"modelling" poems
The Equalist!
RE: The guerrilla girl’s poster 5% women artists yet 85% of the models are female.
This poster was heralded as a feminist rebuff of misogyny and the male gaze.
It is my opinion: one of the reasons females are more sexualised than males in Western society; is because the majority of women working in a sexualised industry such as modelling, dancing, fashion or *********** choose to perpetuate that role and the connection between *** and femininity; often in industries where females outnumber the men six to one; I'm also aware that the majority of the hierarchy in theses industries are male, it seems their gender solidarity is more concerned with the money; than notions of ****** inequality; thus perpetuating the issue.
Vernacular test:
Step one - Question one:
I took a survey of 30 fellow artists asking what is a misandry? followed by what is your gender?
Step two - Question two:
I took a survey of 30 fellow artists asking what is a misogyny? followed by what is your gender?
I did offer any information or allow any of the subjects to see the survey paper, or overhear the question.
Results: 30 subjects took part in the survey; One female knew both words and their meaning, and one female didn't know what Misogyny was. (Two females approached refused to take part in the survey, all men approached engaged.)
Step three - Question three:
I then gave all the subjects the dictionary definition and asked why they thought the vernacular misandry is not as well known as the word misogyny?
(I should add that I too couldn't recall the vernacular meaning of: Misandry; though I could recall the meaning or definition of Misogyny.)
Answers:
Female... "I don't care"
Female... "It's due to a gender economic imbalance"
Female..."Blokes just don't like it when women speak out about it"
Female..."I don't get involved in protests"
Female..."I don't know"
Female..."Men just think with their ******
Female... "There's more misogynists"
Female... "Because men are pigs"
Female... "Why does it mater"
Female... "It's just a word"
Female... "I'm not interested"
Female..."Try being a women"
Female... " It's ******** it's just a vernacular"
Female..."You wouldn't understand your a man"
The other 5 Females... chose to offer no explanation.
Answers:
Male..."I don't know"
Male... "who cares"
Male... "Yeh that's interesting"
Male... Why does it matter"
Male... "Let me think about it"
Male... "Who gives a ****
Male... "What's this about"
Male... "Can I see the results later"
The other 2 males... Chose to offer no explanation.
I personally identify as human; and don't wish to be defined, labeled or marginalised; I also don’t believe that secularism in any measure is healthy or meaningful in an inclusive society.
I question why 29 out of 30 subjects had heard of Misogyny; and just one person had heard of Misandry.
Sexism is not as the dictionary suggested prejudice, stereotyping, or discrimination, typically against women.
Everyone is effected buy prejudice, stereotyping, or discrimination.
The subtleties of which is played out every day.
Feb 5, 2020
Feb 5, 2020 at 11:32 AM UTC
I see a flash
A sight to behold
The work of an immortal sculptor
Walking straight in elegant pride
Worth of a princess of the sun
Firmly transfixed in her twelve
Moving into the emptiness of an Invalid society
Her innocence screaming
In an unchallenged clarity
And only twelve moons
The framework of her modelling salivates
Wolves in men
Who's been exposed to the virus
Emerging from the bushland of their desires
To seek their vengeance in a fanatical hatred
And poor me the Princess
With the *** Lunacy roaming the streets
Sanity of abstinence is the greatest challenge.
Swung from poverty to adolescence
A pendulum of fates
Hunger at home for the family
And her homestead a moonscape of desolation.
The two Hundred shillings does the trick
She trades out her innocence
And virginity too- a girl's pride
And alongside the legal tender comes the virus
The minute Monster
Savoring a society of huge minds.
