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

Tighten your braces with yellows,
UV lights in police cars,
your high socks and new crewnecks,
steep all your worries in the cellar air.
The kitchen crew necks you,
steps over your extra vertebrae on the floor.
Exchange Red Sox caps and collaged cards for
iron oxides and spare joints,
an apology gift for the knees of a Titan.

Gilt neckties and stockings
hard hits over first base,
infrared silhouettes waving goodbye
slip on the steep porch stairs.
Your personal marching bands
sleep in shopping carts.
Your postcards lost in the Andes
written in purple pen --
everything’s smells like guilt.

Harts stagger behind
stags that hope to tiptoe around your toes,
scouting the suites in South America.
Back roads hastily swept under dining room chairs.
Necklaces of burned out light bulbs,
players sock the suited callers.
My bird house is empty.
Your world map is crumpled,
stuffed into the left ventricle of my heart.

Knaps of your wrist bones
fill the endnotes of my biography.
Bottlenecked bus loops and
windsocks left deflated in broom closets.
Your left hand in my kitchen sink,
catches my pressed shirts,
your clothesline melts into the sidewalk like lightning.
Bracelets on marble sculptures.
After you, I need a nap.

Littoral instructions spelled out in sand dollars.
Purple sunflower seeds caught in my turtleneck,
ghosts of eyelashes begin
to whisper wishes,
sockets for wrenches and ankles.
Blue hair braces for the midnight smiles,
the low tide of flowers,
the daily newspaper full of ocean currents,
your lips were too literal.

Lumbar dimples and goose bumps,
the rubbernecking waiter waited for the lights
rubbing his eyes.
Your playful dialogue
makes my plate shake.
Your safety is never on,
eyebrows marking my fifth disappointment.
I usually hate piano solos,
your voice is unstable, charred lumber.

Mince the pages of the dictionary
to make kindling for your irises.
Necklines defined as jade stamps
at the bottoms of the Chinese paintings
above last year’s birthday card.
Connect the dots to see the ruins of Rome,
your arms after the final battle,
crude stitches on undone sweaters.
Your pockets still full of dinner mints.

Canvass the imprint on the inside of
your leg from where the stitching folds over,
your jeans, unwashed in my laundry hamper.
Still overflows from knee socks and potted plants.
Microwaves compressed into my glass of water
the high tide seashells in your pantry facing
your ego in mason jars on shelves.
You’re tired of white board marker promises,
your skin a poorly cleaned canvas.

Fashion designers love foraging through the antique markets of Clignancourt in Paris and Portobello Road and Alfie’s Antiques markets in London snuffling out vintage pieces for inspiration. The flurry of romantic Victoriana on the catwalks for autumn can clearly be blamed on this obsession.

There has been an undercurrent of reserved, covered-up fashion ever since Pierpaolo Piccioli and his former co-designer Maria Grazia Chiuri introduced a more demure aesthetic to Valentino five years ago. Longer skirts, prim higher necklines and covered arms have become the slow trend of recent seasons creating a hyper-feminine look.

Riccardo Tisci at Givenchy and Sarah Burton at Alexander McQueen have long been beguiled by the Gothic romanticism of Victorian fashion with their use of corsetry and dark dramatic lace and velvet for eveningwear.

In fact, London-based vintage fashion dealer Virginia Bates admits she doesn’t remember there ever being a time when Gothic Victoriana didn’t feature in at least one designer’s collection. “The fascination with the romantics, poets, artists and even horror [classics and films] give designers a great source of inspiration,” she says. “It’s an irresistible era.”

Certainly a lot of it has appeared on the catwalks this season at McQueen, Marc Jacobs, Burberry (shown only a month ago in the see-now, buy-now collection), Simone Rocha, Preen, Bora Aksu and Temperley London, as well as at smaller brands such as Alessandra Rich, Three Floor created by Yvonne Hoang and A.W.A.K.E.

There were dark distressed Linton tweeds, unravelling knits and black tulle in Simone Rocha’s autumn collection. Rocha was pregnant when she started designing it and was inspired by Victorian dress and motherhood, in particular the nightgowns and matrons.

