The ******* of embezzled glory staunchly defend their counterfeit stature by defalcating the public trust of industrious societies governed internally by compunction and sabotaged externally by the tempests of acerbic fate met with inclement aleatory convergence. To supply a society with ingenuity without being complaisant or officious with unctuous pleas to the overlords we must fashion a new vogue that taps the bustle of giants and aggrandizes the margins to oversee their own creative destinies with scaffolded arrangements of titanic promise and justifiable fluidity to conquer the blinkered dogmatism of a dissolute chastity to inveterate apocryphal tenets of factitious but unmerited perspectives. Democracy crumbles when the convenience of sensationalism supplants the resolve of those that fossick hidden wealth and promulgate validity instead of undergirding pomp with precarious prevarications of duplicitous omission guarded gingerly by the gatekeepers of a ****** sanity that whitewashes the discussion with invented hobgoblins and purblind catharsis. To defeat simplicity and enshrine byzantine elegance as the paragon for voguish commentary rather than abide by a bowdlerized decorum for appeasing simpletons with divisive balkanization through identity politics we can overcome the impediments to human progress that are engineered to persist because of the inertia of the listless and the stubbornness of doctrinaire politicization and invent vivacity and festivity anew. We need to divorce ourselves from pedestrian quibbles of hero-worship that endanger the vitality of the common discourse because of fastidious pedantic disempowerment that ravages us with debased dreams by underscoring nuisances and tolerable nightmares that emasculate the virulence of the liberated individual and subvert his ambitions to contend with a picaresque world of limitless promise and self-motivated internal wealth.
      The bane of modernity is how chary the world becomes because of fractured histories intersecting with controversial destinies and the antidote to that poisonous self-defeating self-censorship is the audacity of brazen challenges to expurgation through assiduous resourcefulness and delicate diplomacy in wrangling controversies with outspoken courage rather than whispered resentment. Temerity waged in inclement circumstance is justified and curiosity stoked by lambent flames of fulgurant individualism should be fortified to the extent necessary to conquer the feckless spoilsports of unctuous puritanism and institutional obedience. The quacksalvers that blather about inconsequence strand the imagination in a desiccated desert that is ostracized from the palettes of the artistic whim to wield efflorescence rather than squander life in pursuit of perfunctory lucre or tenuous solidarity around banal idealism promised by social justice warriors that forget the biggest war being waged on humanity is on the ingenuity of the common discourse and the liberty to opine about real issues rather than saccharine conventions of emasculation through linguistic imprisonment and epicurean slavery to fashimites who relish the buzzword but never the enlightened audience that scoffs at feeble attempts at cultural commentary like Childish Gambino’s “This is America” music video. This particular artifact is a demonstration of how childishly fickle the plebeian mentality really is, stitching together a bricolage of violence to engineer controversy and serenading it with the most banal music imaginable and exhorting people to herald it as a high artform while inundating the world with unimaginative comic book movies and Star Wars rip-offs because of the lucrative business of formulaic replication. “This is America” should be regarded as a parody of itself because of how hackneyed its design is and how cacophonous it sounds and mocks its audience with lowbrow tactics of adding tinsel to trash and marketing it as the glory of tatterdemalions rather than the refinement of true cinematic achievements that have been relegated because Warhol’s Campbells-Soup-consumerism trumps true belletrist in the public view.
        Cultural watersheds punctuate our history with salient achievements in experimentation, but the formulaic profiteering of buzzword sensationalism and yellow journalism and the ostentatious glorification of promiscuous boasting and fancy cars tantalize the mice to continue playing slot machines rather than penning a novel or doing something promethean. The world scoffs at Trump but ignores the bigger institutional caveats that endanger us much more than a pragmatic albeit unconventional pontificator who is complicit in constructing a false narrative to enslave mindless people to fret about eminence rather than delight themselves in the consequential nuances of established refinement that used to serenade the world with flourish and spectacle. The world kowtows to the crusade against flavor-of-the-week enemies of the liberal-conservative syncretism because it has been conditioned to believe that synthesis is the only logical solution for the polarized worldviews of churlish people that become parvenus not on their merits but on their marketable pitfalls and their public foibles. Peccadillos are more important to people than virtues and this makes society morally bankrupt if we loiter around Astroturf causes that have been infiltrated by corporatism and venal debauchery and acquiesce as disempowered gossip hounds that hunt in packs to find jest in aberration rather than achievement in self-created narratives that defy the stupid purblind boorishness of the mainstream media and its haughty liberalism or the persnickety condemnation of priggish conservative moralities that had an expiration date 50 years ago. Who the **** cares about transgender-touting-gender-fluidity quidnuncs and the snooty obsession with lurid personal endeavors of reputable people that made minor ****** transgressions in a world policed by wide-eyed feminazis that seek to ransack men of their vital virulence to spotlight their unjustifiable oppression. Women are oppressed but the carnal nature of their calumniation and their vindictive powers of persuasion are deployed with such vehement vigilance and such distaste for the majority that the world relegates itself to quibbles of celebrities rather than substantive issues. There is a systemic feminization of society occurring that seeks to demarcate despotic uxorious pleasantries as an incarceration of vocal dissent against supercilious women and their tamed men that slavishly grovel in repudiation of anything prickly.  