Murva fashion collection introduced at Eco Fashion Week has been a life long process for Ivana Knezovic, Creative Director / Designer. This was not only the 29 year old Croatian designer's first collection, but also her first international performance.

She debuted her eco-friendly collection titled Rust & Flow on the runway at Eco Fashion Week in Vancouver, Canada. Her pieces are all made from eco-friendly wool flannel.

Ivana Knezovic made interesting use of symmetrical lines, and I admired the draping from the shoulders framing a dress low-cut in back. One dress had several parallel vertical cut lines on the backside.

Many of her tops had capes, hang from one shoulder or both, paired with slim pants or a skirt. A nice touch of dramatic flare as the models moved down the runaway.

“Fashion design was always in me,” say Ivana Knezovic. Having resided in New York, Toronto, and Switzerland, designing was something she always wanted to do. "Murva is the name of a tree in my village. My company represents a return to my roots, to who I am at my core."

"I like structure. I like hiding the body behind some kind of a structure," said the designer who makes all her own clothes and cosmetics. "Eco is a product of maturity and of wholeness that you can only achieve when you really and truly grow up."

As a designer, she told me that she strives for “pure minimalism,” yet her eco-fashion designs are made for a sophisticated, minimalistic, and determined woman.

Exactly what the eco-fashion movement needs.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2015

Purge your unclean self
Your existence does not depend
On the judgement of others
You are the beauty created
For something long before you were born
Life depends on you
You are what you aspire to look like
Appearances fail when you forget
That time is an illusion
Seasons are fleeting
But you will reign red-blooded
The eyes follow every angle
Seriously believe in your immortality
The skinny boy on the runway
Believes
Invincibility
Inevitably forever
This is heaven
This is hell
Death is forever
Life lasts beyond eons
Your beauty is worn on your soul
Be it an old familiar jacket
That has toured the world
Be it a minimalistic shift
Worn moments before you were deflowered
Photographs will create the verdict
You will be weighed
You will be measured
Perfection is possible

Notes on your window
So subtly appear
As though they came from thin air

No rhyme, but reason
A familiar flick of the e's in everything
Glimpse of hope

A handwriting technique you know well
Smeared ink against the fibers
Calling out for one last message

They seem to procreate every few weeks
A simple one
Minimalistic hopes of something

Nothing more to lose
Just a note on your window
Signed by a smeared "O"

Have you ever been
overwhelmed by such a
feeling of nostalgia, blanked
the color blue and a song, a smell, the
light from the windows from so long ago
when you were young and the clothes you wore
were tight, stretchy and entirely juvenile but
the easiness,
minimalistic heart
what were you worried about then?


what was I worried about then?

some say it's called dart-eyes, a kaleidoscopic venture
that might leave you myopic, oddly enough i know
that people say a lot of far fetched things,
   and the excuses are usually metaphors,
there's the literal cardinal,
the literal spanish inquisition,
  and metaphors of demons in the bible -
          i still want to experience a fully
theocratic world: where man's words come
forth from man, and god's words come from
the mouth of god... again: poetry without
a god is like biology without chlorophyll,
   no one even suggested a kneeling process and
ardent prayer to be invoked,
     all it took was a spare thought away from
the daily commute and the daily invigoration
from some sort of ethic, oddly enough it always
ends up being an ethic of work...
   i guess that's why in the west everyone is
nearing an addiction thoroughly apparent that's
named workaholism... once the relationships
fail, the only saving string of hope is work,
an absurd work ethic, because wouldn't you
take a syringe filled with ink and do shifts in an
office beyond the norm, thus entering the world
of night shifts and anything else antisocial?
   people can't really be friends, we're fired up
toward formal relationships and what's guiding us
to these relationships is hierarchy...
              oddly enough the Aztec or Mayan
pyramids don't have that sort of feel to them,
they don't prescribe interpretations of hierarchy,
quite the opposite,
     ask someone who doesn't have a conquistador
heritage to explain that they are:
  the gallows... guillotines... the tyrant is not
buried within, these aren't caves to entombing a
tyrant with all his riches...
      there are no chambers in these structures...
they were intended as architectural symbols of
common law... those presumptions European
*******... human sacrifice? a myth...
these were sights of capital punishment,
you stepped out of line: you'd get your heart
carved out and your body would drop from
the execution altar down the steps for
           the scavenger mob to tear you apart
even further: had you transgressed communal
consent... justice has to become overpowering
but that does not mean we carve a mount
Rushmore akin to the statues of the valley of
the kings of enthroned pharaohs...
  much of ancient Egypt lingers in what we
call "modernity"... esp. in America...
             and the world is currently establishing
itself into cold war ii (i said that once,
can't remember when)... and until this is firmly
established, that it's clearly accepted that we're
dealing in a cold / intellectual war, then
we'll pass all that intelligence and engage in a hot war /
and emotional war, as characteristic overflowing
of populism, which at present times: has
all the coordinates, but no proper vector to
allow a congregational march toward impeding
dangers... but better a second cold war than
a third world war... so much of ancient Egypt
in America... the washington memorial for one...
what's the other name for it? ah... obelisk;
or what the pagans built to counter the fear of
impotence: well... we've established a bountiful
supply of humans... can we do a floral pattern
now? oddly enough we embraced tomb-pyramid
builders from the north-eastern side of
Africa's brain-dead region, and trusted
conquistadors wiping out a people that used
pyramids to stress the importance of law:
i can't see no reason to think that those pyramids
were intended for human sacrifice...
capital punishment? well, d'uh... because wasn't
Golgotha so unspectacular as to be less
than what it was? had they crucified him in private,
in some back-alleyway crucified to a door,
would history open its doors to the advent of
Christianity? don't think so.
what i'd really love to see is people with
necklaces of silver, and the thing dangling on them
would be a different torture mechanism...
an iron maiden... it's like prescribing pain is
necessary... it's a dogmatic ruling on a once upon
a time (even the briefest) chance of happiness...
but even then certain philosophers say:
why be happy, when you can be interesting?
how interesting do you have to be so many times over
to not even wish for a stillness of neither want
nor drive to go beyond what you already have?
i don't know if this is an adequate comparison,
but in terms of interesting...
   a movie (side effects, 2013) utilises only two songs
in its official title:
   the focal point of a ******
       is staged to a "sleepwalking" woman preparing
a dinner for three (only two people are in the apartment),
the song? thievery corporation's the forgotten people...
i knew the band prior, and i've seen the film
before... but i never bothered to watch the credits...
i remember the odd couple who'd sit in cinemas and
engage in watching the end-credits, always the one
odd bunch: as if saying thank you to all the people
involve... a quick stroll through a graveyard is probably
comparably akin....
   and the other song? Bach's
   orchestral suite no. 2 in B minor, bwv 1067 -
     but i can't remember whether it's actually featured
in the film, simply because there's no focal moment
in the film where it can be heard as prominently as
the first song... and then there's thomas newman in
between (no surprise);
but a film like that is a meditation...
             if only two songs are used, chances are
the dialogue will have many strengths, because there
will be a multiplicity of consistent reinterpretation,
a bit like talking into a Tate Modern and seeing
Rodin's the kiss statue (inspired by Dante's divine
comedy), sketching it from the northern perspective,
the southern, western and eastern perspectives...
    i've seen few films that accredit a very minimalistic
soundtrack... on that note, how songs could literally
be translated into film titles: side effects - the forgotten people,
  dead poets' society - carpe diem, american beauty -
any other name, are there others? there probably are.