“All the wrapping and swaddling of babies,” she says, before elaborating on how “the Victorian ideals of properness were made perverse with the conservative and covered-up pieces contrasted by the sheer and embroidered fabrics.”These gauzy vaporous fabrics succeeded in making her eerily romantic silhouette look rather contemporary and daring.

Subversion is key to making such a prim and proper period in fashion history modern and relevant for women today. Marc Jacobs, for instance mixed long Victorian coats, ballooning crinolines and crochet doily collars with sweatshirt tops and laser-cut leather for skirts and jackets together with some scary Goth horror make-up. Nothing is, or should be literal.

As Justin Thornton of Preen says “we love the Victorians, the laces and the white shirts, but it is the vintage pieces rather than the era that inspire us”. His partner Thea Bregazzi has collected aristocratic laces and ruffly vintage shirts from Portobello Road market for as long as he has known her and these frequently find their way into their collections, “but linings would be ripped, garments will have holes in them – it is a deconstructed look”.Virginia Bates once owned a famous vintage fashion emporium in Holland Park with a client list including the biggest names in fashion from John Galliano to Donna Karan and Naomi Campbell. Now she only works with private clients and designers and they, especially, she says were looking for genuine Victorian pieces when planning their autumn collections.

“A black fitted jacket with inserts of handmade lace [that is] embellished with crystal and jet beads, ***** and silk lined ... How exciting and inspiring is that? Silk and fine lawn shirts, soft and flowing with ruffles. Don’t we all want to wear one and live the dream?”

Thankfully a few designers do right now, and there were lots of heavenly creatures in fragile asymmetric lace dresses toughened up with leather corsetry at Alexander McQueen, and richly coloured swishy dresses at Bora Aksu. While Christopher Bailey cherry-picked the centuries in his Burberry collection, lighting upon frilled white cotton shirts, nipped in jackets and military capes from the Victorian era. Given that Victoria reigned for more than 60 years there is a lot of history for designers to plunder, so this will not be the last we will see it.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

“**** culture”
...
Even the phrase slices my tongue and cuts like a double-edged sword of double standards.
...
The same double standards that say that a girl who wears makeup is a ***** but says that if she doesn’t then she’s ugly.
...
The same double standards that say that if a girl wears a skirt then she’s desperate but if she wears jeans then she’s stiff.
...
Double standards that keep even the strongest girls asking “Who am I supposed to be?”
...
The double standard that require **** kits with pamphlets like pamphlets are gonna help us get better.
...
**** culture requires underwear for women with a lock on it, password and all! Buy one get one free, not of the underwear, but the rapists!
...
**** culture, the same one you see on the news and in the streets and schools and stores and malls and parks and sports and on the ******* sidewalks.
…
This next line is for the man in the beaten up red car who cat-called me when I was 15 while I was walking to my friends house last summer: No thanks, I don't want to “smile, little mama”
…
This line is to the sixth grade teacher in my old school district who was fired for sexually harassing and abusing his students: Who do you think you are to be putting your hands up shirts of 12 year old girls?
…
This next line is for the man on the news who said “Well she was wearing a skirt, so she was practically asking for it” Excuse me, sir, but that glass ceiling was made of glass it was just asking to be smashed, right?
...
The patriarchy shatters around their fragile masculinity and breaks into one thousand pieces before cutting the survivor’s wrists because no one ever believes them.
...
This is the stigma that is delivered upon the doorstep of **** culture’s house by the UPS worker named “Societal Pressures”. The package that no one wants to receive. It knocks at your door but you try to keep it locked.
...
“Knock knock?” “Who’s there?” “**** joke” “**** joke who?” “**** joke who isn’t ******* funny”.
...
**** culture is the societal pressure that is put on us to be beautiful, not for ourselves, but for the man who sees us every morning.
...
**** culture is the demand to smile for the old man that we just passed on the street near the bakery but keeping our mouths shut when we have something to say.
...
**** culture is standing in front of the mirror everyday before school making sure that I can't be targeted for anything that I'm wearing. Looking at every seem, every angle, every button and zipper.
...
**** culture is how I (along with my friends) can't walk by a group of boys without pulling up our already uncomfortably high necklines and ducking our heads.
...
**** culture runs in the veins of every girl, woman, and man that is subject to society.
...
**** culture is the phrase I'm not supposed to say but I say anyway because I deserve to be heard.