Men historically have oppressed women but the solution to this quandary isn’t a reverse discrimination where the minority concern is spotlighted as a majoritarian issue that overshadows the disproportionate nature of our society where nominal accreditation is afforded in a non-meritocratic way to absolve people of their carnality and demote the vigorous defense of human liberty as secondary to compromise solutions that appease more people than they offend but simultaneously result in suboptimal conditions that reward arbitrarily coachable people while jettisoning anyone witty enough to be capable of insubordination of a hedonistic epicurean world obsessed with appearance and ravaged by the decadence of formulaic profiteering at the expense of originality and true promethean art that is herculean enough to defy hackneyed tropes and siphon the best elements from a piecemeal world variegated with complexity but stifled by fomented hatred.
The solutions to these problems is to create a watchdog group of artistic critics who become eminent and ubiquitously heard enough to offer creative consultation to the artistic endeavors that we consume and the music that is curated for fastidious ears that crave euphonic originality rather than the banality of easily dovetailed bass-heavy cookie-cutter garbage and the gaudy tactics of talentless rappers whose swagger derives from  the intersection of opportunism and the divestiture of an industry that rewards gloated supercilious epicureanism and meretricious marketability. Am I the only one jaded by second-rate superhero movies that infest the cinemas that borrow from Michael Bay while thrusting pulse-pounding but narratively bankrupt movies down the throats of consumers that might prize the cinematic originality of the heyday of filmmaking? Is it always high art to invent controversy that is witless or half-witted just because it will create buzz? Shouldn’t we condemn the laziness of society in acquiescing to the penury of the modern cultural narrative which belabors the dead horses of racism and sexism ad nauseum? Shouldn’t we fight the war of against inequity through legislation rather than hibernating about scandalous eminence and testy malfeasance?
          Liberty should be championed above all else and we are turning our backs on the future unless we muster the resolve to diminish the sway of the common narrative and aim our spotlight at consequential endeavors rather than the tropes of prosaic and pedestrian bastardization of art and culture. We need to fight artistic laziness which has ravaged our culture and castigate the tactics of wannabee celebrities that use lurid tactics to attract an audience by bedizening themselves with Pyrrhic ostentations and rampant fakery to create more melodrama in a world that needs to be less histrionic. YouTube celebrities swarm us as they get high on ******* and lean-- at our expense-- and vandalize property and convincing nine-year-old’s like Lil Tay to flex her money like it is infinitely renewable in a finite world where all our attention is wasted on artless artifice of less talented people that know how to engineer a ruckus by strutting themselves beyond all decency and selling out to a corporatist nightmare of enslaved convenience. We need to be more vocal about the dissolution of artistic merit and the formulaic repetition of successful formulas that jade us and make us yawn about another retread of a previously successful idea that is milked to the point of cruelty.                                                         ­                       
       Let’s change the narrative and focus on creating true art rather than reacting to the meretricious tinsel of the vogue consensus which is so impotent in its ability to rivet audiences because it has become so notoriously lazy. Fight laziness in art, dismiss your news feeds, be resourceful, seek true happiness rather than find yourself hoodwinked and duped by the idea that Trump is the most important issue or getting caught in thought loops and brooding about sexism and inequality. Let us strive to be egalitarian but within limits that would also appease hominists rather than just the hypertrophy of the leftist narrative that seeks to cage us with the doublespeak of complaisant conformity.  Reject the unctuous charlatans that pretend priggishness when their banausic purpose is barbaric but beguiling to be a lullaby for laggards. We need to fight for the future of civilization rather than hobnob with convenience and loiter around decrying false perpetrators rather than systemic injustices that could otherwise be rectified if enough people fought for it. We can invent a future that is a great festivity serenaded by cultivated artistic refinement and forget about the trifles that divide us. United in ambition and fueled by ingenuity we can defeat artistic laziness and be resourceful with how we decide what is newsworthy. Spurred by the argosy of proactive motivation we can change the world in a substantial way by deciphering the subtext that governs the world. The subtext is everything!

