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SøułSurvivør Mar 2015
and gargoyles


v  v  v
>     an     <
> angel <
###          down          ###
######          from         ######
########/heaven sat on########
#######/a gargoyle's wing#######
#####/said she, "too bad youre#####
###/hideous! such an ugly thing!###
###\the gargoyle said nothing/###
so the angel said, nonplussed
"too bad you have to
stay on earth and
cannot fly with us"
the gargoyle just sat
there. The angel left
alone. the gargoyle
shed not one tear
for he was made of
///////
stone*\\\\\\\
////////////////\\\\\\\\\\
///////////////////////\\\\\\\\\\\
///////////////////////\\\\\\\\\\\
/////////////////////////\\\\\\\\\\\
V               V
judy smith Nov 2016
Shortly after 3pm on September 29, 31-year-old Olivier Rousteing strode through the shimmering, fleshy backstage area at Balmain's Spring 2017 Paris Fashion Week show. Along the marble hallway of a hôtel particulier in the 8th arrondissement, long-limbed clusters of supermodels were gamely tolerating final applications of leg-moisturiser, make-up touch-ups and minutely precise hair interventions from squads of specialists as fast and accurate as any Formula 1 pit-stop team. The crowd parted as Rousteing swept through.

Wearing a belted, black silk tuxedo and a focused expression that accentuated his razor-sharp cheekbones, Rousteing resembled a sensuous hit man. Target identified, he led us to the board upon which photographs of every outfit were tacked.

We asked him to tell us about the collection (for that's what fashion editors always ask). "There is no theme," said Rou­steing in his fast, French-accented lilt. "No inspiration from travel or time. The inspiration is what I feel, and what I feel now is peace, light and serenity. I feel like in my six years here before this, I have tried to fight so many battles. Because there is no point anymore in fighting about boundaries and limits in fashion. Balmain has its place in fashion."

And the clothes? "There is a lot of fluidity. A lot of knitwear, lightness, ponchos. No body-con dresses. But whatever I do, even if I cover up my girls, it is like people can say I am ******. So this is what it is. I think there is nothing ******. I think it is really chic. I think it is really French. It is how I see Paris. And I have had too many haters during the last three years to defend myself again. So, this is Balmain." And then the show began.

Star endorsements

Under Rousteing, Balmain has become the most controversial fashion house in Paris. Rousteing has attracted (but not bought, as other, far bigger houses do) patronage from contemporary culture's most significant influencers. Rihanna, all the Kardashians, Kanye West, Taylor Swift, Miley Cyrus, Beyoncé, Justin Bieber – a royal flush of modern celebrity aristocracy – all champion him.

Immediately after this show, in that backstage hubbub, Kim Kardashian told me: "I thought it was very powerful…I loved the sequins, and I loved all the big chain mail belts – that was probably my favourite."

Yet for every famous fan there is a member of the fashion establishment who will sniff over coffee in Le Castiglione that Rousteing's crowd is declassé and his aesthetic best described by that V-word. The New York Times' fashion critic Vanessa Friedman reckoned this collection appropriate for "dressing for the captain's dinners on a cruise ship to Fantasy Island". At least she did not use the V-word. When I once deployed it – as a compliment – in a 2015 Vogue menswear review that declared "Rousteing is confidently negotiating a fine line between extravagance and vulgarity", I was told that Rous­teing was aggrieved.

The fashion world's ambivalence towards Rousteing is a measure of its conflicted feelings towards much in contemporary culture. Last year Robin Givhan of the Washington Post wrote of Balmain: "The French fashion house is always ostentatious and sometimes ******. It feeds a voracious appetite for attention. It is anti-intellectual. Antagonistic. Emotional. It is shocking. It is perfect for this era of social media, which means it is powerfully, undeniably relevant."

Since joining Instagram four years ago Rousteing has posted 4000 images and won 4 million followers. The combined reach of his audience members and models at this Balmain show was greater than the population of Britain and France combined. Balmain was the first French fashion house to gain more than 1 million followers, and currently has 5.5 million of them.

Loving his haters

As digital technology disrupts fashion, Balmain's seemingly effortless mastery of the medium galls some. Last year, the designer posted an image of a comment from a ****** follower to his feed. It read: "Olivier Rousteing spends more times taking selfies for Instagram than designing clothes for Balmain." Underneath, in block capitals, he commented "i love my haters".

Rousteing can be funny and flip – doing a video interview after the show, I opened by asking, tritely, how he felt. He replied: "Now I feel like some Chicken McNuggets with barbecue sauce, and then some M&M;'s ice cream."

When at work, however, that flipness flips to entirely unflip. The previous evening, at a final fitting for the collection, Rousteing had paced his studio, his face a scowl of concentration, applying final edits to the outfits to be worn by models Doutzen Kroes and Alessandra Ambrosio. The 30-strong team of couturiers working in the adjoining atelier delivered a steady stream of altered dresses.

"We are ready," he said from behind a glass desk in a rare moment of downtime. "This a big show – 80 looks – and I want a collection that is full of both the commercial and couture. But it's smooth too. All of the girls are excited about the after-party and interested in the music. And eating pizza." In the corridor outside Gigi Hadid – this season's apex supermodel – was indeed eating pizza, with gusto.

The fitting went on until far beyond midnight; Rousteing, fiercely focused, demonstrated the work ethic for which he is famous. When he was studio manager for Christophe Decarnin, his predecessor at Balmain, the young then-unknown was always the first in and last out of the studio. Emmanuel Diemoz, who joined Balmain as finance controller in 2001 and became chief executive in 2011, says that his hard graft was one of the reasons he was chosen to succeed Decarnin.

"For sure it was quite a gamble," says Diemoz. "But we could see the talent of Olivier. Plus he understood the work of Christophe – who had helped the brand recover – so he represented continuity. He was a hard worker, clearly a leader, with a lot of creativity. Plus the size of the turnover at that time was not so huge. So we were able to take the risk."

Clear leader

Which is why, aged 24, Rousteing became the creative director of one of Paris's best known – but indubitably faded – fashion houses. In 2004 it had been close to bankruptcy. In 2012, Rousteing's first full year in charge, Balmain's sales were €30.4 million and its profit €3.1 million. In 2015, sales were €121.5 million and its profit €33 million. Vulgarity is subjective; numbers are not.