There is the tuberculosis
In a hospital ward
Full of undug graves and shrines unnamed
Drawn into the vacuum of her fate
Eyes wide open in dismal finality
The princess
Lie in freeze frame of death
A pyramid of events
Molded out of her last several terrible seconds
Lamentation for the society
A dull eulogy
For our girls.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC
White wash walls
White starch coats
Translucent skin/veins
Vision blinded by numbers
Personality sequence
My numbers
The label stapled across my eyelids
Like a chip for feeble shoulders to bear
A dash of this
A dab of that
Normalfunctionalproductive
Happy member of society
Girls stuffed with modelling clay
Feed me lye and cigarette ash
Replace my brain with silicone
Paint cherry red lips
And tell me to be unique.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
Sax,
clarinet,
grade 8,
scales,
sight reading,
frustrate.
Super rock,
teaching,
french cafe,
logic,
preaching,
don't go that way!
Camp,
sociology,
tech,
music,
general,
respect.
cleaning,
brother,
size,
love,
loss,
surprise.
feet,
freedom,
modelling,
workout,
fear,
not bothering.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
at the desk, applying for jobs
there is coffee in my cup
and paint in the creases of my fingernails,
on the wall, a whiteboard with new song lyrics
and a list
of things I need to buy,
of course, once I have the money to buy them,
which brings me back to the desk
which an empty bottle of Cabernet Merlot
sits with an empty glass
and notebooks and a mason jar
with cloudy brown-red water
from the bristles of my paintbrushes
my coffee is cold
the french press is in the kitchen
but my flatmate is filming in there
so I’m stuck at my desk
with two sips of cold coffee left,
applying for jobs.
I feel very fragile
right now,
partly because I didn’t go to a job interview
today,
partly because I didn’t go to a job trial,
on friday
though I don’t want to be a waitress
and **** modelling for art classes scares me.
there’s a plant on my windowsill
named Lucy
and she doesn’t have to do anything
and there are two vanilla candles and an incense holder
with lavender incense burning
but **** all the things that
"bring peace"
like small plants, candles, incense, crystals and photographs;
I want a healthy and clean life,
so I have these things
part as a protection
from my own mind
but to be perfectly honest,
I’m at the desk, browsing jobs online,
saving them for later into a bookmark folder entitled
"Wellington Jobs"
instead of actually applying.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
He may love himself
But every man has
A weakness,
He loves his face too much
And a broken body
Is not a good one
For modelling
Cashmere scarves
And playing
Waterpolo.
This will be
Your downfall Adam
One day,
A guy’s gonna
Land you one
Right on the chin.
It’ll be like
A Magnum Colt going off
It’ll send you reeling
And even death will wince
Before taking you.
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 9:42 AM UTC
The rain splutters at me in foreign tongue
As my mind hurdles under a mushroom
Shelter from the pelting lashes
Of nostalgic memory
Such vulnerable home from woes
Like a rodent hole in flooding summer
They tell me I am a finicky rat
That will not survive outside Sakubva
Ratatat-tatatatat-tart!
Oh but how true!
Each day I walk out in the morning
Come evening I pick every footprint I left
Back home
Prompted by need to use my footprints
Once more
Take care!
The radio blares
Save save save save
The television frowns
Wise up
Recycle is the trick in these hard times
Discarded beliefs, discarded memories, discarded tastes
Can be recycled
Recycled dreams, recycled husband, recycled wife...
I scrap my bottom in amazement
After all there is always a grain of virtue left
In what we discard -
O how I love the scent
God has made it that way
That each time you ****
Before you go
You save a nostalgic glance at your ****
Suppressing a sense of loss
For a part of you left behind
Like kites tied to strings we are
We regale in our false splendour
At time's mercy
The fruits of mental ************
Deflowered by new ****** worlds
Of lewd dreams in striking G-Strings
Gyrating ***** of fantastic insanity
That lure us
Into the heavy -bosomed clouds
Pregnant with cultural retribution
For the anarchy coursing our veins
Like the burning pain on my back
Each evening when I bend double
To pick up and bag my footprints
I left in the morning
This is not madness
When I tell you to let your beak
Of tolerance peck and peck
On your ****
What difference is there
Between **** in your belly and
**** steaming betwixt your legs?
What difference is home
When you are young and when old?