Ah!  Another hero
Washed with bleach
Like the Son,
Who is only holy
When rinsed of his
Melanin.  

I wear a white coat
That browns in sunlight -
It appears the moon and I
Will be good friends.

How deep must I scrub
To rid my pores of
The southeast Asian sun;
To wash my hair of Pacific salt?
(Even my mother painted herself
With a European brush).  

How can I know myself
When denied the magma
In my blood?  

It's of no fault of mine
That I've been stripped
Down to resemble a
Colonial caricature -

I've been taught
The victories
And learned
Medals are smelt
In white gold,
But mostly
I've been told
That mixtures separate
And I am mostly
Creme with a dash of coffee.  

A shame!  
Us beige babies must be
Assigned colors
As if palettes were for paintings
Not people -

My family tree has
Cane fields and apple orchards,
So don't act like
You're surprised
When I mention
White isn't the only
Color of my skin.

you dye your hair a new color,
dawn your favorite outfit,
and paint your face pretty
with palettes of persimmon hue.

you tint your lips a pale pink,
brush your cheeks with blush,
and line your lashes with liquid ink,
but your eyes are still dull and broken blue.

you glance in the mirror,
looking at who you are,
this body this heart this soul,
hoping to see a reflection of something new.

but nothing will change,
nothing will be different,
nothing can fix the ugly inside of you.


― you’re only as pretty as your heart is

Her eyes rolled,
To that screened window,
With a fleeting look…

Full whiff of silence
No end of thumping shadows,
An ingredient of past…
An escape to embrace.

Golden path
As closing stage…
Of strips of colours.

Awakened dreams…
But shattered hope,
To perish those gears veiled…
An everlasting skirmish.

(12/12/12 - @xirlleelang)

So there I was, and there you were, all of us,
everyone, dangling their feet off the rooftop.
Four distinctly different artists caught in the same painting
yet, none of us holding the paintbrush to our passions, yet.

Ambitious, yes, focused, not so much, motivated? Most definitely.

Dedicated to manipulation,
to making a masterpiece for the masses,
a decision to "form a more perfect union".  
To map a new demographic before our deaths.

If our desire was to make a mark, well,
we'd be done already.
The mark's been made, but not engraved,
and for it to stay we need to stomp on it until our own foot decays.

And these days, most pictures will fade,
So as us four sat there, dancing with the devil,
we dared to begin drafting on our canvas.
With no brush, but our own fingers,
our own blood, sweat, tears, and elbow grease,
finally finding the paintbrush to be figurative,
that we were manipulated ourselves.

We learned to picture the paintbrush as our pointer,
our palms the palettes, our pinkies the varnish,
a promise our piece would never be vandalized.

The world is your oyster, they say,
and the city was our canvas,
where we painted nothing but pearls,
rare commodities for the communities to cherish
until our masterpiece, the indefinite work in progress, is completed.