Rousteing, who is of mixed race, was adopted at five months by white parents and enjoyed an affluent and loving upbringing in Bordeaux. "My mum is an optician and my dad was running the port. They are both really scientific – not artistic. So I had that kind of life. Bordeaux is really bourgeois and really conservative, I have to say."

After an ill-starred three-month stint at law school – "I was doing international law. And I was like, 'oh my God, that is so boring'" – he did a fashion course that he managed to tolerate for five months.

"I found that really boring as well. I just don't like actually people who are trying to **** your dream. And I felt that is what my teachers were trying to do."

Obsessed with Gucci

Following a three-month internship in Rome – "also boring" – Rousteing became fascinated with Tom Ford's work at Gucci. "I was obsessed, obsessed, obsessed. Sometimes the press did not get it but I thought 'this is like genius, the new **** chic'. Obsessed, full stop."

He wanted to work there – "that was my dream" – but applied to every fashion house he could, and found an opportunity to intern at Roberto Cavalli. "They took me in from the beginning. I met Peter Dundas [then womenswear designer at the brand] and he said you are going to be my right hand – and start in four days."

Rousteing counts his five years in Italy as formative both creatively and commercially, but when the opportunity came to return to France in 2009 he leapt at it. "Christophe said he liked my work and that he needed someone to manage the studio. So two weeks later I was here. I loved Balmain at the time, when Christophe was in charge. It was all about rock 'n' roll chic, ****, Parisian. And he was appealing to a younger generation. You can see when brands become old but Balmain was touching this new audience. I always say Christophe's Balmain was Kate Moss but mine is Rihanna."

When Decarnin left and Rousteing replaced him, the response was a resounding "who?". His youth prompted some to anticipate failure.

"It was not easy at all. Every season I had the same questions." Furthermore, Rousteing (who has said he thinks of himself as neither black nor white) was the only non-white chief designer at a Parisian couture house. In a nation in which very few people of colour hold senior positions, his race may have contributed both to the establishment's suspicion of him and to his powerful sense of being an outsider.

'Beautiful spirit'

As he began to build a personal vernacular of close-fitted, heavily jewelled, gleefully grandiose menswear – fantastical uniform for a Rousteing-imagined gilded age – for both women and men, that V-word loomed.

"They asked, 'But is it luxury? Is it chic? Is it modern?' All those kinds of words. But you know there is no one definition [of fashion] even if people in Paris think there is. And, I'm sorry, but I think the crowd in fashion are those who understand the least what is avant-garde today."

In 2013 Rihanna visited the studio, met Rousteing, and reported all with multiple Instagram posts. "You are the most beautiful spirit, so down to earth and kind! @olivier_rousteing I think I'm in love!!! #Balmain." :')"

Rousteing met Kim Kardashian at a party in New York – they were drawn together, he recalls, because they were both shy – and was promptly invited to lunch with her family in Los Angeles.

An outsider in the firmament of old-guard Paris fashion, Rousteing was earning insider status within a new, and much more influential, supranational elite. He points out that Valentino, Saint Laurent and Pierre Balmain himself "were close to the jet set of their time. What I have on my front row is the people who inspire my generation".

From them, he learned a new way of doing business. "I think it was Rihanna and the music industry that first understood how Instagram can be part of the business world as well as the personal. But in fashion? When we started it was 'why do you post selfies? Why do we need to know your life, see you waking up, see you working? Why don't you keep it private'. And I was like 'you will see'."

Rousteing cheerfully declares his love for Facetune – "I don't have Botox but I do have digital Botox!" – an app that helps him airbrush his selfies and tweak those ski-***** cheekbones.

Reaching new population

From his office around the corner from Rousteing's, Diemoz adds: "When Olivier first proposed Balmain use social media, our investment in traditional media was costing a lot. Here was an alternative costing less but bringing huge visibility. It has been successful, quite rapidly…we decided to be less Parisian in a way but to speak to a new population. A brand has to be built around its heritage but we are proposing a new form of communication dedicated to a wider group of customers."

The impact of that strategy became apparent in 2015, when Rousteing and Balmain were invited to design a collection for the Swedish fast-fashion retailer H&M.; Within minutes of going on sale – and this is not hyperbole – the collection, available at vastly cheaper prices than Balmain-proper, had completely sold out. In London, customers fought on the pavement outside H&M;'s Regent Street branch. "Balmainia!" blared the headlines.

You have to move fast to get backstage after a Balmain show. I was out of my seat and trotting with purpose even before the string-heavy orchestra at the end of the catwalk had quite stopped playing Adele.

Rousteing had taken his bow merely seconds before. Still, too slow: I ended up in a clot of Rousteing well-wishers stuck in a corridor blocked by security guards. A Middle Eastern woman against whom I was indelicately jammed looked at me, laughed, shook her head, then said: "We pay millions for a fashion house – and then this happens!"

In June, Balmain was bought for a reported €485 million by Mayhoola, a Qatar-based wealth fund said to be controlled by the nation's ruling family. As so often with Rousteing-related revelations, some declared themselves nonplussed. "Why Would Mayhoola Pay Such a High Price for Balmain?", one headline asked. Yet Mayhoola, which acquired Valentino four years previously for $US858 million, might have scored a bargain.

Clothes key to revenue

Despite its huge, Instagram-enhanc­ed footprint, Balmain is a small, lean and relatively undeveloped business. Most luxury fashion houses today – Chanel, Burberry, Dior, et al – will emphasise their catwalk collections for marketing purposes but make most of their money from the sale of accessories, fragrances and small leather goods like handbags and shoes. One of the big fashion companies makes a mere 5 per cent from its catwalk clothes.

At Balmain, by contrast, clothes bring in almost all the revenues. If Balmain had the same clothes-to-accessories ratio as its competitors, its overall annual income could be more than €1 billion ($1.4 billion).

The company is moving in that direction. New accessory lines are in the pipeline. "Now we have to transform that desire into business activity," said Diemoz. "Sunglasses, belts, fragrances, the kind of products that can be more affordable."

The first bags should be available in January, as will a wider range of shoes, and then more, more, more.