but that's nothing compared to last night's antics...
   some people climb the Everest... clap clap clap...
some people design super-suction vacuum cleaners...
clap clap clap...
                    from time to time i solve sudoku drunk
(no clapping)... but there's a narrative involved,
the narrative goes when you try to map out solving
one of these 81 "rubic" squares... applause for
speed with these babies like applause for premature
*******... aren't they compatible?
   we all have limitations, mine came yesterday,
when i allocated superscript numbers to the journey,
quiet literally an optical tangle, i should have used
       things like ª ' “ ‘ ¨ † above the plotted line...
but it only takes one mistake to ground you
   and then you have to go back and make minute corrections,
as the notes themselves suggest (crazy eyed darting):

exhibit a.

0    0    0    0    0    2    7    0    0
0    0    0    0  ­  4    0    0    2    0
2    0    5    1    0    7    0    0    8
0    9    0    0    0 ­   0    2    0    1
7    0    0    8    0    0    0    6    0
0  ­  0    6    0    7    0    5    0    0
4    0    8    7    0    0­    1    0    0
0    1    0    0    0    5    0    0    0
0    0 ­   9    0    1    0    3    0    0

   exhibit b. html that doesn't allow subscript
            or superscript notation, hence the brackets
   denoting movement (pending)

9 (24)    0          3 (23)    0    8 (5)    2    7    1 (2)    0
1 (12)    8 (8)    7 (9)      0    4          0    0    2          0
2            0         5            1    0          7    0    3 (13)   8
8 (7)       9        4 (18)     0 5 (33) 0    2    7 (1)      1
7            5 (16) 1 (14)     8   2 (20)   0    0    6           3 (21)
3 (19)    2 (17)  6            0   7           1 (15)  5           8 (6)    0
4            3 (27)  8           7   0            0         1            5 (28)    2 (26)
6 (30)    1          2 (22)   4 (31)    3 (32)    5    8 (3)    0    7 (11)
5 (29)    7 (10)    9    2 (25)    1    8 (4)    3    0    0

      it is no surprise that the notation played a key part
in having failed to map out the route taken,
       when you're using numbers in a puzzle
  it's almost an inevitable path to failure,
since you're making superscript "bookmarks" at
high concentration, and without any distinction to
what the puzzle demands, hence you go "cross-eyed"
  in solving the puzzle, and superscripting your progress
using the same symbols that are required to solve it,
but given that the puzzle involves 81 slots
  with 9 x 9 identical components (only so rearranged
  to be not contradict the rule of the puzzle
i.e. 9 symbols in each square of the nine in total,
   with a 9 x 9 variation on all linear arrangements not
involving two similar symbols, i.e.
   1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9, rather than 1 2 2 3 4 5 6 7 8) -
what became a hope to correct the mistake, but given
the intricacies of the progress, all the more harder to
recount steps and subsequently move forward with
   the spotted error...
hence a refresh, and the need for schematic,
given that there are 81 slots in total, with
     27 already in place, and given that there are 26
units of alphabet... how handy to actually persist in
using these characters, but adding diacritical variations
to make up 54 necessary, without invoking
      a 10 or a sz...

exhibit c.

