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solenn fresnay Nov 2013
En 1987
J’ai joué à touche-pipi dans la caravane de mes parents
Il s’appelait Nicolas et sentait bon la fleur d’oranger
C’était assez agréable
Nous passions des vacances dans le Cantal
Il n’a cessé de pleuvoir
Le camping était en pente avec en diagonale un interminable vide
Mes parents jouaient aux cartes avec les parents de Nicolas
Je ne sais pas qui ce jour-là a baisé qui
Ceci étant
Nicolas m’avait demandé si je pouvais manger un bout de sa viande avariée
Je devais avoir huit ans et des poussières d’étoiles dans les yeux
Le soir à l’apéritif mon père a vomi dans la bouche de la mère de Nicolas
La soirée se termina ainsi
Et tout le monde à bout de ses envies alla se coucher dans sa caravane respective


Pause


Ce furent de belles vacances
judy smith May 2016
For the fifth year in a row, Kering and Parsons School of Fashion rolled out the ‘Empowering Imagination’ design initiative. The competition engaged twelve 2016 graduates of the Parsons BFA Fashion Design program, who "were selected for their excellence in vision, acute awareness in design identity, and mastery of technical competencies." The winners, Ya Jun Lin and Tiffany Huang, will be awarded a 2-week trip to Kering facilities in Italy in June 2016 and will have their thesis collections featured in Saks Fifth Avenue New York’s windows.

The Kering and Parsons competition, which is currently in its fifth year, is one of a growing number of design competitions, including but not limited to the LVMH Prize, the ANDAM Awards, the Council of Fashion Designers of America/Vogue Fashion Fund, and its British counterpart, the Woolmark Prize, the Ecco Domani fashion award, and the Hyères Festival. among others.

In the generations prior, designers were certainly nominated for awards, but it seems that there was not nearly as intense of a focus on design competitions as a means for designers to get their footing, for design houses to scout talent, or for these competitions to select the best of the best in a especially large pool of young talent. Fern Mallis, the former executive director of the Council of Fashion Designers of America and an industry consultant, told the New York Times: “Take the Calvin [Kleins] and the Donna [Karans] and the Ralph [Laurens] of the world. Some of these people had money from a friend or a partner who worked with them, but they weren’t out spending their time doing competitions and winning awards to get their business going.” She sheds light on an essential element: The relatively drastic difference between the state of fashion then and fashion now. Fashion then was slower, less global, and (a lot) less dominated by the internet, and so, it made for quite different circumstances for the building of a fashion brand.

Nowadays, young designers are more or less going full speed ahead right off the bat. They show comprehensive collections, many of which consist of garments and an array of accessories. They are expected to be active on social media. They are expected to establish a strong industry presence (think: Go to events and parties). They are expected to cope with the fashion business that has become large-scale and international. They are expected to collaborate to expand their reach, and while it does, at times, feel excessive, this is the reality because the industry is moving at such a quick pace, one that some argue is unsustainably rapid. The result is designers and design houses consistently building their brands and very rarely starting small. Case in point: Young brands showing pre-collections within a few years of setting up shop (for a total of four collections per year, not counting any collaboration or capsule collections), and established brands showing roughly four womenswear collections, four menswear collections, two couture collections, and quite often, a few diffusion collections each year.

The current climate of 'more is more' (more collections, more collaborations, more social media, more international know-how, etc.) in fashion is what sets currently emerging brands apart from older brands, many of which started small. This reality also sheds light on the increasing frequency with which designers rely on competitions as a means of gaining funds, as well as a means of establishing their names and not uncommonly, gaining outside funding.

The Ralphs, Tommys, Calvins and Perrys started off a bit differently. Ralph Lauren, for instance, started a niche business. The empire builder, now 74, got his start working at a department store then worked for a private label tie manufacturer (which made ties for Brooks Brothers and Paul Stuart). He eventually convinced them to let him make ties under the Polo label and work out of a drawer in their showroom. After gaining credibility thanks to the impeccable quality of his ties, he expanded into other things. Tommy Hilfiger similarly started with one key garment: Jeans. After making a name for himself by buying jeans, altering them into bellbottoms and reselling them at Brown’s in Manhattan, he opened a store catering to those that wanted a “rock star” aesthetic when he was 18-years old with $150. While the store went bankrupt by the time he was 25, it allowed him to get his foot in the door. He was offered design positions at Calvin Klein (who also got his start by focusing on a single garment: Coats. With $2,000 of his own money and $10,000 lent to him by a friend, he set up shop; in 1973, he got his big break when a major department store buyer accidentally walked into his showroom and placed an order for $50,000). Hilfiger was also offered a design position with Perry Ellis but turned them down to start his eponymous with help from the Murjani Group. Speaking of Perry Ellis, the NYU grad went to work at an upscale retail store in Virginia, where he was promoted to a buying/merchandising position in NYC, where he was eventually offered a chance to start his own label, a small operation. After several years of success, he spun it off as its own entity. Marc Jacobs, who falls into a bit of a younger generation, started out focusing on sweaters.

These few individuals, some of the biggest names in American fashion, obviously share a common technique. They intentionally started very small. They built slowly from there, and they had the luxury of being able to do so. Others, such as Hubert de Givenchy, Alexander McQueen and his successor Sarah Burton, Nicolas Ghesquière, Julien Macdonald, John Galliano and his successor Bill Gaytten, and others, spent time as apprentices, working up to design directors or creative directors, and maybe maintaining a small eponymous label on the side. As I mentioned, attempting to compare these great brand builders or notable creative directors to the young designers of today is a bit like comparing apples and oranges, as the nature of the market now is vastly different from what it looked like 20 years ago, let alone 30 or 40 years ago.

With this in mind, fashion competitions have begun to play an important role in helping designers to cope with the increasing need to establish a brand early on. It seems to me that winning (or nearly winning) a prestigious fashion competition results in several key rewards.

Primarily, it puts a designer's name and brand on the map. This is likely the least noteworthy of the rewards, as chances are, if you are selected to participate in a design competition, your name and brand are already out there to some extent as one of the most promising young designers of the moment.

Second are the actual prizes, which commonly include mentoring from industry insiders and monetary grants. We know that participation in competitions, such as the CFDA/Vogue Fashion Fund, the Woolmark Prize, the Swarovski, Ecco Domani, the LVMH Prize, etc., gives emerging designers face time with and mentoring from some of the most successful names in the industry. Chris Peters, half of the label Creatures of the Wind (pictured above), whose brand has been nominated for half of the aforementioned awards says of such participation: “It feels like we’ve talked to possibly everyone in fashion that we can possibly talk to." The grants, which range anywhere from $25,o00 to $400,000 and beyond, are obviously important, as many emerging designers take this money and stage a runway show or launch pre-collections, which often affect the business' bottom line in a major and positive way.