Six days after his show, on the last day of Paris Fashion Week, I returned to the Balmain atelier. Apart from two assistants, Rousteing was the only person there – everybody else had gone on holiday to recover from the frenzy of preparing the show, or was busy selling the collection at the showroom around the corner.

Rousteing sat behind his desk in the empty room, wearing slingback leopard-print slippers, sweatpants and shades. "I am not even tired! I am excited. Because there are so many things happening – and I can't wait."Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide
nivek Oct 2014
striding black over the blue
rain comes in waves-
dumped in gallons and litres
depending when you was born
which month which year
what you have experienced
accept reject nonplussed
wearing black leather boots
under a black leather coat
S Smoothie Dec 2015
Numb. Lost. Depleted.
Hollow victories pile themselves around me
The casualties strewn across my hopes
I am one of them
Dead eyes watch eager crows picking
I can't see anything but the end.
There's no struggle left in these veins
I wonder of the phoenix
So often pulling my soul back from the ether
No where...
Still I watch from the corners of my eyes
For her blazing beauty
Even knowing my unworthiness
I catch a beat of hope
Only to watch it fade
through milky coalgulations
The Stiffening crawls
I wait,
Steeling myself for the impending darkness
Rob Sandman Mar 2019
Storm Rider(sample the doors)
start with "Riders on the Storm" softly repeated x4)

Try catch me-leap from ground to sky,
light up the night as I fly,
Tip to tip mischievous-watch me salmon leap-avert your eyes,
The Celtic Dragon Storm Riding tonight,
feel the static on your skin lets take flight

Vast vista’s fistula’s in the earths core,
fly with me you wanna feel more?,
cut core to core claws - millivolt amped,
up to attack lay down my stamp,
Earth tremblin’ rumblin' humbling when I catch the spark,
revered by Tesla - hear me Arc…
Another mic blown - booth in chaos,
I stand firm - you're reeling as you're reeled in tossed,
like ragdoll physics my rhymes rip timelines,
Faultlines and default rhymes?
Never,I’m too clever,agility reveals your fragility,
Claws rip and drag you down …to a sea of tranquility…
Hush now ,shush now,
hear the susurrus as I leave you nonplussed

phase you back to your body  trans warp jump
tachycardia spasms chasms torn by talons,
pounces crush tons to ounces as I flex my neck…
hasn't changed since Wu told ya’s”Best protect ya neck”


Storm Rider,Glider light up the night yeah,
the Firestorm Lightning Storm inside your minds eye take my hand and we'll both fly
as the ground flashes by...
Storm Rider,Glider light up the night yeah,
the Firestorm Lightning Storm inside your minds eye take my hand and we'll both fly
as the ground flashes by...

Feel me breath blowing like a gale - the Gael without fail,
I inhale and exhale flames of hell,
hellbent- time to repent
you’re scurrying in gullies while I seek your Scent,
SNIFFFF-grrrrrrrr that’s the sound of doom,
from the Emerald shore to the Pharaohs tomb,
No room to escape the breath that melts steel
rabbit in my headlights feel my claws life steal,
oxygen and nitrogen erupt to seal your fate,
debate-berate, get estate in order,
one Molten blast of fast rhyme its over.
scorchmark against a granite wall,
burnt to a crisp by the firestorm from hell,
well welcome to hell do you feel the heat?
Sandman slim dragon never fears defeat,
20 years here  spittin’ in the underground,
Now its time to vacate my space hear my sound
A no go area,gates of Mordor,
dragged by the Dragon to your place of ******,
claws like claymores rake your face,
prepared to ignite,take flight-seal your fate...

Storm Rider,Glider light up the night yeah, the firestorm
Lightning Storm inside your minds eye take my hand and we'll both fly
as the ground flashes by...
Storm Rider,Glider light up the night yeah, the firestorm
Lightning Storm inside your minds eye take my hand and we'll both fly
as the ground flashes by...

Call me Nukker ******, you're due to be Slaine,
one scaldin' verse melts down your brain,
searing breath - death bursts unprepared heads,
Streets run red with the blood of the dead.
Feel the headwind....blowin' as I exhale.
My fetid breath tastes stale as you inhale

lucid juices sluicin in the Wyrms Den,
just One spark you're gonna BURN then!,
wingspan of an Antonov best back off!,
forked lightning blasts ground - as I take off,
fly head on to the heart of the Hurricane,
calescent death as I stake my claim,
rider on the storm,your attempt? - luke warm,
spells incandesce without stress as they take form,
the Serpent serpentine's through the night sky,
take eyes off mine? - your turn to fry.
don't cry it's fate, conserve your hate,
you perspire before your expiry date,
a Deer in the deadlights I'll open the gate,
to the next realm, next challenger calcerated,
another Champion obliterated,
ardent first to set foot on my Isle
now you're here you feel febrile,
feeble feverish attempts cut short clean sliced,
by the Firestorm Dragon with the eyes of Ice.

(Soft-"Riders on the Storm" rpt x2 Chorusx2 end.)

Storm Rider,Glider light up the night yeah,
the Firestorm Lightning Storm inside your minds eye take my hand and we'll both fly
as the ground flashes by...
Storm Rider,Glider light up the night yeah,
the Firestorm Lightning Storm inside your minds eye take my hand and we'll both fly
as the ground flashes by.
Lexander J Apr 2015
I travelled straight west
to the epicentre of the southern wastelands
and 'twas with mind-numbing disbelief that
I found an Oak table propped upon the sands

and it was not alone either
for three beings sat it, seemingly nonplussed -
one was a skinny old man
wearing a linen suit faded and powdered with dust

his collar frayed around the edges
a moth-eaten hat sat upon his head,
he had a daisy poking from his breast pocket
so very much preserved, so very much dead,

to his left sat a one-eyed Hare
the sole eye ecstatic and wiggling -
he swore and blasphemed each time the man spoke
from a mouth toothless and dribbling,

sat to the right of the man
was absolutely (absolutely!) nothing,
however I observed with mild humour
that both man and Hare were convinced it must be something

for the man was profusely adamant
scorning the Something for dissing the Hare's hair,
although the Hare was too busy rolling around its one eye
to even notice the man, or simply give a fu- care

"Hey hey talk to I! Hath thou seen my missing eye?!"
Hare asked from a voice shrieky and shattered
saliva running in rivets
upon the table it slopped and slavered -

then suddenly the man started singing encore
his voice cringe-worthy, out of tune,
sounding like a cat back-broke and on steroids
rocking and waving like a spastic-loon;

"If Father Time has no end,
does he even have a beginning -
oh, if there's pain is there gain,
which one of us is it that's winning?"

alas, that's when my attention was brought to the mounds
of surgical needles cluttered on the ground,
feeling sickly aura lick the back of my throat
I started backing away without a sound

["Hey hey talk to I -"]

["If there's pain is there gain -"]

["Hath thou seen my missing Missing MISSING EYE?!!"]