0    0    0    0    0    2    7    1ą    0
0    0    0    0 ­   4    0    0    2    0
2    0    5    1    0    7    0    0    8
0    9    0    0    0 ­   0    2    7α    1
7    0    0    8    0    0    0    6    0
0 ­   0    6    0    7    0    5    0    0
4    0    8    7    0    ­0    1    0    0
0    1    0    0    0    5    0    0    0
0    0­    9    0    1    0    3    0    0

exhibit d.

nb. α = 1, ą (ogonek) = 2, á (acute) = 3, à (grave) = 4,
â (circumflex) = 5, ä (umlaut) = 6, cedilla missing,
   ã (tilde) = 7, b = 8, c = 9, ć = 10, č (caron) = 11,
ĉ (circumflex) = 12, ā (macron) = 13, ç (cedilla) = 14,
d = 15, e = 16, é = 17, è = 18, ê = 19, ě = 20, ë = 21,
f = 22, g = 23, ǧ = 24, ḡ = 25, ĝ = 26
         (now i figure, could have used Greek... d'uh!
ahh, i'll use it for the finishing touches),
        h = 27, i = 28, ı = 29, í = 30, î = 31, ï = 32, μ = 33
j = 34, δ = 35, k = 36, λ = 37, ł = 38, τ = 39, n = 40,
ń = 41, ñ = 42, o = 43, ō = 44, ø = 45, p = 46,
q = 47, r = 48, s = 49, γ = 50, φ = 51, χ = 52, ψ = 53, ω = 54.

before i begin the puzzle... there's a reason why a caron
g (ǧ) might exist, and why a grave z might not...
   and why there's a piquant difference between
an acute z (ź) and ż - depending on the aesthetician,
who decides to move away from the national linguistico-aesthetic
dogma... for example the name George,
orthodoxy states you must learn the aesthetic version
of Grze'gosz... but you would also be able to write
the alternative: Ǧegoš - given that rz is equivalent to ż,
    and given that there is no grave accenting of z,
but there is the acute (ź), perhaps you could consider
the dot a convergence point that could assimilate
sound, immediately over the caron g... of course none
of these remarks are intended for application: because
they would never reach a consideration in a learning
curriculum of any nation, a whimsical idea derived from
the remnants of the esperanto experiment...
  from what i can see, ǧ would equal grz, and
the reason that rz exists at all, and it equivalent to ż
is because a grave version of z is missing, and that
the acute z (ź) exists, and there is no point of balance
that otherwise is the foundation of the caron...
  i wouldn't have thought focusing on such "trivial"
signs above letters provided so much pecking-orders.

exhibit e. focal points in greek notation

9ǧ    4ñ    3g    6o    8â    2    7    1ą    5τ
1ĉ   ­ 8b    7c    5p    4    3q    6ń    2    9ł
2     6γ     5      1      9r    7    4n    3ā    8
8ã    9    4è    3s      5ψ   6ω    2    7α    1
7    5e    1ç    8      2ě    4ø    9ō    6    3ë
3ê    2é    6    9λ    7    1d      5    8ä    4k
4    3h     8    7     6χ    9φ    1    5i    2ĝ
6í    1    2f    4î     3ï      5     8á   9μ    7č
5ı    7ć    9    2ḡ    1     8à     3     4j     6δ

thus completed: there's a reason why the majority
of the narrative is done utilising diacritical marks,
i could have used many more distinct symbols,
but the point is: there are very few focal points
that can be ascribed distinct markings,
most of the puzzle is done on the basis of "crazy eyes",
i.e. darting eyes - focal points do emerge after
much darting about the squares, notably when
a linear sequence is completed, or whenever one of
the 9 squares is completed, or when all nine squares
contain nine 7s or 8s...
      or that's one way to go about not having any whiskey,
the rain pouring outside, and the night stretching
into a near eternity -
            
exhibit f. narrative of correction, actual excerpt

it began at h, i.e. labyrinth corner no. 27,
******* trainspotting! this is going to be like reading
the time for the next train to arrive at Waterloo!
  5(28), 5(33)?, 5(28),
  6(30), 4(31), 3(22), 5(33), 33? 9(38), 4(34),
  6(35), 4(36)...
6(41) < 4(40) < 5(39) < 9(38) < 9(37)....
       4(42) < 6(43) < 9(44) < 4(45) < 5(46) < 3(47) < 9(48) < 3(49) <...>
   6(58) > 9(51) < 6(52)...
        longest period spent on 3(13) / ā -
   and the notation that gave way to this spiral?
5(33), which actually ended up being 5(53) / ψ.