The third benefit is, in my opinion, the most significant. It seems that competitions also provide brands with some reputability in terms of finding funding. At the moment, the sea of young brands which is terribly vast. Like law school graduates, there are a lot of design school graduates. With this in mind, these competitions are, for the most part, serving as a selection mechanism. Sure, the inevitable industry politics and alternate agendas exist (without which the finalists lists may look a bit different), but great talent is being scouted, nonetheless. Not only is it important to showcase the most promising young talent and provide them with mentoring and grant money, as a way of maintaining an industry, but these competitions also do a monumental service to young brands in terms of securing additional funding. One of the most challenging aspects of the business for young/emerging brands is producing and growing absent outside investors' funds, and often, the only way for brands' to have access to such funds is by showing a proven sales track record, something that is difficult to establish when you've already put all of your money into your business and it is just not enough. This is a frustrating cycle for young designers.

However, this is where design competitions are a saving grace. If we look to recent Council of Fashion Designers of America/Vogue Fashion Fund winners and runners-up, for instance, it is not uncommon to see funding (distinct from the grants associated with winning) come on the heels of successful participation. Chrome Hearts, the cult L.A.-based accessories label, acquired a minority stake in The Elder Statesman, the brand established by Greg Chait, the 2012 winner, this past March. A minority stake in 2011 winner Joseph Altuzarra's eponymous label was purchased by luxury conglomerate Kering in September 2013. Creatures of the Wind, the NYC-based brand founded by Shane Gabier and Chris Peters, which took home a runner-up prize in the 2011 competition, welcomed an investment from The Dock Group, a Los Angeles-based fashion investment firm, last year, as well.

Across the pond, the British Fashion Council/Vogue Fashion Fund has awarded prizes to a handful of designers who have gone on to land noteworthy investments. In January 2013, Christopher Kane (pictured below), the 2011 winner, sold a majority stake in his brand to Kering. Footwear designer Nicholas Kirkwood was named the winner 2013 in May and by September, a majority stake in his company had been acquired by LVMH.

Thus, while the exposure that fashion design competition participants gain, and the mentoring and monetary grants that the winners enjoy, are certainly not to be discounted, the takeaway is much larger than that. These competitions are becoming the new way for investors and luxury conglomerates to source new talent, and for young brands to land the outside investments that they so desperately need to produce their collections, expand their studio space, build upon their existing collections, and even open brick and mortar stores.

While no one has scooped up inaugural LVMH winner Thomas Tait’s brand yet or fellow winner, Marques'Almeida, it is likely just be a matter of time.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney
Jonny Angel May 2015
We made a saint out of Nicolas
when we lost him.
We lost him
somewhere down Baja-way.
He was spinning his yarns there,
making magic in the desert,
a peyote fox,
then vanished
into thin air.
The last time we saw him
he was dancing circular
into the pitch,
waving his arms madly,
wildly speaking
in an ancient tongue.
Some of us believe
the mother ship came back.
I don't.
I think he turned feral
and continues
to cavort
on
the sabbath eves.
Theodore Bird Feb 2015
Tepid summer nights and
     holes in the soles of your feet.
Holes in your wrists, no?
Soft fluttering of dusted eyelashes and
     the pale pink of morning sun as you turn your cheek.
Blushing like a schoolgirl, no?
***** fingertips on dirtied skin and
     toothy smiles, moth-eaten pillowcases, stale whispers.
*'Pour susurrer des mots doux', non?
Vivian Mar 2014
you were never an artist;
I'm sorry but it is true.
once, you sketched me
(sharpie on loose leaf, 2013)
and while I was touched by the gesture
[labor of love that it was]
it really looked more like your older brother.
now, your art is shared for mere
moments
(stylus on snapchat, 2014)
but you are still no artist.
you are an auteur, a lover, a curator,
finessing your homages to your youth
[pokemon, zelda, batman]
you may not be an artist
but I love you all the same.
CH Gorrie Jul 2012
Around me architectural mastery:
sycamores, embankments, enduring ionic pillars.
I round a walkway bordered by trees,
enamel thawing, gliding off their low leaves.
Beneath the late-May’s pounding sun,
through the glittered trees’ reaches,
a gazebo crackles into sight.
Children in their prime, sunbathers, a wistful portraitist
encircle it carelessly:
a leisured chimney; the billows of life.
The foliage escapes into the river,
purplish, palpitating, cyclic creases
receive the dewy notes.
Kayaks licking acacia-gum-edged
ripples sputter and slip
through reverberations
of leveled white-water terraces.
Blackcurrants in clotted cream
slide on the plush lips of a young passerby.
The 8 above a doorway
dances motionless, silent in my periphery;
“Nicolas Cage just sold the spot”
pops from unknown lungs
inside the Circus crowd.

Unacknowledged, half-proud
hands built the Roman baths
alone, closed-in by such grace,
forgotten, then as now.
I wander these ancestral lanes
more or less alone, the same.
Jedd Ong Mar 2015
Dad
Muelle de Binondo Street,
Barangay San Nicolas,
Old Manila.

My dad's fate
Will always be muddled
With nostalgia:

The mid-afternoon
Traffic of fruit vendors,

The toothless strains
Of my grandfather's voice,
Bouncing off
The warehouse walls
Like folding cardboard,

The ceramic gallops of horse-
Drawn kalesas taking him
From school to
My grandfather's offices,
Every day and back,

Up and down
The cardboard box river
To Tondo. There, he hurriedly
Buys ten
Asado buns
From a stall across the
Street from their
School - a voracious
Schoolboy
Forever late for class, forever

Putting on basketball jerseys
Too wide for him,
Basketball shorts too
Short; body
Always too gangly,
Too long-limbed, wide eyed
And fleet footed
For his dreams to catch.

He once could dunk.

He is still a baby boomer -
Scared of firecrackers,
Weird penchant
For popped collar shirts,
Pointed shoes, and
Sequins - he, was an avid

Lover of stars - his old
Dust-strewn bed posts
Giving way, I imagine,
To iron bars caging
The luminous starry night,
Floating high above
The sewage
And the freight trucks
That weigh him so.

They sang to him.

In the tune of
My mother's voice -
The only album
He ever possessed.

Song set from
His favorite band.

"Apo Hiking Society."

His favorite word,
Was "leap."

A disciple
Of MJ, Dr. J,
And Magic,
Samboy, and Jawo,

Icarus on hardwood
And leaping
From the free throw line.

"Son," he once told me,
"You gotta leap
"If you wanna live."

He was always afraid of heights.

It wasn't until 41 that
We made him ride a roller-coaster,
That he had even seen a roller-coaster.

"You gotta leap
"If you wanna live."

I think my favorite
Memory of my dad
Is still him wringing my fingers
At Space Mountain with
Eyes so tightly shut
That we forgot
Our fears,
And screamed instead:

So.