#FLASH!#

the dystopian landscape around me melted
into a field of bloated poppies -

serene, scarlet and blinding 'neath the sun,
feasting upon our charred bodies.

AJ
This poem is pretty much inspired by Lewis Carrol's Alice In Wonderland (The Madd Hatters Tea Party). I wanted to write nonsensical!
Sombro Feb 2015
The broken clouds and cluttered mounds
Of the castle dark and grim
The straying woes of bootstruck hounds
Flew fast from deep within
And though the trees shed leaves and weep
While winter takes its grip
Still the grounds will never sleep
On those sullen earthly strips.

When came a knocking hard and fast
Urgency and haste
A figure tolling on the door
Tall and wooden, chaste
The simple portal opened to
A simple hallway bare
But of paintings, deep and clean
'Is your master there?'

Within the shadows of the night
The man spoke to the dark,
But saw no person, now he might
Perplexion left its mark
Peering through and searching in
The figure broke his tact
He took himself out from the wind
Door closing in the act

He called out soft and gently
Silent came the reply
The man looked in and then he
Searched down and up and by and by
The hallway stared in harder
The lounge looked on and dealt
A whisper to the larder
His footsteps on the boards were felt

The man, nonplussed, but guaranteed
His pay upon the meeting
Of the lord of the castle's deed
But he was paid no greeting
Not a soul to meet him there,
Though he searched the room
Of men he found no hide nor hair
Save the marks of a duster broom

And the spot of ***** pots in the kitchen
The soot at the foot of the chimney
The sound of hounds from about the grounds
And a meal to steal out on the table

The man looked from the window
And saw to his surprise
Some beast awalk without its tow
Of a master's watchful eyes
The wind blew strangely heavy
On a door that swung ajar
The man went down there, ready
To greet the host, but from afar

He saw the empty darkness fell
And heard the moan of the floor
He smelt the musk of rain as well
Pass by him from the door
The dining room mumbled to the hall
And it passed its message down
The cellar murmured through its wall
Creaks and groans from all around

The lamps behind him all were lit
The house was bathed in light
The fire took life within its pit
The man grew cold with fright
He shut the door and heard the roar
Of the wind break 'gainst the knocker
Thump, thump it spoke up more
Keys firmly in the locker

The stairs creaked under the feet
Which ne'er were seen to move
The man still followed achance to meet
The house's master so to prove
His duty done, his quest relieved
He followed up the stair
But a shout he passed, you'll soon reprieve,
For what he glanced on there

The doors aswing to beds and baths
With moanings and low crashes
The house alive with joyous laughs
At this venturer who passes
He looked in after shrieking
And saw a bedroom bare
But for the snores of the man he's seeking
His body lying there

The man asked not of his health
As he saw the stiffened white
Of the skin of the face apart from self
Aghast and dead from fright
The venturer looked 'round
And heard the cellar speak
It's booming sound from underground
Bade him leave below his shriek

The man abed had moved and walked
His taught face moved not, still
His teeth slid and their rotting talked
Breathed gas as his breath came shrill
Our frozen friend did not contend
With his meeting of the master
The castle changed him by the end
He fled there all the faster

He was not found till late that fall
By boys who played in the grounds
They'd crossed a wall and found him all
Near pawprints of the hounds
They saw his hand clasp round a sheet
Of paper, the castle's deed
On the page he'd told his meet
Of the lord of the castle and he'd agreed

By his signed name on the dotted line
To give to all who claimed it
'This castle which I have called mine
For a thousand years.' for he saw fit
To give to the man who spent a night
The castle they'd keep company
But for the men who died of fright
The castle is still empty.
Valsa George Dec 2016
In dazzled astonishment
She looked up from her reverie
As she heard the flap of wings overhead
And saw the flash of laser beams in her dim lit room
Before her, stood a winged seraph
A radiant silhouette with such gentleness and grace
As never beholden on any human face
With its hands raised in benediction,
It saluted Mary and said
“Blessed art thou amongst women…
……………………………………
The rest she heard in a trance.
Unable to comprehend what was said,
The girl looked up nonplussed.
Again it said, “The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee
And a son shall be born of thee
Whom you shall call Jesus”

In that nanosecond of a new revelation
Did Mary’s world shatter like glassware
Or did her ****** womb thrill with new life
Did she swim in the waters of joyful tidings?
Or gyrate in the sweeping swirl of tidal waves

For the girl already espoused to a man
In whose dreams his comely form had begun
Flitting in and out
Was it a moment of silent ravishment?
Or of stupefied bewilderment
Did a dagger cut through her heart?
Or did her soul take wing in flight???
This is Christmas time. This poem is an exploration of Annunciation by Gabriel to Mary from an average man's perspective.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2019
love between poets: “who will be between the sheets next week
when I’m gone,” she lets sigh-escape,
as she watches the backyard paradise parading landscape
of animals before the bay, perfect day sure to come,
her new pets obeying the early morn sunrising awakening call
to rise, everyone playing~parading, before her royal summons,
no coincidence, finger-of-god, two by two

this while I’m kissing her neck,
my arm around her *******,
and the he-intent on slip sliding down
to the small of her back,
obeying his innate,
worship worshiping and giving up,
all he’s got intense intently contentedly

unfazed, unphased,
non-nonplussed,
he’s been interrogated before,
heart is pure he answers:

next weekend when you are back in situ,
thousands of miles away, airplane housed for hours,
writing poems of love from the lost and found,
recalling this exact moment,
how I worshipped your presence,
and these words:

You will be with me in every breath,
our sheets will radioactively emit
ions and molecules of our scent combined,
and present as present  your perfume can be,
elicited, elixir, you and me combinant

she turns from the bay-view,
the animals who now mutually
worship her adoration,
watching, focused on us as observers,
she lifts me up and smiles,
replying