A

words and spaces and punctuation

when the time comes, a drunk will speak
more sanity than a sane person is
capable of, then we'll be ripe to talk about insanity,
and incapable of "treating" it.

it's not really about the beard,
well, it sorta is...
i grew mine so i could fiddle with it...
which puts me in a position
where i say: violinist, in the classic fm
philharmonic!
i'm thankful that i was able to grow a beard,
no, not to look "trendy",
****! i was about to ditto in the word cool...
you never realise how much vogue
and indeed: fashion, gets invested in
when we're not talking about clothes
but about a person's vocabulary...
yep, so i'm 30 and have a beard:
or let's just say, ****** hair had the same texture
as ***** hair...
the gods are laughing,
how to discover exist, become so self-conscious
that you're able to tell a joke,
and then laugh back...
       that's why philosopher have beard,
you can just see it in them,
wait a minute: **** consistancy hairs
are growing on my chin!
  mortal have that poker hand ready
and waiting for the existence of gods,
   a Frankenstein momentum...
it's funny... so we just keep on enjoying ***...
   and the reason why i wasn't distraught
about the Fritzel case? i read
marquis de sade's ******* novella...
that doesn't mean i don't think about
       being a spec, a second in Hades' lava lamp
reincarnation flow... like we, really are:
recycled goods...
          laughing about it gives us armour...
reincarnation is so Hindi, i'm
about sport a bindi (that red dot on the forehead,
that macedonian wish we were **** with an
empire, shindig setting sun)...
you're the one talking to me in braille...
i'm  a half-wit trying to compensate the conversation
with an observation:
modern life looks like a revival, or an attempted
revival of the art of dialectics...
humanity is really trying to revive dialectics,
or as the platonic dialogues seem to suggest:
find the right enough of people...
find enough people to agree with you,
there's absolutely no mention of disagreement
in the platonic dialgues...
well... they're really monologues...
back to square 1...
                      it's hard to envision a dialogue
between people, it's even harder to stage
a dialogue, given that we'd have to
take to the art, or quasi-geometry...
and have to constatly fake it happening,
by faking it i mean acting as we really
cannot disregard our apathetic communion
toward the mere act of talking...
    dialectics is an art form... and it's begging to be
revived... but it seems to be failing in
an attempt to revive it...
                        everyone is just shouting
over each other, exchanging insults...
  joking... apparently comedy is trying to slow
things down, comedy is a pseudo-art-form
that's more arty than art itself, it's fartsy...
   who could have thought a **** (**** in polish means
luck) would ever make people laugh...
  we're all in the slaughterhouse askin idol guillotine
to: lay to rest, make ammends,
                say something, something profound,
if not prophetic.
              i just see a chat show host grappling
with an interviewee about how to engasge with
a dialectical art,
   we do live in very artistic times,
people call it minimalism,
they draw a square and you're expected to say
it's profound... because the art of dialectics
doesn't exactly agree to taking offence...
   it means retracting from the fictive monologue
of writing books...
it's a biblophobe movement...
        we're talking retraction,
we are saying: marriage doesn't do it for us anymore...
i'm trapped, in this world, and i have a stash
of 2000+ years of memory that i'm asked to
revise / improve on...
     you expect any different, from what i'm doing now?
people are in want of dialectics,
  they are bored of group therapy yoga....
and they're tired of being treated like
canned laughter... or an audience
with prompt cards they later don at political
rallies...
  like: when to laugh, followed by a t.v. editor
telling some minion: prompt the verb laugh
at an audience at a big brother show...
   i'm drunk, but i'm not stupid,
actually, being drunk and writing this makes
me ulta-conscious... i wouldn't say
intelligent... i think of myself as a sieve
most of the time... but you know, life, life gets
in the way and you sometimes a few
stupid mistakes, that you are thankful for.
i can't remember the last time i used
a dictionary... or a thesaurus...
       and i opened the fridge door about 100
times before i opened the front door...
and walked to the shop
where the cashier knows my name...
i'm like Bilbo Baggins who decided to stay
at home and said: ******* adventure!
i'm staying home and reading J. Joyce.
   we can't find dialectics, no more than we
can ask for a socrates real, by reading plato.
but it's nice that plato suggested that
philosophy could be theatre, i.e. staged,
made into a dialogue...
     just when we were bound and keen to
our sophistry, to our rhetoric,
and felt no emotional content could be bound
by mere talking...
     dialectics is a shade hanging over modernity,
i can't read a sun-dial with it hanging
over us... why art is so ritually minimalistic,
because this one art-form is missing...
no one is going to approach dialectics
is there isn't a real case for expressing empathy
and merely rooting it in: a need for comedy.
that halo-of-an-oasis is going to dry up...
(yes, written while under the medical care
of a headache... that **** is just lodged in my ****
and is teasing me... come out you little
cupcake, i'll flush you down the toilet, pronto!
or as the poles say it properly:
gówno przez ciebie gada / ****'s talking
through you... oh gladness, the oven bound parasite
booked for 37 degrees of the body's high-end
of temp.) -
but it's being staged as we speak,
   an art form, deviating from up-start and on the ready, go!
art of rhetoric...
               modernity is equipped with competent
talkers... persuasive and gnat-like annoying
with their provocations...
  what's missing is dialectics...
  how one side can question and become almost
mermaid... dragging someone into nodding
if not clapping approval...
      we can all agree that some people do talk
with the art opf rhetoric being almost
self-taught... ******...
                     dialectics is so much stranger...
it's an art of speaking that has become
      like a dusty moth infested ******
of a 80 year old nun...
                     she bakes great cookies though,
let her off.
               it's not that we're even having
these discussions, we're slobbering a chance of having
one with lies, shouting and "in your face"
dynamics... it's not even that we can
imitate plato enthralled by socrates, constantly
agreeing, going: aha, yup (nod nod nod,
******* pigeons)...
                    we positioned ourselves for the basis
of having to express hostility...
       because to have reached such a freedom
as we have, that we dare to call it: esteemed,
or highly regarded as in need of improvement,
or redefining.
  we seem to be unable to say why we
can't resurrect dialectics...
           all the talk-shows on a late friday night
will not answer that question...
     i'll spot the Halley's moment though...
a comet known as Hailey (hey! bruce lee)...
        when artists return to less abstract concerns,
we have all the science we'd need...
   can the arts stop contemplating new york
traffic grids, and ******* stops
and we return to celebrating the human form?
   it will really be something to see
dialectics... i.e. with one person so persuasive
that the other person doesn't argue...
    and i mean that as a concept anti despotism
without a massive throng of people doing
a political mantra chant of sheep, herd, approval.
it's like that question about consenting to ***,
that part of you that says: can i actually
think this?