This,
Is how the stars look like
When unbolted
By folding cardboard,
And iron bars.
Yeah it's one shot one ****

Plottin' against my enemies will soon to be killed
Bullets feedin' ya last meal
Dope rhymes sedatin' like pharmacy pills
Since hataz got no chill heads I'll drill  now you leakin' out like oil spills
Or a radiator angelic caters none could create a
Flows nasty as mine poppin' a multiplicity of shells I'm one of a kind
Thoughts intertwined  
****** into a demons intervention contenders in suspension from the soul lynching
Caught in the realms of heaven and hell & you can smell
The ashes burning fermentin'
time runnin' slower than molasses
My murders be classic enemies dramatic causin' static
Shoot more than Bird combined with Magic
Workin' my Johnson on the tracks tonsils sittin' as a hip hop consul underground magul  
**** longer than Repunzels hair follicles
Cookin' up sigils into a *** of gold no rainbow snortin' sir nose
D'void of Funk rattlin' the earth from the bass in my trunk blazin' skunks
Abraxas I'm embracin' one of my goetias when facin' ain't no replacin'
Fools givin' chase
and to tastes of demonic faces
My flows replenish like **** laces
Blunts turn into ashes dump it out on the masses
Epidemic mase deaden your pace hazardous like toxic waste
Adversaries don't wanna face
Off like Nicolas to Travolta livin' in an ultra violent culture
Cleatin' into ya flesh I be the stalkin' Vulture mulchin' ya
'til ya
  A dissembled particle blank photo in the article from curvin' emcees with my surgical
lyrical sickle stare into ya eyes as the blood trickles
Down ya body you easily brickled rhymes artificial
My soul sour as a pickle no tickles
Could move me or influence thee my legacy
Lay cinematography like A. Hitchcock in the 50s huh
Ya soon to be a death reel for thrills
Rememeber
All I need is one shot one **** forreal!!!!
Jeremy Duff Oct 2012
One Cuil = One level of abstraction away from the reality of a situation.

Example: You ask me for a cat.

One Cuil: If you asked me for a cat and I gave you a rhino.

Two Cuil: If you asked me for a cat, but it turns out I don't really exist. In the place where you perceived me to be standing is a picture of a large cat. On it's collar are the words: "I am a large rhino."

Three Cuil: You are a cat. You begin to scream, only to realise that you are meowing. You scratch just under your ears and begin to purr.

Four Cuil: Why are we wearing dinosaur outfits? A light breezes rolls over our bodies but you only have one arm. Suddenly, the wind begins to howl and an alternative universe is created where we are dinosaurs wearing human outfits. I have cats for arms, and as you notice this you meow again.

Five Cuil: You ask for a cat; and I give you a cat. Your pull it to your chest and begin to pet it. Your nose begins to run and you wipe it on the cats tail. On the other side of the world a bank is robbed by a woman who has 7 sisters. In her wallet is a picture of you, in your human form. Your ears are pierced in this picture and they were in your human form as well, but something is different about them. The cat purrs and grabs a hold of your earring, ripping it from your ear. Milk drips out of you wound and the lady robbing the bank is arrested. Her oldest sister is climaxing while having *** with my brother. I give you a cat and it is poisonous. I am dead.

Six Cuil: You ask me for a cat. Mark Whalberg tells me he will not **** and he hands me a cat. The cat is smoking a cigarette, I develop liver cancer. I die. The wind blows on you again and the cat does not have a left rear leg. It puts its cigarette out on my eye. MGMT plays softly and you meow to the moon which is a pizza. The pizza has olives on it which displeases you. Your displeasure causes the woman to rob the bank so she can buy you Hawaiian pizza.  The gravitational pull of the olives causes a flood to reach your house. You cry and your tears become lakes. The Earth is flooded. Uranus ignites suddenly, engulfing Neptune in flames. A civilization of Nicolas Cage's living there are destroyed. Obi Wan says that there has been a disturbance in the force. A cat hands you me.
It's too late to be thinking.
Nicolas Ramirez Jan 2019
look i'm a castaway i don't play by the normal games

i'm a castaway i don't like to stay the same

i'm a castaway i don't care what anyone has to say

i'm a castaway i don't fit into the society

i'm a castaway i don't like the fakes

i'm a castaway i'm just trying to make a change

i'm just going to be myself regardless what the world has to say

i'm a castaway sure i'm in constant pain & the anxiety+depression never fades

but i made a promise to myself that will get rid of all the evil in this cruel world

so my Friends & Family can live a better safe life with no fear at all

so yeah i'm a castaway & guess what i'm never going to change
Ariel Hill Aug 2013
If, I were to find you
a different place
a different time
I, would still be certain
that your hand belongs in mine.

Though if I found myself
and could speak
of winds to come,
I'd back away
to distant space
and never meet my love

for whichever current guides,
or whatever whisper's heard,
it brought me near
far from fear
straight to your backyard

I once was poor
not knowing love
drunk on living free
your eyes found mine
our souls entwined:
I now know how to be.
Opemipo Feb 2014
Sometimes, I don't know what is the problem of my so called colleagues... There are so many issues worth tackling in the movie industry where as a movie maker u invest so much finance, time and energy and get back very little or nothing... Yet, what concerns our youths is celebrations, parties, function attendance and all... The so called movie ambassadors came up at the period of political campaign... Will this gathering still stand after they are bn used for political campaigns... That's a question that I'm sure can't b answered... D crazy aspect, s dt every name now goes first with Ambassador lagbaja or Ambassador tamedu... So crazy.... Rebranding starts from our selves... No group whatsoever, has d power to influence a corrupt, mis-managed, malfunctioning industry that needs urgent attention... I'm surprised to even find respected movie makers sleeping and putting heads in same direction... If we want to speak in one voice, I believe... There's an existing body, when d music sector got its branding and uplifted its current face to d very level its today, D's were not d measures and procedures takn.... Even in Hollywood, I have nvr heard of Ambassador Nicolas Cage, Ambassador Angelina Jolie etc... Neither in bollyhood have I heard of Ambassador Shakiru Khan or Ambassador John Abraham. What a pity..., even the newly experienced movie makers that doesn't even know what D's game is all about bear Ambassadors... I hear, there's fine for misbehaviour at events and all... Hmmmmmm, those that have sumfn upstairs, let them start thinking... Don't b used for sumfn that u will end up not benefitting and later b d glory of sum people that knows where this is going and the aim behind it.... However, if the motive is truly for d upliftment of D's great job that we all do with great passion... God help us all.... Tokunbo Awoga
This was written by my man, Tokunbo Awoga....actor, producer, event plaaner etc......nigeria movie industries......
L A Lamb Sep 2014
They call me crazy: I guess it’s in my right. I’d say I parallel Plath and Dickinson in their poetic plight. It’s a part of life. It’s something I’ve always known. And this holiday season shows how my disdain has grown for lies; I even hate the Christmas lights. I’m a Grinch-like *****. I won’t pretend to love consumerism, plastered-smiles of family—I lose my sanity every night there’s a holiday party. I sneak multiple glasses of wine. I text my lovers while my parents laugh at boring stories my relatives share. I am the coal of children’s stockings. I am the hair in the drain of the virtuous people showering off Christmas cocktails.