Page 1 The first time I met Duke, I was tripping on shrooms. In fact, it was the first time I dabbled in psychedelics as well-- just don’t underestimate me in the marijuana department. The moment I can recall vividly comprised of the walk from the music hall which brought us to underneath the Moody Towers residential buildings, where there is wind and benches. A square of dirt rests behind the two benches facing one another; the distance apart from the benches being just far away enough to notice the gap of distance when conversing with someone on the other side. There was a main square of dirt, consisting of hundreds of butts twirled within the earth, scraggly weeds, and one relatively low sitting, yet ominous tree. This tree often glowed during the segments of the day in which the sun found itself to gazing down on the towers and its delinquent inhabitants. On many occasion during these occurrences you could find me, or perhaps Duke, basking in the serenity of the simplicity of the slivers of light breaking free through the emerald green mass of the tree. On this particular night I’m recalling, it was nighttime, causing the yellow of porch lights to dim the other color palettes. Except the sky was royal purple, and the grass in the distant hillside was writhing and crawling and breathing-- according to the mushrooms. Half of the bodies there that night were standing, half sitting, and there couldn’t have been more than a dozen of us. Here is this person in my indirect line of sight, and I couldn’t quite pinpoint the gender, but cute regardless. My guess of girl pursuing boyhood turned out to be correct. Small, almost delicate frame like mine, only he attempted to conceal his when I had long ago grown out of that. With a plaid button down and the collar poking outside of his oversized dark casual suit blazer. It was tied off with baggy khaki pants and clunky black sneakers similar to the ones the chefs in the cafeteria wear with a sense of longevity.
Page 2 His hair took inspiration from the typical pubescent teenage boy, straight and shaggy, and nearly covering the ears and eyes with a combination of strips of platinum blonde, ***** blonde, and light brown wisps. His almond shaped almond colored eyes were framed with black, square and thick glasses, but they seemed to help compensate for size with the natural petiteness of his face. Pink snakebites resided beneath his bottom lip, emphasizing the common nature of his lips that often formed a tight line, even when speaking. I only saw him from a distance that night. We didn’t introduce ourselves to each other until the next day, at that same location. There were less people now, and I was no longer in an altered state of mind. Well, to be honest, I still most likely was, but it certainly wasn’t shrooms. I don’t remember who began the introduction first, but I know his was accompanied with an abundance of compliments on my outfit and level of cuteness. As masculine as his mind was, he could still have an appreciation for the arts, for unique style, as any natural born writer would be so inclined. So there, underneath moody, I met him, within a social circle so new to me yet so familiar within the ebb and flow in the air of cigarette smoke, sometimes so pungently thick and keen against the tide of stimulating conversation. I felt a sense of belonging new to me.
Page 3 And there again and again, I saw him. The central station of our friends. There I slowly got to know him. I learned he lived about an hour away from Houston, he was a creative writing major, he was a freshman just like me and lived in the same building as me. We were both INFP’s on that Meyers-Briggs personality test. I had never met another INFP. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more his general profile seemed familiar to me. And then I remembered. RoomSync, an app the university had us use to select a random roommate. I remember considering someone’s profile that possessed all the qualities of Duke, before my current roommate reached out to me, unfortunately. Duke might have been my roommate in another reality-- remember the Multiverse Theory. I wonder if that would have even changed anything. But that thought process is futile. Once, in the initial stages, Duke had been rambling about modern horror and the author of the fight club, and where the two converge with the product of a gruesome short story. Not many accepted Duke’s invitation to read the short story, but I volunteered. But that is when I remember the beginning of Duke’s admiration for fight club. The concept of it. In fact, one of the first nights, I remember vividly as the Fight Club Night. Where Duke insisted on starting up our own Smircle fight club sometime, what what better time to do so, he thought, then right at that moment with his buddy Otis while drunk on ****** life and four lokos and *****? They were both at least eight shots deep in their sorrows when they ended up disappearing for what seemed to the rest of us like mere seconds. When we found them, we had ventured that way due to the need and ability to smoke a bowl behind the dumpster a few steps nearby. And when we found them, only one was standing. In the recounting later, Duke had apparently taken a nasty blow to the stomach after slamming a few hits in himself.
Page 4 As he lay there, sprawled face-down on the pavement, disoriented and disheveled, for a solid eight minutes at least until he determined he wasn’t going to puke. The remainder of the night was spent accompanying the rest of the group with Otis, forever refusing to let go of the moral dilemma that had just been established by this pseudo-fight club on which it is incorrect on all accounts to punch a drunk person in the stomach, because they are, in fact, drunk. This might appear annoying after a while, but the radical and lively energy that would radiate from the banter of Duke and Otis made this situation anything but.

Page 5   And so were my first stories of Duke, and so it was for many stories to come. Our stay at this place began to feel more permanent as our bodies would steadily adjust to the ranging, sporadic temperatures outside and as our eyes took in absorbing the physical evidence of the seasons. As it was, at any time throughout the day, my route would take me down to our spot underneath Moody, where Duke might or might not be there himself, shmoozing around with cigarettes and doodles on pen and paper noteworthy of Tim Burton. I got to know Duke. He seemed to have mastered the skill in which I prided myself most in, and that is the warmth near him that urges someone near him to just open your heart and reveal your thoughts and secrets-- that blind trust. Duke had a way of getting to exactly what was on my mind. And in exchange of me sharing, out came the stories of Duke’s life, the sad, ****** up, abusive stories. I heard those the most, for they were also the most compelling, and most exciting, and ******* sometimes Duke could even make them funny.