Riding on the back of butterfly dreams
When I am a newborn macho
In the bullring of entrepreneurship
Or O such cosmopolitan hunk
In the realm of fashion and modelling...
Sounds like sheltering under a mushroom
That springs and dazzles but a day
Hope I will hurtle back
Hope sweet home, home sweet home
I am a finical rat
That won't live away from home.
-dougwa-
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:21 AM UTC
Her tone,
Crispy like new pair of headphones,
Screams when I finger down her G string,
Love hearing her moan,
Get over here and lay on my lap,
One hand down your neck while the other's ready to smack,
She's a brand new model,
My pick up line was immaculate,
Coke bottle modelling body,
Fuzz pedal throttled and jacked you in,
You fret all day and no one to hammer your strings,
******* Brew** in Chili Peppers but I'm willing to make you Cream,
So lay across my leg and let me do the rest,
All that phat bass and no one to properly make you wet,
Rubbing across your curves making sure your knobs are turned,
Steel strings tight and ready to give this spanking you deserve,
Tease and deceive till your ready to sing,
Slip my fingers down your A and I'm ready to B,
Playing your scales,
Hitting that tail,
Your mahogany curves scrumptious as hell,
Maybe I'll stand up and ****** my hips,
Into that back of that phat bass while loving the notes you hit,
Strap you on because the way I like to hit it is hard,
Octaves ****** and quiver on my fingers,
Your heart,
The shape of that wide, seductive and sumptuous ***
All that bass you have can make any guy..........
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 6:45 PM UTC
As I sit on this assigned desk
ears drooling with institution gel
I swirl on the seat, the wind pause
Musing in evangelised dilemmas
Lobotomised to jerking veracities
Sagacity amateurs boost egos
Stooping and stooging in asylums
Barricading others progression
Regressed losing solid grounds
Jurisdictional custodial supervisions
An infused scent of propagandism
Scenes of robotic observational modelling
Unprincipled to insist on another destiny
Calculating targeted risked predictions
Regulated to invigilate and unroll a matrix grid
Who am I? To forge his,her or their trench
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 7:56 AM UTC
Cady crushed
Soulful sunbeam
Modelling moonlight
Bright red scream.
Makeshift Marilyn
Winter wanders
Cavalier cowboys
Don't slow down.
****** valleys
Lightening laser
Taunting temptation
She'll be watching.
Dusted dimes
Matriarchy mothers
Electric evolution
At least pretend.
Sleeping sisters
Brutal brothers
Scoring shots
Smells like you.
Snakes stifled
River rapids
Drowning diseases
Love songs sung.
Their souls;
corrupt.
Unarticulated answers;
lost.
Paradise alley;
forgotten.
Ungrazed lips;
innocence.
© Sia Jane
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 7:37 PM UTC
Alkira was an Aboriginal girl
with perfect oceanic
blue eyes.
Cast out and picked up
by an even more savage and unforgiving world.
The world
of modelling.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
_Amy Louise Jackson_ is a British actress
& model known for her work in Indian films.
She played the role of _Imra Ardeen-Saturn Girl_
on the third season of the CW's superhero series
_Supergirl_. She began her modeling career
at the age of 16, and went on to win the 2009
_Miss Teen World_ competition after winning
the _Miss Teen Liverpool_ & _Miss Teen Great Britain_
pageants. Amy won the title of _Miss Teen World_
in 2009. She won eighteen prizes, including
a modelling contract in the US on a $50,000
scholarship. Soon after, she won _Miss Liverpool_
in 2010. She competed for _Miss England_ in 2010
& crowned the runner-up to Jessica Linley.
Subsequently, director A. L. Vijay cast her
as the _leading lady_ of the Tamil language
period-drama Madrasapattinam in 2010. Jackson
continues to act in Indian films of all languages,
including Tamil, Hindi, Telugu, and Kannada
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 4:59 AM UTC
_You build your nest of pretty words,
Sly threads of verbiage,
Plucked from outworn phrases,
Secondhand sentiments and frayed metaphors.