I was raised to be scared. I was raised to believe magic. It was so ******* tragic when I found out Santa was a lie. I held him in such high regard, the accord that I’d get some kind of reward if I was always nice. These terms included rejecting all vice and feeling faith in the stillness that even mice couldn’t be heard. I wouldn’t ever share a word of any sadness or doubt and this shutting of my mouth would promise prizes. Santa was my savior, my lord. I had a hard time adjusting to the fact that he was a fraud, but even worse—my parents were. My mother was a Mary. I couldn’t see her having *** as a means to create me. She was the wholesome, proper etiquette of French perspective and Muslim heritage. Santa was a separate thing. Santa was my father’s way, his mechanisms and faults that taught us to be loyal kids. I prayed., I prayed. I prayed to a mystical man who’d promise me goodness and accept me for myself, only if I followed his guidelines. I could be rewarded later, later, and my dreams on Christmas Eve of this anticipation would keep me awake and wondering: “sleep, sleep” they said, so I’d lay my head on my pillow and think of marshmallows and wrappings and peppermint and cookies and milk. “Santa will love my favors,” I thought. “Just be a nice girl and he’ll provide all you want in exchange for your virtue and goodness. Toys and family are all you need to be happy.” I accepted this notion, along with wine and bread and didn’t question the thoughts in my head that asked for a better understanding.

I prayed. “Dear Santa, I want a pony,” all the little girls said. Who would know in reality how much I’d dread cleaning up **** and taking care of it like a child or sacred possession? I wanted something to ride, to love. “Don’t question Santa—he lives above in the North Pole. If you asked him he’s bring a whole bag of presents. His presence will bless you if you stay a good girl and twirl in nice dresses and count all your blessings.” I wondered about all children in the world. “Well how can he fly all around the world at night and serve everyone? How does Santa know who deserves any one certain present?” “It’s not a competition—just be a good girl and don’t worry your little head about the mechanics of Santa’s magic: get good grades in school and listen to the authoritative teacher who expects you to learns but scolds you for asking questions. Listen, but don’t be heard. Believe our word that Santa’s coming to make your life better. Just be a good girl.”

I remember stacking cookies on a plate and leaving milk. The last time I might’ve been nine and I felt such guilt for not having them fresh-baked but leaving Chips-Ahoy! I went to bed but my brother’s ploy to catch Santa in the act—to prove for a fact that he existed—persisted beyond my parents answers and later went to destroy my fantasies of merriment. They call me crazy, but I’m not the one who lies. I found out later that Santa was a disguise. From sitting on the lap of every man who wore a hat and went to pat my thigh after asking for a bicycle, I learned Christmas was a cruel cycle of lies. I thought beyond it and wondered why my parents would deny the fiction they instilled. Did God advocate this kind of ignorance towards a child? Three years before I found out about Santa I learned about life and knew about death and realized one day my parents would die. I cried every night. I wondered when it would happen and the thought that no particular circumstance could rob their life made me anxious inside.

“What’s beyond life?” I’d wonder, in my little girl way, and my parents would reassure me to chase those thoughts away with Barbies and rainbows and sunshine. “Everyone has their time. There’s very little chance I’ll die tomorrow.” Tomorrow would pass and they’d still be alive but I’d ask about the day after and they’d chide me without providing answers. “How did Mary give birth?” asked the thirteen-year old me. I knew enough about biology to wonder how Santa and Jesus combined to make “merry”—a holiday of lies.

Adults despised my young eager mind and talked about a bible, a fairy-tale of St. Nicolas who once did this thing where he delivered socks to houses. I was wrong for my investigations and grown-ups had no hesitations in telling me so. “I don’t know,” they’d say, but just have faith and all will be okay. I knew about the Santa hoax so I figured Allah and God were also a joke I was too young to understand. Christian neighbors would reprimand my efforts and tell me about hell—saying they would show me the way and take me away if I went to church with them on Sundays. They were so nice and so threatening. “(Your Muslim friend is crazy but we can sway her back to normalcy). Would you like to try some bacon?”

Maybe I was crazy. I fetishized naught and nice later in life and I preferred the role of naughty. I thought if someone taught me a lesson I could get some answers in exchange for being bad. All I came up with was touching in the private parts with a warning “keep your mouth shut unless you want to be put up for adoption.” My mother was away. “Be grateful for your step-dad—that dead-beat Franklin isn’t the one filling your stockings.” I couldn’t endure talking because my silence was the exchange for “stuff”. Merry Christmas indeed—when mom was away we celebrate with shots of peppermint schnapps. “Do you remember those days?” I’d ask my siblings. “No-but I don’t really want to.” I wanted to ask “Does it haunt you in the same way?”

Mother was away. My siblings were estranged. I had no one to talk to so I used my own gift to make new friends. “Cute,” they’d call me, right as I was hitting puberty. “I thought you were older—when’s your birthday?” “Several weeks before the holiday,” I’d say. I’d find a boy with a nice sitting-lap and I’d talk about all the crap I couldn’t share otherwise. They’d sometimes stroke my thighs while they pretended to listen. I’d look in their eyes and see irises glisten but I didn’t know what I thought was trust was the human condition—a sin called lust. I wanted someone nice to provide me with goodness, but in my heart I knew that naughtiness earned the ultimate prize. I grew to despise the accustomed way men would lie and top of me and sweat out their secrets while robbing my thighs. I went with it anyway. You deal with this kind of celebration during the holiday and you don’t think twice about the lies—just do your best to be nice. I was nice in so many ways. They called me crazy.
judy smith Mar 2017
There is something discombobulating about feeling a shudder and a tilt, the models in front of you apparently moving slowly sideways, as the stand with your show seat starts to move in circles.

At the same time, the models at the Céline show seemed to be going off in all directions. Popping in and out of the black holes of space were models - young or older - wearing a smart green masculine trouser suit, a striped shirt, a white belted raincoat, something furry and - unexpectedly - a tunic and trousers printed with black wheels and checks skittering before your eyes.

All this and the bodies and arms of shadowy people behind the plastic backdrop. I rushed backstage to try to make sense of the show chaos (sorry: artistic intrigue), but designer Phoebe Philo did not want to talk when I asked her the point of her dramatic presentation of her Autumn/Winter 2017 collection.

"Just ideas coming together with lots of ideas," said the designer. "Just lots and lots of ideas and how they impact each other."

Around me, Phoebe's team were hugging and sobbing and clutching each other, as if this show were their last. Overview notes provided by the public relations people seemed even more confusing, apart from telling me that the installation (that required more electric cables and wires than I have ever seen above a fashion runway) was by French artist Philippe Parreno.

''The Céline AW17 collection explored Phoebe Philo's storytelling design process of how a collection is created and the notion of how changes result in impact," read the statement. "Further, the collection relates closely to the interconnected nature of women's lives and possibilities for women."

Before I read this, I had thought of Phoebe as the English designer who has her children running around backstage and who made practical but classy clothes for today's woman. She threw into the mix a few charming pieces like the fluffy flat sandals that have been picked up by other designers across the world.

With all that on offer, why did the new Céline collection have to complicate things so much?

Take away the moving seats and impossible-to-follow criss-cross of the models and there was the Céline look that any woman would crave: the bold, floor-length tailored coat; a tuxedo with its hemline sweeping right down to the ankle. The tailoring looked bigger, oversized even, which is in tune with the Eighties-style square shoulders that we have seen elsewhere this season.

Phoebe seemed to be offering a hardened version of the serenity she once found in streamlined clothes. An example of the new severity would be a plain, long sleeved dress with a hemline at mid-calf. Its softer side was a blue shirt elongated to the ankle and worn with trousers.