shades of hues so dark, yet iridescent, lined the minimalistic realm during the era of the Grays.
each Gray wore gray clothes
ate gray food
thought gray thoughts
and could only think in terms of black and white… and gray.
there were no rules, simply because no one was unhappy with the way things were.
happiness was trivial;
trivial like a pale shade of pink managing to make its way into the spectrum of the Grays
or trivial like the way a Gray would see that pastel and disregard it entirely.
it did not exist.
happiness was trivial, smiles were trivial, balance was necessary.
balance, balance, balance.
order, order, order.
creativity did not exist.
creativity was not a word.
if a Gray’s words had no obvious meaning, they were disregarded, because they were incomprehensible. Words not in terms of black and white were seen as red, seen as blue, seen as green,
but never seen at all.
magnitude.
the magnitude of something’s potential depth was measured by their ability to disregard anything not pertinent to what a Gray should believe.
a Gray must be Gray, must be pensive, must be reserved.
a Gray must be tedious, must be timid, must be poised.
a Gray must be obedient, must be trusting, must be trusted.
a Gray must not see red, or blue, or yellow, or green, or purple, or indigo, or orange,
especially not cerulean or magenta or cyan or mauve or tangerine.
the Grays evolved from Whites, from Blacks
the degenerating masochists of times before
the Grays could not look down, nor up, nor in between, or sideways, or vertically, or around
they could not think what to possibly think of what these people before them may have thought about thinking and thoughts
and couldn’t bear to think about all of this thinking
so the Grays did not think about thinking
they lived for the sake of living
they breathed for the sake of inhaling, exhaling
inhale
exhale
inhale
exhale
inhale
­ exhale
but somewhere
somewhere in that Gray society
a young Gray began to breathe
exhale
inhale
exhale
inhale
and opened his eyes
his blue, blue eyes
and brought thoughts of color
to every Gray’s mind
lightened the world with light
opened the world to chance, to luck, to love
exposed the world to color, to beginnings and ends, to loss, and to destruction
and cried tears of red, of blue, of yellow, of green, of purple, of indigo, of orange,
       especially cerulean and magenta and cyan and mauve and tangerine
flooding the world with possibility
flooding the world with creativity.

Mundane chatter and VHS tapes
Renaissance iron and tired eyes, awake
Lying on the carpet
Minimalistic sandwich
Lying to the paw print
Cannibalistic light switch

I walked into Cartier
Dark Blood Red
was their trademark
It was sophisticated

I had a catalogue of rings
placed in front of me
I was presented options
but you were clean and minimalistic
Rose gold, I thought

Visuals like merchandising projecting
our conversations on dresses, themes, flowers
how we'll travel the world, have a home
how our daughters will have my eyes
your nose and our names

we sat at the bay front
had a long conversation till 3 am
discussing how we are going to allocate our daughter's time with our parents, classes -
if they are going for ballet or musical classes

It was certain,
the air was greeted with a breeze
in silent acknowledgement

until now,
I only can blame
how some words fall apart
like the world does everyday

how love is never enough
how we are never enough
how I will never be enough

even if my bones are sore
to its nerves, I will be
Happy for you.


(I heard you are having a baby
I heard you are having a family
I heard you are happy & you chose her) - echoing

