun rises and as the sun falls, and until the day that I die, I will use every breath I have to whisper I love you
I promise
I do

You were a poison
An exoskeleton of the lies you built around you
Your sole purpose; hate the world for the wrong done to you even if some of your pain was by your own hand.
A deadly plague infecting and wiping out the surrounding villages
You knew not of pure air
Just layered muck filled with pollutants, black tar and Crystal.
Oh how you loved Crystal
A true serpent with ice cold eyes
Luring in your victim and ******* the corpse dry
An endless circle of distraction, but you could never escape your mind.
Take a look back through history
Paints a clear image
All tyrants are brought down by a lesser Evil.
You too shall fall.

Sometimes I fear,
When looking up
At the leaves of my family tree
If I'll be just like them
As time unfurls me.

I wouldn't mind so much
If I was like my father,
A dry, cracked sun
Barely there but still attached,
Staying long after the strongest gusts.

My mother fell off
And was raked up,
So I'm not sure what kind she is.

My new mother is an oak branch
Grafted to a birch tree -
It's not always easy
To support what she gives, wants -
We aren't people of substance,
But with her we might just be.

I'm scared I'm like my sisters,
Full of holes and layered in eggs,
Shiny maggot pearls waiting to devour them
Until they are nothing more than outlines
Of something once green.

I was my brother once,
A bud adored by those who see him,
And unnoticed by the bees.

Walking in the damp wood
I see forests of families.
None like mine, yet I can't tell any apart;
For all have broken branches, buds,
Green, golden, dead leaves.  

Yet I know the shadow enveloping me
Has been cast by my own family tree.

I am made of saltwater and glass
and I am a hundred years old.
I breathe in your cigarette smoke
for a minute, you are in my lungs.
Stockpile warmth,
winter is coming to crack our hands.
The light trembles and dissolves
we are now in darkness.
When you left our eyes were still layered with sleep.
My fingertips still hum from the realization
that we are made less of flesh
and more of electricity.

One Thousand hands holding
One Thousand suitcases stuffed suffocating
One Thousand costumes and memories tethered to expectations,
One Thousand pieces left behind that
would not pass inspection like
fragments of self and habits to lean on,
One Thousand pairs of waiting eyes wistful and worn and wondering about
One Thousand ways to say goodbye,
One Thousand stories swimming in minds
reasons to stay devouring reasons to depart
parsing apart
One Thousand unfinished thoughts
stacked upon each other as layered
remnants of crumbling towers,
One Thousand coterminous beginnings and endings swallow
One Thousand middled narratives,
the taste of
One Thousand lives flavors the air
circulating in
One Thousand lungs huffing the
breath of
One Thousand neighbors estranged and silent save
One Thousand unsynchronized heartbeats
bleating and bleeding and belching
One Thousand rhythmic intricacies into
One Thousand hands holding
One Thousand suitcases.