Ultimately, Phoebe offers 21st century elegance with the smooth lines disrupted by a tangle of fringe at the hem or what appeared to be a big blanket over one arm.

I received an overall impression of longer - to the ankle - length, a sense of sobriety and a few fanciful things for evening. What I missed in the hurdy-gurdy of the presentation, is, as yet, unknown.

With exquisite workmanship and Victoriana melded with pop, Pierpaolo Piccioli had a new vision of romance for the digital era.

Prudishness and pop - can the two really meld together? Yes! If the Victorian-style cape is in a vivid, sugary, postmodern pink and the dress underneath a colourful geometric pattern, recalling the Memphis era.

At Valentino, the 1880s met the 1980s with sensational results as designer Pierpaolo Piccioli dismissed the feminist vibe that has reverberated through the Autumn/Winter 2017 season yet created a collection that was respectful to and joyful for, women.

Just looking at the designer's four moodboards was a history lesson, as Pierpaolo whizzed me through dark Victorian carved birds, bright Memphis furniture, coral with a religious connection to Medusa - so much from the past crammed into one collection.

Yet on the runway, the result was far from overloaded, as the history of coral was subsumed into the necklaces all the models wore and the deflated Victorian silhouette - long and high waisted, but slim where a crinoline once was, seemed perfectly acceptable as a romantic vision of the 21st century.

"I wanted to add deepness and romanticism to the modernity of the shapes, so these are absolutely items that you can wear separately - a white shirt or the skirt with your own sweater," said Pierpaolo. "I think fashion is made for dreams, but sometimes you want a dream that is daywear."

The Valentino studios are at the heart of the matter, apparently finding it as easy to toss off a tailored coat with a mid-calf hemline nudging Victoriana bootees, as it is to make a soft, light dress to flow underneath. The detail and delicacy of the dresses seemed like an extension of the haute couture, but the designer was eager to point out that the clothes came from the Italian factory dedicated to Valentino.

Whether it is so easy visually to mix a sorbet pink top with tiny ruffles down the arms that flowed into a cherry ripe panelled skirt, the result was surprisingly calm. Even the dresses patterned with Memphis pop blended in with the plainer, pleated versions. And just when you thought that the show's high romance was over blown, the designer would slip in a black top over a pair of sloppy velvet trousers or calm a Memphis patterned dress with a tailored coat. A severe black jacket could be worn with anything already in the closet from an LBD to blue jeans. Like the tailored coats, it kept ripe femininity in check.

"For me it is important to keep the lightness, otherwise it doesn’t feel confident and if you don’t feel that you don’t feel beautiful," said Pierpaolo. "I think if you feel confident you can even be able to show your sensibility and really feel stronger."

However you rated the clothes - too fancy, too froufrou, too historical - there is no denying that Pierpaolo has created a vision that is respectful to women and which makes them feel beautiful. In a churning political universe, Valentino offers a small, still voice of calm.

Demna Gvasalia revisited Cristóbal’s silhouettes with surges of modern colour, print and volume.

Balenciaga haute couture has been revived for the first time since Cristóbal himself closed the house nearly half a century ago. The last nine outfits shown by creative director Demna Gvasalia, on the huge carpet patterned with the word 'Balenciaga,' had their roots in the legacy of grandeur left by the noble Spanish-born couturier, who died in 1972.

Demna, who started in fashion by building street-smart, unadorned clothes, deliberately named just Vetements (the French word for clothing), has turned towards the grandeur of the original designs that are part of the Balenciaga legacy.

“I thought 100 years was a good reason to make couture available again,” said Demna backstage. “We're not going to do a couture line or show during couture, but these pieces will be made to order – basically for people who want to buy a couture dress from Balenciaga.”

The grand offerings – the polka dot dress with bustle back, the layers of dark pink taffeta, and a slim black gown, all with large back bows, were not the only historic links. The show opened with tailored coats which were worn with a drape over the left shoulder, reminiscent of the way that the models of an earlier era would walk with their heads up, shoulders rounded and stomachs sunk in.

“I studied how the pieces are worn and I found these images from old mood boards of Cristóbal where women are standing with their coats like this,” the designer explained. “The idea was to bring this kind of elegance, the gesture of wearing those pieces, but take it into a kind of cool and make it more modern. You can also wear it in a normal way, but it is constructed so that one part is larger and then you can also pin it up. And this is what you see basically in all these books.”

Demna's way of rethinking with his brain what he had seen with his eyes is exceptional – and the reason why he seems able to update the house as if he were growing new shoots from existing roots.

The arrival of vivid colour signalled a change of pace, as every figure stood out in the farthest reach of the enormous sports stadium. The hosiery especially perhaps, in grass green, and cut-away waistcoats like harnesses in pastel colours, took the image of Balenciaga back to the early days of Nicolas Ghesquière and his futuristic period at the house.

Demna is also drawn by the flowers that were a part of the Cristóbal Balenciaga look; by showing a patterned skirt with big, bold, brightly coloured sweaters, he gave print a modern feel.

The show was not perfect. Mini dresses in the floral patterns and bright hose looked out of place. But the overall effect was precise but theatrical, with the couture creating a dramatic ending.

Choosing Demna may have been a gamble by François-Henri Pinault, CEO of Kering, the luxury group that owns Balenciaga. But the designer has turned out to be able to answer fashion's most difficult challenge: finding the balance between old and new, tipped towards the future.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/****-formal-dresses
Joel A Doetsch Feb 2012
Let's play word association, brain

Sure

Anger

Carrots

Vegetables

Parachute Pants

MC Hammer

Sub Prime Mortage

Are you even trying?