i'm not here to joke about the stance of creationism, i know that secular society admits to the pillar of atheism, a- i.e. without theology, but i mind to not be concerned with the bishop's mitre or the pope's ironic kippah - i just look at my library and think of aeroplanes, the creative process was there, these books are stones you can enter and stretch your feet up, the person in question is now a persona non grata, out of natural constraints, namely mortality and death; creationism is not so much about originating into what i call a limited readers' digest - you can hardly be creative citing only one book, why just one? is this trampoline worth jumping on? why not bungee jump with some other book into the abyss? aeroplanes, books, you see the **** thing stacked on a shelf, and you have to play the role: in the end there was sound, and the sound was with man, the only currency of rubric coherency among animal instincts and lack of insight to digress from seasonal stimuli like the grizzly bear nearing the end of spring preparing for hibernation, hence our insomnia; look, the book is like an aeroplane, and you're the delayed sound feedback, but the magic is the fact that there is no authority holding you back, you interpret it as you feel constrained by an idiosyncrasy when brushing your teeth, writing is the foremost expression of something about you being dispossessed, you write from the standpoint / angle of particular, but you write to reach the plateau of universality: obviously you will feel disgruntled should your particularity leave no tsunami or earthquake or an atom bomb of influence (you think i don't?) on the plateau of universality; and to sound ironically even more biblical than necessary: i will walk on the plateau of universality and i will only fear myself... let death take the valley and god with it... i'm talking about the deity of solipsism, akin to Sisyphus, namely Solipssus (Σoλιπφυς) - you're the delay and with origin (0, 0) coordinating what creativity once was, regressed and shut in the cemetery of Tartarus that the library is, the aeroplane in plain sight... whistle a tornado with your book of choice!

whatever the father intended for the son,
ex *ecce **** of pilate
and the washing of hands at the mosque
to fulfil the temptation prior to prayer -
Hemingway spoke of the centurion's
act of pity with the spear piercing the lung
in a chapter from the book men without women;
whatever the father intended for the son
came to pass, hence the inquisitions and
the sheep-herding conglomerate of the holy
populace, not a person, but a gathering,
the membrane of these church-going folks
required a blind Samson to shake things up -
bring the temple of petulant whims into
a standstill saying: enjoy the weekends and
the theme parks.
i could never become a performer,
we deem universality of the shades for each man,
i know entertainers have a immunity
like ambassadors when on stage -
the bass line from the new paul simon's
L.P. wristband is gratifying, minimalistic,
the way i like to claim all music
to imitate strippers, feng shui hits in the basket,
maybe... maybe... maybe.
and should poetry create an imitable orchestration
of all the musical instruments in a band
or orchestra through the onomatopoeia flute
sometimes adding a definite meaning
with words, so be it, but still, a voice to match
to an army of instruments coordinated,
it will be hard to create a concert hall audience
for encore and deafening applause -
you see the plot now, don't you -
poetry for the shy punching bags, poetry
neither for heroism or gambling, both
shared a womb and both shared a tomb;
but this auxiliary trinity i'm speaking of,
never mind the father or the son, we're trying
to encapsulate the holy spirit, or should
i say the zeitgeist - for it is a zeitgeist of
switching the years around at spring for harvest,
an hour forward, when a strange anomaly to
change dates - and the kingdom of china
didn't bow, nor india - even though satan
promised all kingdoms - these two didn't
bow and i am thankful for their stance -
so if the holy are to be left holy and unimpressed
by a lack of dialectical stimuli - holiness is primarily
a non-engagement with dialectics,
secondary to that the horrid synonymous approach
of treating the concept of sin as both immoral
and criminal... well... it can't be both,
i can understand forgiving immorality,
but forgiving criminality would only translate
as the unnatural collapse of the profession of law,
all the lawyers and judges would end up as hobos...
so watching a music program (on t.v. it starts well
near the midnight mark, so you want to be hip
stay up late, foraging on the internet solo will
not necessarily give you a wide range of chinese whispers
to gather new influences, stuck in the grunge rut of
the early 1990s, e.g.) - and it came to me,
creativity now a stasis, nothing is really changing
in terms of what's new, unless it be primarily in art,
new art and abandoned auditoriums of former trends,
digging themselves out of and into a cemetery -
so this zeitgeist has to be accounted for -
out of holy must come something destructive:
δημιουργικoς ψυχη (alt. πνευμα) -
             the creative soul (alt. spirit) -
the artistic community is in shambles over-reacting
to a lack of creativity in this world,
their atheism repressed, unimpressed, reveals
a hope for every new big bang a minute by minute contrast
of the whole inertia surrounding them -
but never did a single man provoke a question
that tailored all the answers - no theory of everything
could be a chauffeur for the ride -
so indeed when half the potential is asserted by deviations
in the obstructions via holiness and lack of
argument to represent a clarity, another half is lodged
in a constant strife to overladen immovable mountains
and inert stones with a spirit of creativity -
it's not a holy spirit, it's a spirit of desecration,
or constant creation with subsequent equal constant
destruction - i find this spirit of more interest -
this zeitgeist to be perpetuated, esp. since it existed
prior to a.d. in the realm b.c., and continues to be pursued,
more ardently, given the declining number of
worshippers in Anglican churches - the final abandonment,
which create a strange picture with Evangelical
ardency in what is deemed the most progressive country
on earth.

Minimalistic ventures
  are more
full of meaning.