These days, Moody feels empty. Just because of minus one.

spring's vivid carnival shall soon prevail
she'll be frocked up in the brightest attire
her floral shades so striking of detail

gardens being clad by stunning avail
flowers displaying such a colourful shire
spring's vivid carnival shall soon prevail

every aspect of the rainbow there to sail
glorious blooms that we can admire
her floral shades so striking of detail

the wow factor e'er  innate in her trail
a seasonal dressing of which we'll not tire
spring's vivid carnival shall soon prevail

great visuals she'll pleasingly nail  
on painting in a sensational palettes fire
her floral shades so striking of detail

seeing what the fashion will entail
we'll be gobsmacked with its garb's quire
spring's vivid carnival shall soon prevail
her floral shades so striking of detail

London fashion designer ­Carmina De Young is bringing her first ready-to-wear collection to market with the support of two local fashion mavens, wardrobe and image consultant Susan Jacobs, and business mentor Gloria Dona.

De Young’s Spring/Summer 2016 collection is now available by appointment at the Pop with Purpose studio,

The studio recently held an informal fashion show featuring De Young’s collection.

De Young was born and raised in Puebla, Mexico and discovered her passion as a young child, taking inspiration from her mother’s creative flair for fashion and design.

A graduate of Fanshawe College’s Fashion Design program, De Young’s clothing has been showcased locally and on national platforms, including at Vancouver Fashion Week and at the Caisa Fashion Show at Western University.

De Young started her own label in 2012 and now has a 25-piece ready-to-wear collection ranging from office to casual activities to a night on the town.

Each piece is available in size XS to XL with prices ranging from $79 to $259.

Instead of trying to break into the notoriously-difficult retail market, Dona and Jacobs offered to bring the De Young collection directly to London women through the Pop with Purpose studio.

“We love that we can offer women locally designed and manufactured clothing where they know the designer and know that they are helping make dreams come true,” says Jacobs. “There’s power in that. It’s incredible.”

Topspin scoops award

London-based Topspin Technologies Ltd., has been awarded the Synapse Life Sciences award for innovation in health. Their product, the Topspin360, beat out more than 60 invited applicants for products that demonstrate an innovation in health in Ontario.

This award follows the London-based Techalliance “Techcellence” award the company won earlier this year.

The Topspin360 is the first patented training device that helps improve neck muscles to reduce concussion risk.

Theo Versteegh, who earned his PhD in physiotherapy from Western University in 2016, developed the device after watching the Sidney Crosby hit in 2011 that caused his concussion.

Versteegh found that many sports concussions are the result of the whiplash effect.

The Topspin can be used in all sports, especially those at high risk for concussion, and also in military applications.

Northerner joins Fortune

David Ramsay, a former cabinet minister in the government of the Northwest Territories, has joined the board of directors of London-based Fortune Minerals .

Ramsay has more than 20 years of elected public office experience in the Northwest Territories. His cabinet portfolios included industry, justice, transportation and public utilities.

Fortune is working with three levels of government on infrastructure projects important to the success of the company’s NICO gold-cobalt-bismuth-copper project in the Northwest Territories.

One project is a 94-kilometre all-season highway to the community of Whati, northwest of Yellowknife.

The road is supported by the Tlicho Government, a Dene First nation and would reduce the cost of living and improve the quality of life in the outlying Tlicho communities and promote economic activity. Fortune has already received environmental assessment approval to build a spur road from Whati to the NICO mine.

Delta hosts bridal show

The London Wedding Professionals will hold their second Bridal Showcase at the Delta London Armouries on April 30.

The event offers a smaller, more intimate experience for brides to meet local wedding industry experts, ask questions, and get inspired for their wedding day.

The show features products and services from professionals including gowns, photography, florists, venues, DJs, hair and makeup and wedding planners.

The showcase also puts a focus on inspiring brides with Vignettes throughout the space showcasing different themes or colour palettes.

The show runs from 11 a.m-3 p.m. and admission is free.

Student makes his pitch

Sean Cornelius from St. André Bessette Catholic secondary school in London is one of 20 teenage entrepreneurs heading to Toronto May 8–10 to compete in this year’s edition of the Young Entrepreneurs, Make Your Pitch competition

Selected from the 204 two-minute video pitches entered, Cornelius earned the right to participate in a Dragon’s Den-style pitch contest at Discovery, Ontario Centres of Excellence’s annual innovation-to-commercialization conference, to be held on May 9 at Metro Toronto Convention Centre.