He is a book that was recommended to me just after I passed the shelf on which he was displayed
When I said I hadn’t been reading much lately
Life gave me a chapter full of pictures to begin with
And told me that one page at a time is still progress
In fact, one page at a time is the only way to make progress
He’s a well-read book with new words for every reader
And instead of leaving paper cuts on my hands he leaves ink stains
There are golden letters on his spine that I’ve taken to tracing absentmindedly every time I re-read a phrase
And dog eared pages that I’m not sure I have the authority unfold
He’s captivating
And quickly becoming my favorite story
He is English as a second language and still teaching me more about my tongue than I ever knew
Translating fears into excitement and confusion into intrigue
I didn’t know my skin was cryptic until he decided to decode me
But now I’m fascinated with hunting for the hieroglyphics in his neurons
Listening to tales spun by our own curiosity
Story time trumps bed time whenever possible
And when we decide that language itself is sometimes a ****** up means of communication
We try for morse code heartbeats and braille necklines and bizarre entanglements of hands
And when we decide that sometimes language itself is the best thing in the world
We talk the hours of the clock down to ticking hands and hourglass sand
Or get distracted and I’ll decide that I could travel the world in one night using the roadmaps in his veins
Where I’ll get lost and ask for directions and go through the same streets again anyway
Because I didn’t see everything the first time around and I really enjoy the journey
He is a pronoun that sounds good between my teeth and tastes like learning how to whisper before you learn how to speak
One of those words that I was never sure I was pronouncing right because I learned it by reading alone and deciphering based on context and roots
But he’s also one of those words where once you learn it you start hearing it all the time
And you swear that the whole world acquired this new term with you at once
He is nostalgia in a new experience
Nostalgia-- roots meaning home, or to return home, and a pain or sickness
He’s a homesickness that draws me to him every night
And he is a wanderlust that draws me away from the home I’ve known
Convincing me that comfort zones need exploring the same way tropical zones do
He is an encyclopedia on staying warm in Michigan winters
An atlas from desert countries
And a topographical map that makes me think
I could learn to like geography
Or cartography because he knows that the best way to record new terrain is to explore it first
And I’m content to be a notebook full of scribbles detailing the peaks and valleys and abandoned alleys
And arrhythmic patterns of wind set to traverse through tracheas, reaching lungs only when necessary
He’s the breath I forgot to take when a cliffhanger was resolved
And I don’t always know if I’m a page-turner or just a bookmark within one
But he’s a genre that’s meant to be read under the covers with a booklight until the sun comes up and reminds you that time isn’t as frozen as you hoped it was
And even when I don’t know if we’re on the same page
He tells me that there’s a reason that books have more than one
And I’ve never been good at guessing how stories are going to end
But I'd like to spend some more time reading

No boy will ever
want to **** me

if I forget
to put on makeup
in the mornings
lips red as Eve's forbidden fruit
succulent enough to
bite
tongue
devour
go down
cuz my nose don't
look so My-Big-Fat-Greek-Wedding
mountainous-side-profile
when it's caked in highlighter

if I have short hair
because short hair means
I'll look too masculine
in the ninth grade I
had a pixie cut
faith
trust
pixie dust
I could feel
my light burning out