Nicolas Cage.  Oh wait...that one actually made sense

You can be an ******* sometimes

Says the guy playing word association with himself

...Touché

*Lenny Bruce
One could also submit Keanu Reeves, Eddie Murphy, and the entire US Congress in place of Nick Cage.
Tee Gypsy Dec 2014
There's a little girl deep within my heart that sometimes never wants to leave the play ground.
as if I was Peter Pan in never land, I wish I could never land..
like a bird in the sky..I often wish I was one of them..
the way they openly spread their wings,
live in trees and soar in the clouds, glide with the wind and create rhythmic sounds...
The beautiful part is...you never see them too long on the ground...
see..there's fire on earth blazing through these streets in the hands of the ***** white police.
Suppressing, attempting to frighten us rather than protect us.
My arms, Immensely breaks into sweat hoping their perception of me from the way I'm dressed or the color of my skin doesn't make me appear suspicious.
many men blazing out of mini vans blasting at innocent citizens.
The system doesn't know of love. All they know is war.
Bullet wounds creates scars that screams out
survival..violent, violence, for all the blacks that were victimized..
may we have a moment of silence?..
there's fire on earth blazing through the actions of the wealthy..
capitalist blatantly continuing to ****** the minds of the blind, appealing to humanities deprived fantasies to establish green funds
with bank accounts more bigger than their egos...
Now were Young Rich ****** attempting to live the lifestyle of to the Migos.
Using their greed of green to deceive & keep down my people..
There was a time when mainstream rap music was socially conscious..
consisting of young visionary artists When music came from the heart, enlightening, unity, cultural, empowerment, hope.
Now it's all about the dough, these Multi billion dollar corporate vultures are marketing rappers like chief keef
Devaluing the lives of black people for exchange for financial gain.
Dominating air waves with hate..
now were ski masking down the fast lane, rafts of shootings down the street, opening fire to one another, doing the job of the KKK.
When we invited that white man with a dog eat dog nature into Africa, he possessed a mentality to eat us away, now were possessing his same mentality today.
Now were hating ourselves and killing others.
Embrace your rich melanin..Love this...*points at black skin Love this.
the true present is this gift from God, not st Nicolas.
There is no American dream for me, there is only reality.
see, I unlocked through the chains of restriction and while fire burns through these streets to keep us down, fire slowly burns through these joints to keep me lifted, I inhale through these spliffs because they drift me to the road of freedom. I spread my wings, I fly soaring the skies without no fears...
when the smoke clears,
I find myself skating by the Lilly fields where the warm winds blow in hopes of running into a 4 leaf clover..
People staring as if Im An alien although I sometimes feel alienated living in this 20th century with 70s bohemian ways..
Im building blocks to reach greatness, I keep my head up & pray...
I'm learning Patience since even the great pyramids of Giza wasn't build in a day.
Still dreaming,
I untangled from these chains,
With the confidence of Harriet Tubman when she followed the north star, I am truly free.
Still dreaming...I proudly spread my wings..
suicidal twitch Nov 2014
Alphabet Christmas

A is for advent calendars
B is for boxes
C is for carols
D is for donkey
E is for everyone
F is for festive
G is for gifts
H is for happy
I is for icicles
J is for joy
K is for kings
L is for love
M is for merry
N is for Noel
O is for orange
P is for presents
Q is for quiet
R is for reindeer
S is for St. Nicolas
T is for Turkey
U is for under the tree
V is for visiting
W is for wine
X is for Xmas
Y is for Yuletide
Z is for Zzzzzzzz
Made with my family
TIM ANDREWS Jun 2018
yes,
he spoke of the language of flowers,
this man of Gaul,
he spoke and, as he spoke,
i looked out of his window,
i saw my thoughts trail across
a sky as blue as that in his first film.
i stood, naked, as he shined his light on me,
it picked out the old, the new,
it bathed me,
it made me feel beautiful again,
as any human, being, gone, to become.
he asked me to do what i wanted to do,
i laid on his floor,
i looked up,
into his eyes,
i saw that he knew
i was doing what i wanted to do,
i was speaking the language
of romance, poetry, of stories new and old,
my body twisted this way, that way,
the way it used to,
i was speaking la langue,
l'ancienne langue,
des fleures,
d'amour,
d'une vie,
une vie de la beauté,
oui.
2018
They judge of how you look
Should I look like brad Pitt or Nicolas cage
We forgot the importance of the jewel inside that make the beautiful look ugly and the ugly so pretty.
The soul is the core that we should judge not by the looks cause the looks are from God.
A woman can look ordinary but her soul is so beautiful that it shines a light that just blinds. It makes you forget her ordinary looks and see her as the most beautiful woman you have laid eyes on to.
When you judge how people look . Look at yourself in the mirror and judge what you see. Are you handsome do you look even nice , do you deserve people  love do you deserve there respect. They say don't judge a book by its cover isn't that so true but we only hear and say but we never do.
Look at people souls and you will see imaginary beauty that your eyes want believe. This world has taught us to judge the people and what they wear and how they look like and didn't tell us how pretty people are from inside.
George Krokos Mar 2022
If Lord Jesus Christ is said to sit on the right hand side of God the Father in Heaven then who sits on the left side?

When Jesus was born it is recorded in the Gospels that He was visited by three wise men who came to see and honor Him by following a star from the east. Did they actually follow an external star and light in the sky or were they able to see and follow the promptings of the Inner Light of intuition, insight and illumination of those who are Enlightened which is also called and known as The Star of the East and can be seen within the darkness of closed eyes and sometimes with opened eyes?

Did Jesus tell Judas to betray Him as he was sensed to be wavering in his resolution to do so because Jesus had to fulfill the mission entrusted to Him by the Holy Spirit and of which it was prophesied about in the earlier scriptures? The Gospel of John states that Jesus confronted Judas at the last supper, telling him, "What you are about to do, do quickly."

Did Jesus command His foremost disciple Peter to deny Him three times as He could see that that was what it would take to save Peter's life and for him to live on and be the Rock upon which He would build His Church as Jesus had foretold of him when He had asked Peter Whom did he think that He was and the answer that Peter gave was the one that most pleased Jesus?

What did Jesus do and where did he go between the time of 12 and 30 years of age? As it is recorded in the Gospel by St Luke about Him being left behind unknowingly by His parents (how could this have happened?) and was found three days later in Jerusalem talking to the doctors in the Temple asking and answering questions at the age of 12 and then not being heard of again until the age of 30 when He is recorded to be seeking baptism by John the Baptist just before being led into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. Here also there seems to be an unanswered question over the recounting of Jesus's ordeal in the desert which is told by the Gospel writers to have lasted 40 days and 40 nights and which happened before He called any of His disciples to start following Him. How could they have known what actually transpired during that time, and how much of it is based on the truth, unless it was Jesus Himself who told them about it later on or, was it the work of the “Holy Spirit” about which it is said that it's “He Who makes known or reveals all things”.
Also, did Jesus return the visit of the Three Wise Men who came to see him at the time of His birth and who perhaps held the key to that Divine Knowledge and Wisdom which Jesus had to master in order for Him to fulfill His mission on earth? Eighteen years is a long time to have missing out of one's life particularly that of one Who is regarded to be the Savior of the World.
Did Jesus gain or attain, during those eighteen years mentioned above, that perfect Self mastery of the body, mind and spirit which was required for Him to have the ability and Divine Knowledge to perform miracles and to undergo and survive the ordeal of the Crucifixion and to then apparently be found to have come back to life in the story of the Resurrection after being proclaimed dead by the authorities at the time and was then buried where He would be recorded to go on and perform perhaps the greatest miracle of all?
In the discipline and higher practices of Yoga there is a state called 'Nirvikalpa Samadhi' which is also known as the 'breathless' and more specifically as the 'I am God' state whereby one who has mastered it can voluntarily leave the physical body at will and not be conscious of it at all, as would normally be the case when awake, but can still retain a connection with it which may explain the apparent death and resurrection of Lord Jesus Christ who is known to have been a Master Yogi when we compare His achievements with those that have been documented and can be attained by one who has mastered the science and art of Yoga.

It is also thought and even recorded that Jesus descended down to hell after He apparently 'died' on the cross due to the Crucifixion because of all our sins which He incurred as a down payment to God the Father so He could form what has come to be known as the New Covenant to save all those who believe in Him. While certain aspects of this view have merit and are true, it seems to go against what Jesus Himself is recorded to have said in the Gospels to one of the other condemned prisoners at the time before He 'died' on the cross when that prisoner asked Jesus to please remember him when he would go up into His Kingdom and Jesus having compassion replied to him saying: “Today shalt thou be with me in paradise” which is a far cry and contradiction to what is thought to have happened.