A thorny simile, a faded pink ribbon,
Of rhetoric woven with silky streamers;
A warp and weft of fond and found,
Borrowed references and stolen verses.
You recycle the shining heart,
Of another’s penmanship,
Modelling it into a tarnished,
Uninspired and untitled composition
...OF YOUR OWN..._
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 8:41 PM UTC
The clowns are angry
but they don't show it.
Behind white faces there is no hint of the resentment
that grows underneath comically sized trousers.
The clowns know they only make sense
in a certain context
underneath a big top
modelling balloons at young Bens 7th birthday.
Not here in your garden
viewed from behind a curtain
4.53am.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 3:32 PM UTC
To concretize my theorized love,
I could play the accidental odds and strew
slippery tongues of spotted petals
onto thickly trafficked highways,
or use the best predictive modelling
to deduce when and where I can poke out
a well-heeled boot to trick unwary spills
and ****** a kiss from the unsuspecting
lips of any suitably compatible
passerby oft times inconvenienced and passed
on by.
These well-oiled and crudely experimental
methods do produce expected results,
but not the breakthrough nor the looked-for
satisfaction of appropriate reactions,
so I'll keep my dotted eyes tucked in
their pulpy stems and my shoddy toes curled back
while I beam my bits of invitation through
circuitous routes spatially arrayed along
parallel paths where one might search
with an extra-terrestrial inventiveness,
and wait.
I know the trials of these errant waves
won't add up to a guarantee
my burpy blips of a pulse can reach
the receptively comprehending and responsive
soils I seek, but it's the remoteness of a stead
to come stalking that appeals, and despite
the Hawking drone of unveiled warnings
I might regret such contact, I'll risk it all
on vaguely washed wishes this astronomical
anomaly with an alien sensibility has
one match.
May 3, 2010
May 3, 2010 at 3:15 PM UTC
It's all about the social mining,the digging up,divining,modelling,refining,of what we call society,
the cream will rise like morning gold,
the frail,the weak,the poor and the old will sink into the sinkhole,poles apart from any start they though they might have had,
the world's gone fracking mad,
we are dug up,dusted,polished or busted and thrown back down the pit,they tell me **** don't smell so bad in a world gone fracking mad.
I refuse to heed the signs that say,'we'll all be socially mined one day' and prefer instead to look ahead to something far removed from the dynamite and the burning fuse.
The outcast few will far outlast the casting crew who cast their lines down the social mines to catch those who have not a clue that they're the bargain in the bucket,
**** it why do I care?
I've done my share of casting been outcast,outclassed,passed around and out and now in passing all I had, I still think the world's gone fracking
mad.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
There it stands modelling a fine coat of dust
covering the rim chips that cheapen it.
This vase stood for more than I can understand.
In earthenware fashioned from English clay
by English hands, but unfashionable now
a small squat *** of Dalton blue and brown.
Two necklaces of tiny beads clasp its neck
like corsets holding open its cornet mouth.
But we no longer hear its tunes or read its runes.
When I hold it in my hands I see Great Grandma's room
with highland cattle in a Scottish mountain scene.
The long-case clock of fear and fascination
where mother was threatened with incarceration
but never ****** Its rustic case reached down
to Earth's grim brimstone and fiery domains.
'There,' Mother said, 'lie Grandma's tortured remains.'
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
If I could, I'd sing to you sweetly
just to mend your broken lip.
And I'd steal all the pirates treasure
just to heal your scarring hips.
I would burn every magazine
and modelling agency
Just to see you taste again
If I could, I would oil these rusty arms
just to hold you forever.
I'd paint a smile on you permanently
with the richest colour pink,
Sticky tape your shattered ribs together
and watch you breathe again.
I promise I'd guide you to the mirror
and make sure it reflects just how beautiful
just how beautiful everyone sees that you are.