(I never did believe in myself)

if I'm not thin
starve
binge
purge
two finger diet
VSCO diet
have you seen
the lovely girls
on the internet
in their
tight bodysuits
Coke Zero
figures
MVP
VIP
they'll get first access
to his ****


if I'm a *****
cuz how will anyone know
what you've really
got to flaunt
when you have to wear
a uniform to school
frumpy plaid kilt
white polo shirt
every button a barrier
like the notches
on his belt
tie coiled
a noose
around your neck
every casual day
I wear fishnet stockings
***** necklines
with push up bras
even though
I'm already a D
cuz I gotta get that D
gotta compensate
for being a ****** somehow




if I don't shave my
legs
stomach
*****
three days before high school graduation
I bought a thong
and got my first Brazilian wax
even though I didn't have
still don't have
a boyfriend
but I wanted him
to be my boyfriend
thought I should be prepared
thought maybe when he saw me
clad in
cleavage
periwinkle
floor-length gown
blue Converse peeking out
from underneath the tulle
I'd be his
Belle of the Ball
that he'd
take me
**** me

love me

but how could any boy
ever love me
in all of my
warped-perspective
grief-possessive
passive-aggressive
self-ob­sessive
manic-depressive
glory


how could any boy
ever love me
after reading
this poem?

***
a word so bad
it didn’t even need
four letters

they told us
to wait for
our future husbands
to treat the boys we
dated as if they
belonged to someone else

that if we wouldn’t do it
with our parents in the room
it wasn’t okay
to do at all

that there was
some kind of higher
spirituality achieved
by celibates and singles
but of course that
couldn’t be for everyone
(as if needing human
companionship made you weak)

******* would send
you to hell and
of course the gays were
already there

that our virginity was the most
important part of ourselves
and losing it before due time
was the worst thing we could do
but all would be better
if we said we were sorry
swore never
to do it again

there were contracts
pledges, oaths
and jewelry
if you didn’t have
a ring you weren’t
doing it right

purity
virginity
words thrown around like
hand grenades into foxholes
as insurance policy against
pregnancy and stds

a barrage against the
onslaught of our culture
morality reduced to making
guys and girls sit on
different sides of the room
and debates in the mirror
over the length of skirts
and scoop of necklines

for something we weren’t
supposed to do
they sure made us think
about it an awful lot

meanwhile
back home in our own
bedrooms all the songs
on our radios and
the movies on our tvs
told us a very different story

somewhere along the line
i got so confused i
convinced myself i never
wanted *** at all
when i finally felt
desire stirring
in the pit of my stomach
it was terrifying

i thought since i
had never felt it
that made me immune
but it really just made me
in deep
deep denial

a denial that persisted
through late evenings
of exploring another
person’s body
learning to trust someone
with my own

they told us until we said
i do
there was no reason
to believe anything would last

and some nights i can’t sleep
with worrying about
some inevitable burning and
collapse of the building called us

i feel my parents’ gazes boring
right through my chest and
hope they never find out
what i’ve been doing

turtlenecks to cover the stain
of love notes on my neck
having something on
my body to hide
takes me back to being fifteen
and the judgement of strangers
a dead weight in my stomach
and sweaters past my palms

but the feeling of your lips
and hands and breath
in my ear and for a few minutes
i don’t care that tomorrow
i’ll be trying to forget
that i’m not as pure
as they once told me
i would stay

but i am no longer
in denial
only suffocating
in guilt

not in the usual way with
bent knee and bowed head
but with nag champa and cd inserts, with
deep reds,
plastic costume jewelry beading and safety pinned rips.
it was post cards and cigarette ash
with Kroger's box dye in
rusted orange.
staining our fingernails. didn't matter. we painted them in
neon green and chunky glitter. we stayed up late and wandered
laughter like a shattered diamond breaking into a million stars and thrown out over such a welcoming ivory towered
night sky.
and itallian food households with those noodles in jars.
looking up.
it was Billy Corgan telling us he'd
sing along.
it was memories that aren't even mine. cut in my eyes.
it was blunt bobs and pixie haircuts.  it was cut necklines and walking on air. giant chain necklaces and whispered chap-lipped secrets.
endless folds and bottomless love
in a deliciously musty floral hat box.
you're just low end in
loving apathy.
and i'm absent in my own life.
it was an interruption so unspeakably painful.
doesn't seem so hard to revisit.
but i can't.