Hamilton Road looks ahead

Business people in the Hamilton Road will hold an information meeting Wednesday about the creation of the Community Improvement Plan that could lead to the creation of the Hamilton Road Business Improvement Area. The meeting will be held at 7 p.m. at the BMO Sports Centre on Rectory St. and guest speakers include Mayor Matt Brown and MPP Teresa Armstrong.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/****-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses

There's spring and there's summer, there's all that's in between
no listless skies of anodyne; now nature flaunts and preens

What beauty fills the hungry eye 'neath a sky of blue, serene
verdant vales soaked in sun, awash in palettes of green

There are pastels that awaken and deep shades that passion brews
created hues that trickle...sprinkled with 'chartreuse'

There's the green of 'asparagus' and that of 'artichokes'
Of 'forest', 'ferns' , of 'moss', a brush of different strokes

Fragrant plants of 'mint', then 'myrtle' and 'green tea'
'Emerald', 'jade' or 'harlequin' and 'malachites' that be

Off creamy shells, just 'pistachio', 'green apples', then of 'pines'
It lies too in 'sap' and 'teal', in 'avocados' and tangy 'lime'

There's green of the 'mantis', in 'jungle', 'hunters' and 'shamrock'
The lithe 'parakeet' fluttering and the lazy sanguine 'croc'

In blessed 'basil', ' pickle', in 'pear', 'olives' in 'bottle green'
'Gourds' and 'peas' that farmers grow in cultivars pristine

'Tis there in 'aqua' and 'seaweed', in the ripple of 'sea green' waves
In 'turtles', 'sea foam', 'anemone' and a 'tropical glistening lake'

From 'laurel green' to an 'army green' , in 'sage' ( a shade of grey )
The color of 'grass' , the murky 'swamp' , hues in array

There's 'neon' and an 'Indian green', a 'Persian' one to mystify
A 'midnight green' to bright 'fluorescent', oh, for green rainbows in the eye

With the sweat of groin
and aching head, I conquered.
An arching back like lightning struck
My head grows cloudy as we ****.

Muted palettes of rage and passion
fused *** and sin, wet kisses from below.
Your eyes stare into mine, looking for stars.
And I gaze down like god in your galaxy at scars
left behind by this jagged love of ours.

In these moments, it's never been so clear
that the quality of your *** is a chain leash
Tight around my neck, and choking
Electrified stimulation, you force me to keep poking
|
But you love me like a dog in a cage
imprisoned and belittled
You've got me as worse than a child
Just a brazen creature to be reviled
                       * * *
You love the ***, but you chase away the wild.

A perfectly linear shape painted in gold
Is what you see
Through Instagram pictures Facebook posts Snapchat videos
The tacit life
I lead in the virtual stairway
I am living the life!
So you say
You painted my life in the most shimmering color
Turn on every light in the room to make it brighter
Gazing with admiration
Sometimes
Most of the time
With jealousy
Seduced by the lure of the blue light dependency
Turning this perfect lie into some meditation
And make it my definition
An image I’ve built to cover the within
A perfect fragmented me I post on social media
A habit I borrow for social gatherings
A behavior forced into me
For the sake of society!
An illusion so fragile made out of eggshell
A shell covering the true essence of ME
Uncovering myself for the world to see
The egg wall and make believes shattering
To life unpredictable burdens
That perfect golden shell cannot bare life’s hurdles
Holding something beautiful that doesn’t curdle
I am more of what you see
More of what I let you believe
More of society’s standards
More of you
More of me
I contained beauty and imperfections
I contained colors and bricks
Strengths and weaknesses
Enough to **** in all life’s miseries
And to also reflect confidence and vulnerabilities
I am not just one color
I am every shades
Every undertones
Every hues that follow the changes
I am the intense
The neon
The eclectic
The iridescent
From the lightest to the darkest
The contrasting
The complementing
The chromatic
I am in nature in art in paintings
Everywhere
I am every northern lights dancing to my own ballet
Don’t just paint me with your own palettes
Crack me open
And see what’s inside
For there you will see
My true colors

Well where do we start?
Bob,
That answers a lot of questions before asked.
He was a vegan, kind of?

Never did he linger on thoughts of animal flesh,
vegan you could single him upon in certain words.
He would not linger on the animal nutritional formalities.