May 29, 2012
May 29, 2012 at 7:37 AM UTC
b. she’s in love with kierkegaard, i borrowed a quote by him
about poets...
i was going to end the poem with sarcasm...
the poem got deleted without being saved...
now to remember:
the missing diacritic in english of phoneticism
gives chaos to how english is punctuated:
bewildering that there are two types of quotation in english
rather than the polish / joycean irish
use of quote / dialogue,
in the latter instances we have the use of thye hyphen,
in the latter
the problem of what freedom of speech invokes:
how was it said if it wasn’t said?
“ “ “ “ “ “ “ “ at all?
the english language has moved away from the classical
sense of the ditto...
it has moved into the confusing territory aking to its excessive spelling:
- i said you could have said it better.
- you thought that prior though?
- i did indeed.
this is the polish / joycean example of how dialogues flow.
but in english there’s a disparity of the usage of the dialogue “brackets”
that are “ “ and ‘ ‘...
in philosophy the ditto brackets are ambiguity stressors...
the mis-understood words in servitude of specified usages...
but there’s no contentment in applying
such notation to stress ambiguity when the mathematical
symbol modelling is already apparent - approximately:
i.e. instead of noting the ambiguity of meaning of a word like
truth via “truth” is no better than the notation ~truth:
since the former only revels in the negation of the meaning of the word
truth... that there’s a meaning & and an ambiguity of using such a word...
rather than the mathematical observance that there is an approximate truth:
the one that’s experienced / the one that’s related to / the one that’s
neither as a mere historical interpretation.
i detest being tested by a diety in the platonic sense...
i know what i'm writing about...
i can remember it and explain it - but of course poetry's
verbiose and sometimes ivory extravagence is self-explanatory,
poets know what metaphors are...
poets know what imagery is... but i hardly expect
there's a need to itemise which words fit the terminology
of identification for an essay... there would be
not creative fluidity if that was the sole intention behind poetry.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
The boy dreamt of his father,
Between boys and men such
impossible expectations,
joyful boys with rumpled
hair crying for attention
Heart bursting to be
the little man.
'Daddy, look at me, I am just like you'
Men slipping away their emotional
core, resisting temptation to display
the love they have for their boys.
Holding fast to important things,
to work and career, making money
and cutting the grass. Taking care
of things, like a man.
'Daddy, look at me, I am just like you'
Such distance between boys and men,
flowers grow faster than emotions.
Expectations and demands, alliances
and situations to be addressed.
Locker room jokes, tenderly
pretending feelings are for
'sissies'. Rugged role playing,
modelling behaviour of the
tipped arrow of society.
'Daddy, look at me, I am just like you'
Things have changed, they will tell you.
Men can feel now. But we men, we
know the truth. The stereotype is
still pervasive and controlling.
A man must be strong.
A man must be brave.
A man must not love unless
he is getting laid.
'Daddy, look at me, I am just like you'
'Daddy, were you ever scared and alone like me? '
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 6:18 PM UTC
The ghosts are attacking,they caught me out, slacking and sleeping through the day,if the ghosts had their way,they would shake me up,break me up,sweep me and keep me locked in my head.
I'm thinking that those ghosts have got to be dead, but I find that they're feeding on me, and running amok,pell mell ,chock a block,
In this binding I find a way to escape,don't sleep,stay awake,let the ghosts take the slow train and get out of my brain,flush them all down the drain,
just got to stay awake and alert and no matter how much it hurts me,it's the only way I see and the way to release.
The truce.
A piece of the peace or the rest of the rest I don't get,they won't let me alone,I can't eat,I'm becoming all skin and bone,which would be good, were I modelling the latest creations because skinny is cool in some men's imaginations,but what would they know about the dead and the dead slow,with looks that could **** those who don't fit their bill of what's acceptable to them,
but that's men,what did you expect,and the truth is no truce,no closing the sluice gates,the fates have me trapped between here and the next place,
full of grace,fair of face and a heavy heart, my eyes start to close as the ghosts rise around me,surrounded I'm bound once again.