In the forty days following the Resurrection it is recorded that Jesus spent the time with His disciples before the Ascension teaching and telling them many things even so far as to remove any doubts they may have had regarding what happened to Him and to painfully declare that He had to leave and go to prepare a place for them in Heaven with the Father. Did Jesus actually ascend up to heaven or did He project an image of Himself in the sky as a farewell greeting before going away and heading off yonder with one or two of His disciples? It's very plausible that it would have been too dangerous for Him and His disciples if He had of stayed around, as it is recorded in some of the apocryphal texts where it's written that He traveled to the east and in particular India where it's also said that He died a normal death and was buried somewhere in what is now known as Kashmir.
There's also a story in The Book Of Mormon in which it is recorded that Jesus visited two Jewish lost tribes that had been exiled from the Holy Land a couple of centuries before due to their warring nature against each other, as a blessing of peace and to fulfill a promise and prophesy made and written about in the earlier scriptures, after all the drama unfolded there (His trial and crucifixion etc).

'To be born again' is a well known phrase in Christianity and is said to be a baptism by the Holy Spirit of someone who has become a follower of Lord Jesus Christ and involves the descent of Divine Grace. It would seem that not all followers of Jesus Christ receive the baptism of the Holy Spirit and are truly 'Born Again' but only those who ardently seek and follow in His footsteps and live by His example as set out in the Gospels with the instructions and words given therein. Only those who spend time in prayer, on a daily basis more or less, following the promptings of the 'Holy Spirit' and go about doing good, rendering service to others in need, to the best of their ability avoiding the temptations and pitfalls of the 'Flesh' in the form of lust, greed, anger, pride and jealousy and also living in accordance within the laws of the Ten Commandments. It is these people who experience the words of Lord Jesus Christ in the New Testament to come alive in them and go on to know the 'real mysteries of faith'. Each one receives what they're capable of holding which is in a spirit of humility and meekness; that is to do the Will of God the Father by obeying those aforesaid promptings of the Holy Spirit and by keeping the words of Lord Jesus Christ always in their heart.

There are many followers and believers of Lord Jesus Christ who have been adamantly saying and preaching that He will come again physically in a “Second Coming” and this has been going on for the past two thousand years or so since the stories of the “Resurrection” and in particular after His “Ascension”. Could it be that they are somehow mistaken and that it is just all based on dogma? However, in spite of any doubts or misgivings in this regard, it would be truly great to be around at such a time were it to happen hence the power of belief in it. This is also really something that can and does happen in a personal and individual way as described above in the previous paragraph.
In consideration of all the horrific events that happened during the past 20th century it would indeed be evident or even obvious that it should have been at some time back then. Instead there are many people left wondering as to what it would really take for God or someone like God to manifest Himself as an Incarnation of the Christ or Messiah etc, wielding Divine power, knowledge and authority, to save humanity and thereby in fact the whole world. If God is God being all powerful, all knowing, all loving, all compassionate, omnipresent, infinite and eternally creative etc, who's to say that He would need to come back down again amidst mankind in the same form as that of one of His previous incarnations at such a crucial time? Would it not be a display of favoritism on God's part to do so and for all we know would only lead to greater conflict and more religious war than has already been the case in the past and in some ways still going on today?
-------------------------------------------
Note:
See also YouTube video: Jesus in India, Tibet and Persia - An Account Missing from The Bible largely based in parts on the book 'The Unknown Life of Jesus Christ' by Nicolas Notovitch.
I started writing this some time ago back in September, 2019 and it seems to have taken up quite a lot of my time over Easter in 2021 updating it a number of times again since then. It isn't meant to mock or contradict anyone's belief or faith but attempts to shine a light, however dim it may seem, to some who hold or regard that everything they read and have been led to believe is true as far as certain aspects of the Christian scriptures go. Please also note that I regard myself to be a 'Born Again New Age Christian' since the early days of 1977.
There is a madness about me

With ungovernable impluses

That borrow my tormented mind

It is aflame a conflagration

Burning more intensely than the sun

Consumed by unlimited time and space

An imposed barrier of perception vanishes

Gives way, gives way, my god gives way

To the cause of violating the imagination

One that does not recede but flows, flows

more powerful due to such defiable infringement

Flames of excitement entice me toward

A trajectory that swings out over the void

My god I see him, see him, see him

Sitting smiling, smoking a pipe

Jean-Nicolas-Arthur Rimbaud

Vanish, vanish, now all is gone, disappeared

Perhaps later, yes later, perhaps
Ken Pepiton Jul 2020
2020 - day 193

Sunday, July 12, 2020
8:03 AM

Peer Gynt, self aware, self fulfilled troll-like
being ghostly,
projected before me, on the wall that is not there
- callin' all in, all ye outs, in free
- hear ye, hear ye
- the day of judging is this one called today.

See that pile of idle words, find the ones y'know,
use'm t'make sense
since you know sense, on sight, you re
co-gnostically be tuned to the same
signal. {soft call to be true to your self aware

you are so naked

but who knows?
right being you, not me,
selfless lost in the mix,
billions of bits being bet on yet
more
hope, faith and love
these
the trying trinity judging me...

can one tell one story, or must one,
take part in one,
as in the
one story being
the whole of all stories,
yours, as well as mine,
told in words we all know you all know

y'know waddamean.
tell me wha'd I say? Baby, be old,

turn and turn and turn
night to day, in time after time after
ever
ever
ever
being floods reality with
those three triers used to try men's souls,

attention, to the trained, means one thing,
stand up straight, eyes front, hup, now

to the beat march,
as to war...

We are off to meet the Manicheans who
swallowed all the hate once given
follower of Nicolas, in Antioch,

given hatred taken from the revelation,
interpreted by the time
stage acting as now,
the day... back when a hundred monkeys
were imagined able to use
a machine that made sense from chaos, over time.



bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
bada bump bada bump badabumpbump bumpbumpbump
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump

ding
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
bada bump bada bump badabumpbump bumpbumpbump
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump

ding

the dance of graphical images mages form
as words flow from fingers into magical machines
imagined
famously by a Huxley fellow, convinced life happens
on its own volition
using right, as opposed to non working trials
abandoned,
{when the band broke up, 1970, or so}

but the music never died
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
bada bump bada bump badabumpbump bumpbumpbump
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump

ding ding ding
writers of types of tales barred from publication,
suddenly appear

as it were from the type of word processors {Wangers}
that one Huxley envisioned responding
to a hundred monks who saw nor heard nor spoke evil
but
tapped, and at each tap a letter formed
to let a sound be heard
no levers stick, no carrying platens signal need to
advance
ding
tic, steadying sounds calling next from a habit
formed to the beat
tic tic tic
squeeks
as common, common conie-like rock squirrels

squeek squeek over the steady everthere sixty cycle
hummm

hear it, little dog, not too far away; adding music
to your day, which
grew from this seed, a little spore of living from
my state of being
informed
this day,

it was mine,
when first I noticed, this being the day.
I have power to live,
today,

I slept through the night, quite comforted, indeed.