“oh my lover you’re the cad of cads,
king of the baddest poet-lads,
the gist of what is wrong with the best of men,
her, pressing me hard to her chestnut hair chest,
she, falling down into my eyes

take me back to bed, liar,
let me add to my aroma,
to ensue, to ensure you will miss
the best love
you had partly, insufficiently, and unhinged
completely

I’m your lassie, you my lad,
my king of cads, my lover poet,
thief of my poems and my secret speech spells,
escalating senses of one’s imaginings”


and,
along came the rest
of what was freely given,
for love between poets
man and
a woman,
is a someone, somewhere,
sometime summertime
thing

I will still smell you in my
heart, and send to you ballistic missives,
words to explode your tear ducts
when you rest in sheets that met me,
when you’ll know me by my odors,
cry out loud so that you’ll scare our animals,
no matter how many tides wash away our residue,
you will never unknow and be forever unprepared
for my return,


even though we will be each, a thousand unwritten poems away...
Four girls sit cross-legged
On cold pitted concrete
It’s always cold here
Their rear-ends frozen
Bare ankles growing sore
Pouring over textbooks
Finishing today’s homework or
Tomorrow’s.

Hope there’s no pop quiz.
They nod
In unison
I didn’t study
Neither did I
The other two stare
At their books nonplussed
Their papers scattered, a ruler and a pen

Out of the library and into the cold arrives
The fifth
She looks about and sees
A grey curl
A long head
A heavy tail
It’s soft, someone thought, as she saw the raised leg

Which came down fierce like lightning,
A defiant, queerly polished white saddle-shoe
One of two strange shoes
That looked like no one else’s but why?
Flattened the entirety into the cold, cold concrete
The meteorite that destroyed a species of one.
Conjoined twins, now dead

There’s no way we can repair it
Can’t even peel it away
The custodian will have to scrap it off with a blade and wash it down

We laughed
All but one.
Terry O'Leary Sep 2013
The warden’s bewildered, the keeper’s amazed
as the gate gapes behind us, a hole in the haze.
Our steps seem uncertain, the cobblestones crazed,
pearly stars burn above us like pinwheels ablaze.
Though lanterns hang vacant in streets staring blind,
broken paths paved in puzzles compel me to roam,
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The cannons keep calling, the piccolos shriek
and the druids drift, drumming, while pale pagans speak.
They’re urging me forward, my senses they’ve mined,
and the trail is erupting, come hie to the hills
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The looking glass glistens, a firefly glows,
and the brownies leap lightly on tiny tip toes
for the twilight’s collapsing, which serves to remind
that as dusk turns to dust, with no time for farewells,
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The ponies of plunder prance, passing nearby,
as crusaders on stallions cast stones from the sky.
The figments they’re facing have paid them no mind,
but our broncos are bolting. Corral what you need,
                                        I’ll not leave you behind.

My visions are swirling, they flash from the crown,
from the rainbows of summer, the tinsel in town.
While the compass wheel’s spinning, the minutes unwind
inside evening’s auroras – so cling to my cape,  
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

Drooping droplets of wax adorn pinched candle wicks
while the vampire steeple’s cathedral clock ticks
of the terrors in tombs where ****** flames lie reclined
with their flickers fast fading – abandon the glim,
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The orphans and widows lean into the breeze
watching horrified hangmen descend to their knees
for the angel of mercy’s no longer inclined
to forgive vengeful  phantoms (oh Furies of night!) ,
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The bandits are brazen, the highwaymen lurk,
some imbibing dark brews of a hag’s handiwork,
mostly gulping from goblets like goblins maligned.
Woman! Widen your wings, catching wisps of the wind
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The lepers laugh, leaping from tombstones of steel
chasing rollaway caskets on luminous wheels;
while their shadows shake, shrouded, twixt trees intertwined,
twisted time melts at midnight, take hold of my hand,
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The gremlins *****, grinning face down in the dust,
while the sprites and the pixies are watching nonplussed.
They sling bolted arrows at spectres enshrined
within winds somewhat flustered, just fly from your fears
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The tattered toy teddies and raggedy Anns
have escaped to the skyways in kid caravans
but now, spellbound by fancies, know not that they’ll find
their parade’s evanesced into echoes of dawn –
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The wind’s my enchantress, beguiles and commands
me to search for my fortune in faraway lands
and whispers her mysteries of passions entwined,
for the wind is Isolde – unfurling my sails
                                        I’ll not leave you behind.
Nonplussed fill world
imperfectly formed dreams
things are never what they seem
Dark Angels approved
his superior to the Lost
that will never be found
this journey of darkness
is a place I never wanted to face
it is so uncanny
words that slip through the mouth
with words that hurt
that cuts deep within ones mind
dreams that keeps you on the edge
you never know what will happen next
there is no dilatory
you must always stay in tune
to each sound
each word
each place
never be embarrassed of what one says
or what something may look
just always keep your mind
to what is right
don't lose sight
Dark Angel will always play on your mind
day and night
he loves to give fright
just to drive you insane
never take the blame
for what he brings your way .

Poetic Lilly Judy Emery (c)
Darken Dreams
glass can Aug 2013
He isn't going to come, isn't he?

He's drunk, with his friends.
Nonplussed about a girl who said she cared.
Said she was sad and who asked him to come.

He told me
He told me he was depressed. He asked to come in the first place.

He said he would.

I told him.
I told him I couldn't say yes or no to him seeing me, but I'd say yes if he came.
If he knocked on my door.

I don't need a knight, but I require someone with a heart. I thought that wasn't too much.

I told him later I was scared he wouldn't come.
It's been two hours. I don't think he's coming.

I'm so stupid.
I'm so stupid.
I'm so stupid.
I'm so stupid.


I thought he was coming.
sobroquet Jun 2015
The louche magniloquent maladroit  malaise of the dense mayonnaise mouth of  political palaver and longueur left me with that sad sinking feeling of believing there is nothing left to live for.

Lugubriousness aside, I was nevertheless momentarily nonplussed until I recalled that a bona fide thespian was once president. And to my dismay I remembered to say: nothing in the world can bother you as much as your own mind.
PHRASAL VERBS
trump something up invent a false accusation or excuse: they've ******* up charges against her.