I Believe
While poor in spirit
Argues fiercely
About the novel,
The ballad,
Or elections

While mismatched souls
Discusses
About the fight of the night,
The soccer match, or
The race on Sunday


While ******* with
"Class"
drank cross-legged
And open necklines

While intellectuals
Holding coffee with the pinky,
Influenced voters,
Or explained ideas

As the world be sad
Diving standards,
My friends lost their pose.
After all,
They just wanted
Have fun.

And
They danced,
They shouted,
Discussed,
And they laughed.
They laughed that bunch of problems,
Because they knew that
Smiles, was the best medicine
In the absence of solutions.

To fix this,
Felt disgust of those vile beings,
The go through life
Unassuming.
Or maybe,
feel only
Annihilating a pity.
It was weird, but
At the same time,
It made sense.

The world still can be saved
For a few.
You can not believe,
Nietzsche can not believe,
God can not believe,
But I believe.

i'm cutting the necklines out of my t-shirts
in the middle of the night i'll snap fingers in my teeth
i can live with bad feelings (we all do) i can live
with busted knees
my floors are water and cover ups. i can live
with missing teeth
there have been worse things in my hands i'm cutting tape right off my skin
(I FEEL LIKE HELL OH MY GOD)
we all do
i can live with bad feelings we can live
through bad dreams
this is the time when we all sit down. cut war wounds down our jeans
you bring the heat and i'll think how much worse i used to be

Hating the time difference as usual
Usually just
Un using things
Not really thinking about importance and
Disproving what's changed
It's strange
It's deranged
Intangible
or is
Nothing the same
still I'm grateful
Anything with your name is
Delicious it's
Served at my table
It burns holes in my grace like
We're so unattainable
But I'm so
righteously grateful
for every single word being tasted
like maple
Like syrup
I wanna pour you up
and out
sweet substance
Cut you up with my fork
you disturb meals like
you've been in my mouth
With
Forgets and what torments
everything from lint to fabric
I might wear you but
you, you're still absent
and I'm inadequate
I'm chasing dreams of your necklines
I'd like to relate the responsibility of trying to describe your face
But that's impossible
You're so gorgeous it's like forcing everyone to burn holes inside of trouble
It's like trying to relate these things publicly
try and explain what's important
When all i want is to try to say you're important to me

But you won't hear it
You're too young so you
Do what you want and I
Just lay down
Bite my tongue & I
Retry to say words that might strike you
Instead
Pretend my mouth might
Bite into your neck
That you might let me
Kiss all of the skin
stretching from your head to your knee caps
Make you relapse from my lap
to your shoulders
We are holy
I am yours, girl
You no longer need that discloser
& if you'd decide to be mine
I'll have you wake up adored
and I'll hold every single word.
and no matter what goes on in this world
I just want to rock yours  
and anyway
hey;
We might be worlds away
but i'm not use to being stopped

Outlines of necklines
I would never wear

Shadows against grass blades
creating patterns on our backs

Scars of the past
for new nails to scratch

Breath slipping gratefully away I slip out of the day my pen glides like I have some swaggering tail ends to my means figured out I'm sand box plotting the little league games- vindictive and victorious, a competitive brute. Bruised daisies sniffing underneath nose tips like itching dresses in white floral lace I wait for myself to pass into a new realm of closed mouths and legs. I snake sneer at the bedside table adorned with rose book red and green, yellow print, fatigued and sweating answers out of my palms fingernails claw at the truth- I’ll stay twirling inside teacups for days, then peer out realizing nuts bolts soldered plates, a small world contained thank you orange vest like yellow jacket concerto under some candy man who shocks me out of my hole. I’ll run through the **** stained grass like an ungrateful child to the white fence caging the Ferris wheel another attraction buttery and cotton soft I lie down under stars feel something unfamiliar and incommunicable open mouth push out a short breath- wuh- feels like bathing in invisible truth certain for mystery and then it dissipates and I jump back into the prize box widening and shrinking at the semi-conscious crane. Place my cavernous eye against the glass and everyone hides. Maybe one day I’ll taste the rain acid-less in a dream and awake in damp grass our hair intermingling and find some constancy in the crease of your eyelid, eyelashes brushing I want to believe we can make love sparks that never die pierce the belly of Cetus exploding Zeta and dusting the Earthlings tingling necklines pull us all gently inward into each other into ourselves into a new plane of existing where we don’t long for slumber and sweet plum trees because we taste the spirit’s tongue in every waking hour.