Each new day
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
has a rythmn
sometimes it's steady, some itssteps stutter, some  say

sibalent whistles signal something, in the spirit,

sssssss

wait, too late, we made the story and let it fly.

ሴ ሴ

Lessoning myself in social graces,

I wash away my stains, my graffiti screams whispering
see me, see me, see me say

trolls exist in this place. Those who mocked knowing thyself,
and called evil good and good evil,
call fair foul and fould fair,
say sould souls were stolen, when we know the deal:

the price agreed was paid.
I insist enough
insisting for any rational troll,
knowing you are enough is enough, is part and parcel to
the act of being true to you as you
may say you wish you were,
free as truth in ever after...

- ain't nobody got no papers on me....

The sybils all told you , furies may come, but did you imagine


the wise principle thing promised riches beyond rubies,
for what a ruby is worth,
we have no clue.
What's a ruby worth to you?

Are you hungry? Here, eat a ruby.

Auto, self, did, done, act act, ionic become charged, my son.

Mama. ah. the old wounds we cherish.
Times before now, states of decay, shedding of skins to be
wise
as a serpent, like, that's a good thing, as good as
harmless
as a dove, on which poets rise in mind's eyes to see

sources of courses through the shallows near the shore

we all meander nearer now, swamped in ante
cipitation, capere, take it

take it, take it and move on. Live and learn,
follow the flow,
when you are snow, when you are precursor of coal,
go
on, no shortage of power,
like in America, where the power is always on.

Or was always on, in my future,
which is already
your past.
So fast,
but
its all realted,
it is all one idea, in the end, we each are given one last day,

to make up for everything, or make up everything.
The latter, I think,
today.
ሴ ሴ


You men ideas, furious in your raging, sing to us of
Gracious slaves of justice,

wake the lost hope of truth in
misformed
messengers whose every efforts fall mortally short.

Leaven a lessoning of habits formed being as a binding,
tied to each part of any whole
re-li-gated, ifthenelse ifthenelse ifthen else
re-legate, make a rule,
you
too
late,
we was e-pluriblized afor you was
aware eveh had begun,

The Pax of Everest living radiant as ever was imagined.
Peace
on earth, good will to the kind having hearing ears and
seeing eyes and slich oily minds,

anointed minded ones,
tested,
proven to have survived up
pop this very mortal moment called today,
to then, when you became dear reader in this medium
of mass messaging
lacking
any organized haeceity of pure me, not thee, not
other wise

ways wise men walk, watch, watch the liars strut,
do wise men walk this way?

Live and learn, we always say,
when given a day,
to think about it,

before dying and knowing, or not, if the point
is ever made, or was
already made before I started trying.

ሴ ሴ
ሴ ሴ ... _ .
Beta tests that use endless loops, are the icebergs in the stream of con-sci-use,
all floating on the rising tide of opinions
(Sur l'air de Malbrouck.)

Dans l'affreux cimetière,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Dans l'affreux cimetière
Frémit le nénuphar.

Castaing lève sa pierre,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Castaing lève sa pierre
Dans l'herbe de Clamar,

Et crie et vocifère,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Et crie et vocifère :
Je veux être césar !

Cartouche en son suaire,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Cartouche en son suaire
S'écrie ensanglanté

- Je veux aller sur terre,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Je veux aller sur terre
Pour être majesté !

Mingrat monte à sa chaire,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Mingrat monte à sa chaire,
Et dit, sonnant le glas :

- Je veux, dans l'ombre où j'erre,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Je veux, dans l'ombre où j'erre
Avec mon coutelas,

Etre appelé : mon frère,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Etre appelé : mon frère,
Par le czar Nicolas !

Poulmann, dans l'ossuaire,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Poulmann dans l'ossuaire
S'éveillant en fureur,

Dit à Mandrin : - Compère,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Dit à Mandrin : - Compère,
Je veux être empereur !

- Je veux, dit Lacenaire,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Je veux, dit Lacenaire,
Etre empereur et roi !

Et Soufflard déblatère,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Et Soufflard déblatère,
Hurlant comme un beffroi :

- Au lieu de cette bière,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Au lieu de cette bière,
Je veux le Louvre, moi

Ainsi, dans leur poussière,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Ainsi, dans leur poussière,
Parlent les chenapans.

- Çà, dit Robert Macaire,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
- Ça, dit Robert Macaire,
Pourquoi ces cris de paons ?

Pourquoi cette colère ?
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Pourquoi cette colère ?
Ne sommes-nous pas rois ?

Regardez, le saint-père,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Regardez, le saint-père,
Portant sa grande croix,

Nous sacre tous ensemble,
Ô misère, ô douleur, Paris tremble !
Nous sacre tous ensemble
Dans Napoléon trois !
JB Claywell Feb 2017
“What are you most looking forward to this summer?”
said the chalkboard at Caribou Coffee.

Someone had written TEXAS in huge letters.

I saw those giant letters as Nicolas and I walked in
for a variation on “The Ritual”,
my weekly festival of pen and ink.

What I failed to see,
was my little boy sneak over
to that chalkboard,
erasing those letters
and replacing them
with NICK.

Everyone’s got an end date,
TEXAS’ end date was today.


End Date

We’ve all got one.

All I want to do
is last long enough
to see
that they can cash a check
that they’ve earned,
get into a car that has their
name on the title
and get lost
if they want to.

Expiration date
on the old man,
the rhino with the ink pens
will be long passed one day.

In between,
there must be a handful
of dates that might mean
something,
maybe hold some memories.

But, really, none of those dates matter much.
What matters is that they get to use
it all up
by their own
end date.

*
- JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications; 2017
If you want more, click the link:  http://www.lulu.com/shop/jay-claywell/gray-spaces-demolitions-and-other-st-joe-uprisings/paperback/product-23035217.html

Thanks.
Adya Jha Jun 2017
She changed her status every hour
Little, broken hearted quotes
Maybe because she felt that
Social media listens when people don't
She was expressive, emojis and all
Seemed like a pretty happy soul
Because there, she could be something
That she wished was actually her own
Her pillow was the only thing
That could absorb her tears at night
She would feel a stupid boy
Could describe what she was like
She once felt the need to dress up
Because she believed in her grace
Until he came along, made her feel unworthy
And so she put on clothes in haste
She was sarcastic all through the day
But at night when alcohol filled her veins
She'd wonder and wonder - why?
Why was she the one to endure the pain?
And when her friends would force her
To watch a Nicolas Sparks movie
While you all will be drooling around
She'll chuckle in disbelief
Because she knew it was propaganda
That love was just as fake
And all the fairy tales stuffed inside our brains
Were all *******, for God's sake
ASB May 2014
she wrote about love,
as if she'd experienced it.
in truth, all she knew
about love came from
Neruda and Yeats and
Nicolas Sparks. the
only love in her life
was the unrequited
kind, but she wrote
about the loves that
lasted, or faded, or
blossomed, as if she'd
ever seen it happen,
and wondered if any
of the poets she so
admired had written
about fiction, or if
they wrote love as
they felt it -- but then,
who, happily in love,
has time for sonnets?
who writes, unless
for the vain belief
that words can fill
a void?

— The End —