Than a room
full of
            false possessions.

the first time tristan tzara put his hand
into a bag with clippings from newspapers
of individual words and started rapping
at the cabaret voltaire,
after william burroughs extended this
method and instead jumbled up paragraphs
and even sentences rather than single words
to avoid being poetically terse:
and later proclaimed that writing is 50 years
behind painting... you can still get
it wrong in terms of defining the mood of
an era of a method... preceding them was
piet mondrian - with that new york grid
depiction in the vein of minimalistic cubism...
just squares and lines... what tristan tzara
stumbled upon was how to translate a jackson
*******, or a kandinsky with words into words -
the chaotic splatter of colour into ink monochrome;
it really isn't that easy to write out a jackson *******,
it requires a sort of automation, a knowing automation,
it's primarily intuitive - you don't know what
the exact content will be in each case, but you do
know that you're writing in a context of translating
your very own kandinsky - even though you're
not necessarily looking at an example of kandinsky's work;
but let's be pedantic, first tzara, then mandrian,
then burroughs, the painters retreated into
mathematics and a theory of colour, putting them
on equal footing with plato's theory of forms,
but to get the setting, poets scout, poets are scouts,
writers of fiction are the actual army, who
come with bulging sentences, clear depictions
(clearly blood will be shed, the uproar of two sides
clashing and the sharpening of swords
and the swift swooning down of sharpened pin-like
arrows with hussar wings to frighten even more),
poets scout the new territories - the plateau
is never jumbled in fiction, such writers set out
with clear vision and aim at running for miles
without anything changing, but scouts enter
difficult terrain... many twists, many turns,
such obstructions as trees, mountains, bees
butterflies and seances of witches, not to mention
gnarling wolves - for these scouts are obstructed
by images, and because of that, some of them
report very little for the army of paragraph
hunters... but some join rank with them,
after all the scouting is done - they too take up
a weapon and stand shoulder to shoulder
with the giants like tolstoy - although lessening
the narrator's role a little.

1
In constant consonance
Love, in it's minimalistic sonata
Plays a slow stitched waltz
Into the cough syrup
Haze of memories

2
When love was just a
Second-hand suggestion
A rebellious rose
Reaching recklessly
For a remarkable reaction
Finds a score left unfinished
From years past

3
In pointe shoes
Two bodies dance a
Painful coloratura
Yet in the midst of
This pa de deux
Love remembers contentment

Beautiful day...even though it rained. A Robin flew above my head as I toiled in the dirt....stains and tears in my flannel shirt and quite a song he sang - my feathered visitor in the rain. A tale of our life - simple and humble - minimalistic by your design...never turned others away ... I thought the bird a sign. Every single moment of every single day...was better because you were here. You were the rock on which I leaned upon - who sheltered me from pain..I relied upon you ...admired...respected...and loved you with all my heart. So much like you - as I look at my ***** hands making clean money...I hope you're proud of me. Thank you for the reminder my sweet bird ...I hope to fly away with you one day...just not yet. Finishing my work - the bird finally found his way out - I knew exactly what he was talking about.      Cherie Nolan - 2016 * All Rights reserved

from the sun-dappled emerald green plains
to the mountainous tides of the deep blue,
i will search for a dream settled in the history of our time.

my dream clouds will sit atop the north
like pillows placed on a bed
too materialistic to sleep on and too minimalistic to dream about.

caged?

Vadym Komarov, June 20th, 2019 - ******

hold me down.
i can see the story fluttering in the light,
but they do not let me out.

they keep me caged like a siberian tigress
bound to the melting frosted forests
our planeted body had provided for her.

they keep me caged.

whirlpool

a step in the sandy dunes of the Sahara has me dry.
the only thing i inhale is silence and sand.
the grainy ridges seen in the distance slowly weather,
until they are nothing but quicksand whirlpools.
as i fall into one, i can only think, “let me out of here”.

it holds me down.

Obed Nangbatna, May 25th, 2019 - Crossfire

spotlight

Lyra Mckee, April 18th, 2019 - Crossfire

in which the moon dances with the sun in a waltz.
even dancing with the moon,
the sun sprays its spotlight on the earth.

what is that?

it shoots its rays on a portion of our world.
look, there it is,
dancing amongst the skyscrapers,
galloping among the spray of bodies.
i wonder if i should follow it.

Ahmed Hussein-Suale Divela, January 16th, 2019

i follow the spotlight.

birthed

troy gave me my name.
the civilizations of Ilium,
the villages of Rhodope Mountains,
the flat plained city of Thessaloniki.

i want to run from them.
i can’t, so i run to them.

i find something.

crossfire

point blank guns are zeroed in on me
earthquakes rumble under my feet
as i stumble ahead.

refugees,
immigrants,

Leonardo Gabriel Hernández, March 17th, 2019 - ******

i guess we’re all the same.

Mojamed Ben Khalifa, January 19th, 2019 - Crossfire

monarchs,
Norma Sarabia Garduza, June 11th, 2019 - ******
tyrants,
Francisco Romero Díaz, May 16th, 2019 - ******
presidents,

different shades of governing bodies which diverge from our own political awareness

saints and sinners alike,
it doesn’t matter how much your soul is tainted.
we are all sainted souls that have sinned.

it just depends on whose part you play in the crossfire.