There is a fine line between enabler and friend,
my bed sheets are always covered with ash.
But this story only works for about a month
after that I’m just repeating myself.
My eulogy said I donated my organs
the day I was born, the day and died and…nothing
so she wouldn’t be ashamed of my wretched life.
But I’ve been feeding flies with embalming fluid for years
we’re all born with a death sentence, baby
I am not the first, and at least I made it interesting.
Hidden among chairs filled with the saved
are the tatted, strung out and pierced people
and three angry women in the front row, boldly
Loud enough to tell my mom it’s her fault
Loud enough to tell homophobes that I was bi-******
Loud enough to tell the church that I think god is *******
That preacher talked faster and over them
but I wanted a scene
because if anyone ******* really cared
they would want to know the truth that
my worth was not singularly seen in my art, and
that deathbed conversion was merely fiction.
Funny how my last hurrah on earth was yours, mom
my life story told by the uncle who
dispenses guilt dissolving pellets
and the born again preacher whom I never even met.
While my true friends raged and cried in their seats
waiting for an invitation that never came.
Was that song part of this big distraction?
Half the heads nodded in approval
but the few clenched their fists and shook,
and I love them for that
and for all the times they had my back.
For the time they tried to get me into re-hab
and the time they pulled my car out of the ditch in the rain.
Thank you for not pretending I was something you wanted me to be
for loving the good beneath my ****** scented brilliance
***-up passed out in the bathroom
crawling into strange beds.
Let that preacher say whatever makes you feel better, mom
with the message that talks about Jesus instead of  me.
There was more oxygen in the needle than in your womb
and we both know one air bubble can spell disaster
so save your breath for someone who doesn’t
hang crosses
around
already hung necklines.

Lust is just a  few inches away from love ,it hides behind the skimpiest of clothing with scents that cling to ear lobes,necklines and hidden treasures ,it's an adventure for the senses , a trip that goes up and down and then around with pauses to smile,  better yet a grinnnn .

She is a wild thing.



And I say “thing”

and not girl or woman

because She is neither;



She is both,

caught somewhere in between

the liberated innocence of childhood

and the maddening corruption of growing up.



And this is precisely what makes Her

wilder than the rest of us.



Some will argue that She is woman and woman only,

leaving little room for,

what are considered by many to be,

girlish trivialities.

But these people have only ever viewed Her

from a respectable distance,

a distance from which She appears to occupy

both the form and the essence of a woman

what with Her full ******* and

the manner in which She writes poetry–

with a sort of opulent brutality.



What you will not see

is the girl

(if that is what you choose to call it)–

the lovely child-beast

that dwells inside of Her,

antlers entwined with garlands

of succulents and autumn leaves,

eyes veiled with an ethereal mist.

A deluge of stardust drips from its lashes,

raining down upon the dry expanse of Her bones,

planting dewdrops in the barrenness–

honeyed globules nourished

by free-spirited ambition

and a nonsensical imagination.



And If it weren’t for you,

child-beast–

if it weren’t for your

incessant howling to the moon

and the sweetly curious expression

you get on your face when you’ve been daydreaming,

then this “woman” would be just that–

a woman and nothing more,

the same way you, lovely beast,

would be a girl and nothing more

if it weren’t for the overpowering

womaness of your host.



Do you recall

how you two first met–

the night She had first made your acquaintance?

How, that next morning, you woke up to find

your Hello Kitty ******* stained red,

a sharp pain stabbing at your belly.

You yelled for your mother

in a panicked shock;

you were convinced you were dying

(and perhaps you were, for this was

the very moment you began to grow up.)

But mama told you that there was nothing

to fret about– all females bleed, after all.