Donald Trump, the consummate poser insults America.  6/16/2015
Ruth Forberg Oct 2011
It's all become flaccid memories.
You look so nonplussed. Sitting there.
I bet we're not thinking of the same thing.
That night, that time.
I'm thinking about you.
Can you tell?
Does my face show it?
The way my eyes bend the light that
cast shadows underneath your brow,
making you look mysterious.

Great, now I'm embarrassed.

All I held close.
Bet you didn't even know.
Or care?
Is this our way of . . . well.
Unsharing?

First, let me binge on all of the things I love about you:
I love the way you smell. And your strong hands.
Your smile, your laugh. Your charisma, your warmth.
Etc, etc. (I could go on, but for my own good, I should stop.)

Now, let me purge myself of these things.
Yes, I'm puking out your good.
I'm vomiting love.
Hold my hair back, will you?
I can taste it, coming back up.
Hurts. Much easier going down. Figures.
There it is, in a messy pile on the floor.
The stench burning my nose,
making my eyes water, wafting into
other rooms.

Everyone, sniff. Smell that?
Acidic, putrid.
Regurgitated love.
No one wants that **** anymore.  

Does that repulse nonplussed you?
Go ahead, get on your ******* hands and knees.
Lap it back up.
Just try.
At night, against the pulsing embryonic black which could
Squeeze any number of untold horrors from it’s voided heft,
There sits a door; bright searchlights unmoving, having forever
Ago found and revealed the menacing target of their feverish hunt.
The lights, beacons of vision and revelation stay still,
Afraid to ever lift their gaze from the door.

The door; a crimson sentinel of conformity’s’ demands. A gate
To a finite space of infinite secluded terrors. It’s mocking facade,
Not the true foundation of the haunting visage, but it’s chosen
Illumination against the choking nothingness around it.
There is nothing else but it, and if the lights lose
Their oppressive gleaming, there will be nothing.

Would it not be better for the deep to win the ever waging war
Against our struggles to find hints of sight and recognition?
If the door were to vanish from the othering out there,
then it would be impossible to not turn inward. A forced reflection,
a mirror that’s presence is known, existence felt, but is unseen,
only available when the absence is absolute.

Nonplussed, the bastion remains, a gravity well pulsing
In and out the night, as if the darkness centered around
Maintaining the illusion of safety from knowing ourselves.
Do not be afraid, you will not be forsaken or alone with anything
Other than the beating of your quickened pulse, the edges
Of your vision shrinking until all that you are

Is mirrored in that crimson sentinel.
Sometimes even the simplest things can sometimes a sense of uneasy dread
Alexander Powell Dec 2014
2:00am Saturday Morning and his restlessness reclined on his mind
The room was immensely silent but held a forceful amount of chaos
His large feet plummeted to the cold floor; he roamed out of his beguiling room
*
His body was almost bare and every movement echoed through him
The empty foil tins from a takeaway he had eaten at 8:00pm casted a noticeable stare across the kitchen like a coin to a magpie
The fridge was only a couple strides away now; he prematurely stretched his arm ready to grasp the frigid handle
The fridges seal parted and a saintly yellow light radiated in front of him
He stared nonplussed into the fridge for about 3.5 seconds
Celery
Sitting there in the centre of the fridge appearing as tasteless as it would taste
Unappetising.
The light diminished as the door closed.
John F McCullagh Apr 2012
In the German town of Shtuping
Something clearly was amiss:
Town name signs were disappearing,
The good townsfolk were nonplussed!
“For years tourists have sniggered
At our name when driving by
As its Yiddish for activity
A girl does with a guy”.

Some people want to keep the name
That makes the tourists come.
Others are ashamed to say
That Shtuping’s where they’re from.

When the townsfolk vote to change the name
It will cost a pretty penny
To change the signs from "Shtuping"
To the new: "Notgettingany".
Carla Marie Jul 2012
You watch too much tv…

I am not what you see.. on

cop dramas…Or

reality shows…or even… at this point...

B E T

I don’t use

“is” in inappropriate places

Nor do I finish sentences with prepositional phrases

Such as “who you is?” or “Where my coat at?”

I don’t do elaborate handshakes

I don’t work my neck

I don’t purse my lips… constantly sneer… or

“go off” at the drop of a hat

I do walk with quiet dignity… and

Shake off your devilish ways with God given grace

I do have a life… a peaceful “unbroken” place to go home to

Hence the serenity that you see on my face

Leaving you nonplussed-

That I have no desire to be you… and

You find yourself… trying to bond by

Putting the word “be”

Where no “be” should be… cuz you’re

Trying too hard to understand me…

And I

Wear this faint professional smile.. though my eyes do not

Which (as an aside) you don’t even see

Use all of my vowels and consonants

Never acknowledge any flirtatious compliments

As I render unto Caesar what Caesar’s should be… and

Escape to my loves…And

read something… or

grow something… or

learn something…

Now that’s the me that I don’t mind if you see… but

You’re not interested in THAT reality… cuz

It would wreck your notions preconceived…

So I've concluded... by your manners… or the lack thereof… that

You obviously just watch too much tv



.
Kriti Gupta Jul 2014
her heart was at a moribund
as she fell in love despite all his foibles
like a portmanteau
but her half was a deceitful equal
left vexed and nonplussed
forbearing a mellifluous tone
Orion Jul 2019
Whispering in blessed curses
Under whine-tilted breaths
Fluttering eyes and furred chest
Beholden to a man left nonplussed

Begging and borrowing
Stealing burning touches from dewy skin
Whimpers cried into pillows within
Nails digging and hitched sighs following

Soft, searing serenades seek
Saints die to find heaven in something more
Dying small deaths for a moth adored
Writing patience with circled fingers over tongue and teeth

Pupils pulled into tiny beads
Staring up through lamplight lit lenses
Some bruises kissed splendid
Neck-, shoulder-, and lip-bitten pleads
(2/18/19)
As Children of The Almighty,
we have the God-given ability
to rise up, without the shame
of knowing who we really are,
despite our souls’ fragility.