Amjad Hassan Balkir, June 18th, 2019 - Crossfire

tear

we live in ignorant bubbles,
cages of sort.
they are never ending
chasms of expectations and anxieties
our minds have conjured because of our complexities.
they prevent us from catching our stories, attaining our dreams.

i’ve fallen into whirlpools, followed my spotlight, retraced my birth, and plunged into a crossfire trying to escape my bubble.

i’ve followed my dream,
Jamal Kashoggi, October 2, 2018 - Dismembered
now will you follow yours?

housekeeping

i will make my bed,
fluff the pillows that were once
filled with my aspirations.
the pillows, now flat, vacant enough
to let new dreams puff them back up.

i make sure to leave the comforter untucked,
so the next dreamer can slide in easily,
slide into a place that once  sustained my adventures and stories.
i leave it untucked, leave the lights dim, and leave the door ajar.

i do not ever enter again.
A star-lit ballad plays for the dreamers who pursued their dream to the very end.

society
BURDEN
break free

thinking
nothing
PEACE

rarely does an afternoon snooze turn
into a vivid dream,

not that it's certain whether
     an hour of unwinding after
a culinary labour can produce
the bare minimum energy potential
that translates into a dream at night...

added the fact that there is
such a genre of music
       minimalistic techno,    
             harthouse frankfurt...

      whatever the technicality worthy
of a music critic,
        boris brejcha has become
synonymous with
                       northern siesta...
if there was such an English movement
as northern soul...  
    might as well coin the phrase
northern siesta
     (notable choice of song,
                  dark planet)...

               maybe it might dampen
the resolve of those: ready to wriggle
to the elongating bass rhythms...
   but at least the music is not your
generic café cool...

     techno-***-jazzy-accents...
      or whatever is predicated upon
a quasi-Stasi (ZZ, S-Z / Z-S, SS, ß)
             category...

      | churchbells of the valley -
   scent of convallaria, interlude,
       preceded by°:

{a dream about bow ties...
       one aspect of the dream
akin to a newsroom,
    two invited guests,
        one of them holds a manequin
***** and shows off tying
a bow tie...
             the other guest is wearing
a tie...
     the dream shifts
     into: standing in front of a mirror,
choosing between
          a bow tie that suits
a pale crimson polka dotted shirt
or a silverfox bow tie suited
for the waistcoat}:

thank god there's literature,
     to interpret a dream...
          and all of it...
     is like reading a ******
                      astrology excerpt...        
  
the more interpretations are
available, the more they sound
like hot air, or as the already
       stated comparison:
          astrological ruminations
of the zodiac - hence the irony /
          not that I'd take his word
for it from Burroughs' my education
i. e. that opiates are dream-smiths:

    a safer option,
           tickling deep nocturnal excavations
might be best unergone
    with a prior to siesta...
       as if: sharpening a knife
   or dulling a hammer...
         given the frequency /
and capacity for vivid dreaming...

      and yes, the bow tie is
a focal object,
                     but no:
    i am more content with
   the dream per se
                      (given the scarce
frequency of i have of them) -
that seeking a meaning from it...

   a healthy dosage of scepticism,
always around dream-interpretation,
since i can't see an archetype
    of a bow tie as predating a tying
of a rope...
         manequin *****:
       acting out social formalities...
it's still a zodiac game,
          astrological gallows,
    a tongue pricked with a rose
thorn, subsequently whispered
into a girl's ear, revealing
            a blush blossom on her
   cheeks.

°scent stimulant, brought from
the market;
       via scent into visual
      revitalisation of dream remains,
stored subconsciously in the first
2 and 1/2 hours after waking;
    scent of white flowers
   stimulant, to rekindle
       the memory of dream colours.

p.s.
         some of this can be true,
but tested again for an analogue
        and a plagiarism rubric,
    i. e. scientific categorisation  
    (dogma)?
            
p.p.s.
                  dream recurrence...
or what's called the archetype
of a dunce...
                   how can times do
you have to dream, the same dream,
and not see it as a:
   dream within a dream,
   which is: a dunce standing
     before a blackboard
                investigating the plagiarism
                       of: Bartholemew?

I want to keep my room
pretty and minimalistic
But that’s just not realistic
I have way too much stuff
that I want to have on display
like a wall of memories

So I blurt everything out
and I never shut up

My brain is my room,
it’s just not minimalistic
So keeping to myself is not realistic
There is too much going on

Here’s a little me
showing a picture of my friends
There’s a little me
counting my paintings
And over there’s a little me
Flipping through my albums
and another
counting books
Every wall has a portrait of my dreams
and fairy lights decorating nooks

Save yourself. Once we are grown enough to take a look around and realize what the world is and can be, saving yourself is going to become important. Take a moment and deduce that to a minimalistic or complex notion and apply it. There is going to be obstacles every step of the way. You’re going to fall we all do, I’ve yet to see someone who has fallen and not come back. After all what is meant to be is what is meant to be. I’m so lost in a world that you do not need to go far to find anything in. You have to stay ready we have all been through **** at the end of the day we do what gets us through. You’re always going to be searching for someone to talk to and the key to survival is knowing who you are.

the most minimalistic poem is this one
just two lines and now i'm done

Here I am 6' 2" you 5' 4" a molten core knocking on that cellar door like Drew Barrymore
LET ME OUT!

You furnished these cobwebs like Forbes magazine modern decor telling me how to feel about seasonal arrangements.. and small minimalistic hipster houses.. ****.
For every smile I'd be lucky to see, you were ready to implore

Red and black plaid flannel you caught my eye and then my soul
Don't know how many times little miss blondie from the shore is going to make me tell this story.. ****.
The things a person will do to you when they need you are unfair.
There's no warning signal when you're ensnared..
****.
Where's my magazine?