But you have come to realize that

while some bleed by nature,

there are also some who bleed out

of their own free will.



At first, it was Her mere nature that

had caused you to bleed.



And, after that, Her wildness.



But She did not mean to hurt you,

to burden your wrists with the

gravity of Her sorrows.



And so you must understand this,

my beast:

like you, She is a wild thing.

The only difference is that

She is a wild thing with a broken heart.

And there are some days where She

would do anything to quiet

the melancholic fervour of her thoughts.



I can see how this alone has destroyed you,

how you have been leached of your innocence.



I watch as you deteriorate

antlers withering to stubs

eyes weeping

stardust congealing

around your tear ducts

mouth frothing with whiskey

shards of broken bottle

embedded in your palms

your body degraded

blouses with alarmingly low necklines

skirts long enough to cover up

the scars on your thighs

but short enough that they feel

the need to whisper “*****”

when your back is turned

because maybe this

lovely beast

is the only way She knows

how to feel okay.



And maybe you have simply

found yourself caught in the

insatiable crossfire of Her darkness;

because the light you possess

was never enough to save yourself,

and it was certainly never enough to save Her.



No.



The wild in you

was never a match

for the wild in Her.



And it is here

in this state of unadulterated wildness

that everything  you are,

everything that She is–

Woman and

child and

Beast alike–

will eventually

be forced to surrender

to the chaos.



This is the place,

wild thing,

where you will be forced to

eat yourself alive.

Come with me,
Let's walk through space
And never stop.

We'll fight like men,
And we'll dress like women,
And love like asexuals.

Our necklines will plunge,
Our skirts will be short,
And our shoes will be boyish.

Let's fall in love,
With italian men
And the bottoms of our glasses.

So darling come with me,
We'll walk through space,
And we'll live.

I. Pride

He claims he loves God
He bows down many times a day
But his tongue is quicker than his brain
He loves what the gossip says

II. Greed

He gives to charity with both hands
Cos that's what his religion says
He makes sure all eyes are on him
So he gets public praise

III. Wrath

Charming and polite
They think he's a family man
But behind closed doors
The devil is his number one fan

IV. Envy

He preaches
He condemns
Speaks out against sin
But there's no one he'll defend

V. Sloth

Study circles and sermons
He plans all the dates
Fundraisers and events
They always start late

VI. Lust

Short skirts and plunging necklines
He abhorrenly hates
Vehemently protests
Yet head to toe doth his eyes rake

VII. Gluttony

Feasts of kings
He is thankful to God before he tastes
The blessing before him
To this testifies his waist

Allow me to implicate myself
by way of introduction

Or perhaps offer this effigy
en route to getting warmed up

This is no scraping of a violin bow,
nor some preemptive plea bargain

This is the executive summary
of a report from the front

An expert guided tour
of the way we live now

Wherein “we” is limited to “he”
and in which:

The editing of innuendo feels endless,
and it’s not just a matter of “delete”

It’s rubbing the word “***” off a blackboard,
over and over again

Auto-correcting with the accuracy
a computer could never achieve

To walk in a way that suggests
you’ve got deflector shields engaged

Cultivating the cordiality of a handshake
without the slightest sign of a squeeze

Protecting yourself from listening,
much less laughing, at jokes

Maneuvering to obscure the entitlement
that underarm-stains your image

Averting your eyes from necklines and hemlines,
no matter how deep or short

So role-play all the new rules,
rather than resembling a mere exception;

Preemptively (but sincerely!) apologize
(while acknowledging your privilege)

Evolve into an astronomer of bias,
mapping despicable constellations

Be the first to storm out of panels
without any women on the stage

Paint over those posters of Picassos;
erase all those Woody Allen movies

Ponder your great power,
your even greater responsibilities

With the fearlessness of Spider-Man
dangling head-first, prepared to fall

Stay poised within the centre
on a teeter-totter of ugly extremes

Accept like a kid after Christmas
you want for nothing, having gotten it all

**** it up (rather than “man up”) --
or just “be a man,” whatever that means