Have we been taught and shown
Love, Mercy, Grace, Forgiveness
and Peace that we require daily?
So what is holding us back now,
from overcoming this human mess

of feeling inadequate or ignorant?
About 90% of The World is headed
towards Hell, unconvinced about
the legitimacy of the Christian
Lifestyle, whereby God’s embedded

His Presence and power is in us.
We’re not meant to be superfluous,
seeing that we’re supposed to be
both the hands and feet of Christ.
So The World remains nonplussed,

plagued by their own doubts, which
is reinforced by our poor treatment
of them; our continued failures to
walk in Love, reflects our inability
to thrive with joyous contentment.
.
.
.
Author notes

Inspired by:
Luke 10:19; Eph 1:3-141 Cor 12:27;
Rom 12:9-21; Matt 5:13-16

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Amy Foreman Apr 2017
“Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.”

Crying for wrongs that can never be right
      or for those who have left you alone,
Counting your trespasses, weeping, contrite,
      when the news of the day makes you groan.

Sorrow for evil, lamenting injustice,
     bemoaning the state of mankind,
Earnestly troubled, concerned and nonplussed
     at the mess we are leaving behind.

You are the fortunate, all you who mourn;
     oh, yes, you are the blesséd who grieve.
Though you are stricken, distressed and forlorn,
     Yet your Comforter’s here to relieve.
Based on Matthew 5:4
Valsa George Apr 2016
A week back, in my garden bloomed, a tiny flower
Neither colorful nor flashy to grab anyone’s attention
The next day one more bud opened of golden hue
Making it more visible, adding an iota to its attraction

Each day to the delicate stalk was added more
Until finally it grew into a large globular cluster
I now stand nonplussed before its splendor
So lovely, it can steal any one’s glance by its luster

 When the wind ruffles the leaves of trees
The mother plant in luxuriant foliage stands proud
Bobbing her golden crown in gentle breeze
Safely screened from the gaze of passing crowd

A dandy butterfly has come flitting down
To kiss those regal beauties like a besotted lover
Embarrassed by such a public show of love
The bashful maidens bend their heads so demure

I am the sole witness to this passionate romance
To the love struck dandy’s out right advance!
I have a small garden in my house of which I am rather proud ! Besides poetry, gardening is my passion. An eye catching shot from my garden
being the topper in the class, he developed certain pride
that the envious derided, ignored flatterers on his side.

the first bench was his permanent place
from where shone his haloed face
when the teachers spoke seemed it thus
there was only him in the whole class.

all questions he took the answers he knew
solved hardest sums others had no clue
not once an intruder could invade his space
he shined in glory of his flawlessness.

from him was never unfinished homework
ruthlessly made on exams his mark
was taken for granted he would win first place
the rest of the herd would just run the race.

the teachers indulged him the pride of the class
but you know all fame are fragile like glass
it so happened a new teacher joined the school
unbiased he was not to blindly toe the rule.

he asked the first boy if he had ever flown a kite
played marbles on road picked up a fight
if ever he had walked barefooted on the grass
stole a look at sky bunked even one class.

if he had ever chosen to close the book
hid him alone in the scariest of nook
scanned the horizon to catch first moonrise
counted the stars bamboo grove's fireflies.

he looked nonplussed didn't utter a word
anything than studies he hardly bothered
had he answered it would all have been *no

to him most precious was his place at front row.

he bowed his head down with ashen face
for the first time in class he failed to impress
what happened next was no riddle to guess
that teacher was gone without a trace.
SheOfNeverland Mar 2014
Tiger growling in my ear,
Tell me things I want to hear.
Make sure that there’s no one near,
When you cut out all my fear.


I bare my skin, you bare your claw,
As blood runs down I stare in awe.
My side in ribbons, red and raw,
The meanest tiger I ever saw.


Scars like stripes across my side,
Mouth sewn shut, eyes open wide.
****** ocean yields ****** tide,
My wounds are getting hard to hide.


A tear runs down your reddened cheek,
You choke on sobs and try to speak.
You ask how I could be so weak,
My eyes, like yours, begin to leak.


The tiger tries to hold my tongue,
To keep my song of woe unsung.
I feel way too old to be this young,
I feel as though my heart’s been wrung.


Your sadness turns to mere disgust,
I quickly start to lose your trust.
All my hopes just fade to dust,
I wipe my tears and act nonplussed.


You shake your head and turn to leave,
For you the truth’s hard to believe.
As though I’m dead you start to grieve,
Your absence serves as my reprieve.


The tiger smiles, he knows he’s won,
I know his torments have just begun.
My heart feels like it weighs a ton,
All my life has come undone.


I wish you’d never gone away,
I wish I could have made you stay.
I know there’s nothing I can say,
To keep you here another day.


I know it’s too late to regret,
Keeping this tiger as my pet.
It’s not your fault, so please don’t fret,
Just say good bye, and then forget.
A Simillacrum Sep 2019
Someone like me told me,
"You have to get involved."

Someone like me told me,
"You have to use your voice."

Someone like me told me,
"You're a disgrace
      to your people."

I said back,
"I can't argue that."

I think, what's
the point of getting mad?
I've been called worse
than a delusional man

in women's clothes.

I think, what's
the point of the pitchfork?
I think, what's
the point of fighting language?

Someone like me told me,
"You're part of the problem."

Someone like me told me,
"You've been brainwashed."

I said back,
"Possibly."

I think, what's
the word I'd use
to describe you?

"Nonplussed."

And that's okay--
Funny even,
when you're angry.

You're funny
when you're angry.

Ha      Ha      Ha      !
they told me i can't be an identity politician.

whew! dodged that pie to the face.
Onoma Feb 2020
a glass blown urn,

pit to the stomach

of fire.

convexed with bounding

residuals.

gush thus water, gush thus fire,

gush thus air, gush thus earth,

gush thus ether!!!!?

meta-realities of ostensible I-s

deigning to unbecome, seen aright

in part.

elemental satiety--nonplussed aums,

lightless dins held to nothing visible.
glass can Aug 2013
it wasn't all about
the proverbial lighting of the post-****** cigarette
the white sheets wrapped around inseparable sweaty bodies

holding hands, tangled legs

staring
at the ceiling

these sheets all tucked around my *******, his waist

it was the mediocre
it was the scurry across cold plastic floors
to go ***, quickly,

so I wouldn't start ******* blood 20 or so hours later

and forcing myself to ***
and splashing water to stop dripping *** across the floors

while I looked in the mirror
nonplussed
but
hair mussed

sticky with sweat
dripping with goo

thinking

man,
that felt really good
and reveling in that brief, delightful feeling

of a man's weight
on your chest

breathing heavily after ******* inside you
Cody Edwards Feb 2010
Yes, I think it would be fine to say we are the
Sun and the Moon, respectively.
The world and sky of our disparate souls
nicely encapsulated.
To simple metaphor.