Pain so they say is just that drumbeat when night meets your day and a slight thing to which you'll grow accustomed,I disagree,pain's just another mad moment running free and it always crashes head first into me,but I get used to it,it's just a constant yammering,stammering that hammers my soul,when the night's a black hole and day is a lifetime away.
When the ghosts have their fill and decide not to **** me but leave me,the funny thing is I miss them,what man am I to miss ghosts that would fly and disrupt me?
Tell me,
a contradiction, a contra addiction, predicting the best but expecting the worst,
I finally sleep.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 9:06 AM UTC
*Blown bubbles of clouds moving faster
Wind kissing me with a gentle touch
Drizzling drops of rain tickling my ears
New born leaves together playing xylophone
Peacock dancing in its embroidered attic
Pigeons of peace enjoying freedom
Green grass standing with goosebumps
Orange with black dotted butterflies
Modelling a colourful boutique
In this evening of adorable nature
Awaiting my love in the garden of indigo flowers
Jealous of wind kissing me
Star alike alluring violet flowers welcoming me
To his arms of longing libido*
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 3:54 PM UTC
It’s one of those stories told through a sole picture, yet captures a time & place I’ll never forget. The old cliché; a picture can tell a thousand stories. Well, this one can tell one of those.
I was happy & sad, the two co-existed. A duality of such extreme emotions. The dress was of fabric so constrained, in my head I held the image of my Godmother when I witnessed her forced into a straightjacket when she was committed to the asylum. The one so derelict & haunting.
I was dictated to in the same ways I saw the nurses treat Nouna…the shouting, the noise, the pushing, touching, all feeling like restraints.
The lies I told, mirrored her lies. Denying suffering & hiding behind a mask. Glassy eyed hooked on ******* You see, it kept me thin in that “Size Zero” era. If your bones didn’t show, you didn’t show. Fashion & modelling was never a passion, it was more a necessity, even an addiction.
In this picture, the dress was used for a dark auteurist film exposing the true nature of obsession. Voyeurism haunted me. Blissfully unaware I roamed the streets, kept the blinds to my apartment unclosed. It was then I realised; unless a flash of a camera were present, I felt alone. Disturbingly alone. With no lights I was nothing. I became as addicted to the paparazzi as I had to the drugs I was inhaling each morning, noon & night.
I was terrified by fame, & terrified by the fear of being forgotten. I sold my soul to the devil & in true honesty, I never got it back.
Back then I was chained & shackled, a spirit as broken as an elephants. I may not have been beaten with sticks or chains. I was broken. I became submissive. A simple puppet of the play called “Life.” At least, the only life I knew.
© Sia Jane
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
IF THIS IS NOT LOVE..
IF THIS IS NOT LOVE, nothing else can be love..
Emotions beyond words!
Beauty beyond perception and appearance!
A luster she is, from a different dimension entire..
She is like the waters never fights but conquereth all,
Takes the form, shape of every container yet never loses her state..
Effect so strong from a distance, quite imponderable.
Orator looses his sense of speech when in contact, audio or visual.
An entire topic of discussion conceived, changed at sight..
Mere thought of thee transforms a state completely.
Ignites all plans with just a little flu of hope from thee.
Do everything for the sake of thee even at the absence of thee..
For thy sake the world is not enough, ready to attain the other, at least that might satisfy and assuage his inflamed desires.
Even this scribbling is not enough, forgive and accept the token of a scribbling , cause he found no better way yet.. Still rummaging through the earth and heavens for the perfect replacement of inscriptions..
If this is not love,
Role modelling! That's an awesome understatement, thou affected his entire being, physically and spiritually.. What else can be love..
The melody of her voice sublime and caresses his entire soul..
Like the rhythm from a fine melodious masterpiece blues, she rejuvenates his positive emotions.
Blessed is thee, thy has reconditioned all his misappropriatedly conditioned neuron associations..
Inscriptions are not worthy enough to express this feelings.
Mar 1, 2020
Mar 1, 2020 at 4:18 PM UTC