Yes. But it is incomplete, you know.
For sun may never touch moon,
and Day has no place in
the dominion of the nocturnal.
And the moon can have no adequate
view (but a sidelong glance) at
man and Earth in the sun's hand.

No,
I can touch you and you me.
Still more, I can see you and grow familiar
with what you beam upon;
Lie with the subtlety of a new night's
descent with my eyes twinkling
nonplussed to the crux of neck and shoulder.

Yes. We are, you and I, the Sun and the Moon,
if you say we are.
For you cast back the dark and shun the
dark places.
And the thin veil and living line that keeps
days apart, the Night, is the one corner
upon which I fear you shall never
Intrude.
© Cody Edwards 2010
Cedric McClester Feb 2016
By: Cedric McClester

I’m not buying
What he’s selling
He should whisper
‘Stead of yelling
He’s the greatest
From what he’s telling
Which is the ego trap
That he fell in

Who’s the best
Let me guess
Could it be Kanye West
Is it no or is it yes
Some might say
He’s so much less
But sing his praises
Nonetheless

I realize
He was a gift
When it comes to
Taylor Swift
But he didn’t make her famous
That’s a myth
Nor is he a *****
That she’d get with

Kanye’s clearly out his mind
He proves that time after time
What a megalomaniac paradigm
With an outsized ego short of a crime
He’s convinced himself that Yessus
Is a walk on water short of Jesus
Raise the dead and he might please us
Short of that I am nonplussed





Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2016.  All rights reserved.
mike dm Jun 2014
We met for coffee; well,
I had coffee and she had tea.
Her pics didn't do her justice --
Chin prim
Lips cursive
Skin that swam under mine,
Making the porcelain creamer cup blush.

She claimed
she had a quarter million members
That followed her.
it's good money she reasoned,
But not gloating;
More matter-of-factly.
Off the cuff,
I asked for her stage name.
She explained that she blocked NY
For work and family reasons,
Assuming I had asked so to
Watch her perform later
(Which isn't altogether untrue).

She measured every utterance,
Teleprompters behind eyelids
Feeding her perfectly crafted lines.

I use the Golden Ratio when I webcam
She said, as she sipped her tea.
I consider it an art -- or
At least that is what I tell myself
.
I asked her to elaborate.
She said she was somewhat conflicted
About whether or not it was immoral.
But she was so even
With her response,
Almost as if it were compelled
By a formality
That was now checked off her list.

Her body language taciturn
Asleep, idle, screen-saved
Waiting waiting

Curve and line
Coffined for now to slake desires anon -
Her numbers in slumber, confined
Waiting to be crunched,
Flatlines Animated by pitchblack revelry
With one click

Turning them.

She said she liked to watch others
ya know, To see how they move.
She would even watch it at work,
Open in one of her browser tabs.
She took notes.

Lines triangulated
Liminal spaces given, hidden.

Digital lipstick smears
Tattooing amygdalas firing --
Allow them to slip in
Only to slip out of them
With an X.

We talked for an hour
And then left the café.
She asked me over.
I said not tonight --
The words coming out
As if willed by something
Outside of myself.

She walked off into the dark
And I kicked myself for saying no.

Her curves beholden to math --
Gyration of hip and waist,
Arms tendrils configuring, cavorting,
Slave to an inner-whorl
twirled and twirling --
One single objective truth, now
A convergence of secreting plurality
Into beauty and beauty and

That night I ****** off thinking of her
And came so hard
I pulled something in my back.

In between sleep and waking life
I transcended
Something.. I felt

Turned.

Bat on window sill
Still as the unflinching
Lidless abyss --
Then a quarter turn of its head --
Its beady eye catching streetlight --
Careening it off into a nonplussed
Night of nights.
Travis Dixon Jun 2014
Now
Now grows,
absorbing excess saturation,
conforming nonplussed confirmations.

Now rises in a balloon
tied to our hearts—stretching,
brimming with the gloss of life.

Now rushes from the mountain
over the great falls, into the valley,
with or without us.
Colorfulpen Apr 2013
I'm nonplussed
by the ease
in which you divide
your heart,
subtract any decency,
and carry yourself
with less than the whole person
you could be
if you didn't equate
a lack of intimacy
with someone else's
borrowed time.
You degrade yourself,
making multiple errors
instead of getting to the root
of the problem.
You don't understand my quizzical stare?
Let me sum it for you.
You're on a slippery *****,
unable to function.
Nothing you do adds up.
Day 5 of PAD Challenge (write a plus poem.)
Amitav Radiance Sep 2014
Noticeable nonchalance
Nefarious negotiations
Nervous neighborhood
Naïve natives nonplussed
Nihilistic network nabbed
D.T. Lethe Aug 2010
is it not amazing how life seems to slide away,
unrelenting in shades of gray tinted jade;

all of our eyes staring in contrived
smiles, my own tongue dripping hate and

jealousy in a nonplussed state.
Mark Toney Oct 2019
Why is there so much distrust,
Fueling hatred, malice and lust?

We're caught up in every scam's gust
Leaving many financially bust

Including telemarketers' thrusts
Continuously feeding disgust

We're riding social media's cusp
Allowing real friendships to rust

Causing us to constantly adjust
Leaving us completely nonplussed

Making too many tasks a must
Till we nigh spontaneously combust

Perhaps leaving God's Word thus,
On the shelf gathering dust

This matter needs to be sussed
Not with haphazard zeal but robust

By a brotherhood of people we can trust
With a worldwide campaign to discuss

Preventing impending zero-sum bust
Before we're all planetary dust
12/12/2018 - Poetry form: Monorhyme (couplets) - A Monorhyme is a type of poem in which every single line has the same rhyming sound at the end of the verse. A monorhyme can occur in a stanza, a simple passage, or even an entire poem as long as each line has that repetitive sound. - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2018

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