Could he linger on the repulsive tastes of pork, beef, lamb.
He would heave at mere thoughts of digesting these
peaceful recipients of the plant we delve all upon.

But even fish was out of his lingering taste buds.
He did how ever have a taste that differed from the
palettes of most, for it was of those he called friend.

He contorted on the repulsiveness of what his hunger
desired in wanting attention, but as those around waited
for there inevitable ending. He lingered on how they were savoured.

Bankruptcy of morals was his downfall, he saw others as
just meat sacks. Things that were as wanting in consumption
as those they fed upon, There screams were so inviting.

Have you heard an animal scream. No they don't, they
just look cynical in why your ending, their existence and stare.
Where we cry like lambs to the slaughter of our ending.

Emotion makes those that tear salt upon features
taste that much better than those unintelligent creatures
that just except there oblivion with eyes of so be it.

I have a sickness that thrives on the taste of you superficial
fear that I will not end you. No I will cease you light and
endeavour to feed on you lifeless carcass now silent.

*"Hi I'm Bob I'm a vegan struggling with the concept of
no meat in my diet, I don't eat animal, but I still linger
for the taste of meat inbetween of my moist lips and teeth.

Get out your sponges, stippling brushes and pens,
It’s time for makeover-Monday-night to begin.
Think Winky Lux, L’Oréal, Urban Decay,
Maybelline, Armani and Fabergé

It’s a black magic realm where brushes are wands,
where a carnival of colors are carefully crayoned.
We have palettes aplenty, in kaleidoscope hues,
to create fashion looks, both bold and subdued.

In the realm of makeup fashion, where trends never end,
we remodel each other - for fun - when we can.
Tonight, our new friend Jammie has come to watch us play,
and he even brought two bottles of chardonnay.

Lisa has a ‘Miss Rose’ case, like she saw in Bernadette Peters’
dressing room, on a backstage tour of the Shubert Theatre.
Konjac, Kabuki, Doe foots, Spoolie, Lisa’s got legit tools to use.
“When it comes to makeup,” she says, “always avoid dupes.”

That night I was the chosen face, the excited living canvas.
Lisa’s a practiced artist, her process is brisk and never tedious.
She painted my lips a crimson cherry, alluring and brightly sensuous,
my brows were moonlit art, my cheeks a midnight adumbrated edifice.

Lisa created a special look, where rebellious edge met elegance.
We took some snaps, then I washed it off - but Jammie was impressed!

brushstrokes, some broad,  
some as narrow as one fine hair,  
are often red  

scarlet and scattered
across the canvas, splattered
against a crumbling wall, where,
for no rhyme or reason, the artist
may place a wilted wreath of flowers,
pallid, yellow
      
horses and people, babes
and the ancient not spared  
their share of the crimson cream  
the painter heaped munificently
on their mangled remains

Paris, Beirut, Yola yet to be painted
but there is still time: in its abundance
someone else will need only lift a hand  
to spill the ubiquitous blood      

our palettes do own other hues
black for charred crosses, white,
the lightning streaked screaming sky
but  none so plentiful as the red  
none so plentiful as the red

I want to erase the figment of my imagination that I’ve allowed you to becomeYou are so opportunistic having used every moment we ever had as a time of spawningYou left traces of yourself that would grow beyond what my mind could containand with your absencethose pieces of you have enlargedThey’ve progressed into long thick arms having my thoughts in choke holds that the top wrestlers have yet to discoverThanks for showing me who you really areYour name is Monsterand I want to remove your electromagnetic tentacles from the nerves of my brainsever your suction cups coat them in a batter flavored with lemon pepper seasoningand deep fry them turn your manipulative tactics into a fine cuisine for the hungered palettes of innocent bystanders that will chew you upswallow youand digest you as the waste of time this aspect of youhas been to meToo bad I’m not bulimicAfter the binge of these false memories I’d gladly shove my finger down my throat and ***** you into filthy toilet bowlsflushing you ‘til you reach your destinationwelcomed by a sea of sewageWhen it comes to the likes of youamnesia has never been so desired.

~
Imagine a box
In shadow
Of utter regalia
Iris, dressed as a waterfall
She comes scattered

Imagine an eyelid illusionist
Praying for more palettes
Enters steelbook cathedrals
To a ministry of colour

For the street outside
Cannot offer as
Interesting a hue
As those fascinating within
The pigment of her imagination

It's compelling artistry
Like oil on canvas
A slight of hand
Smoke and mirrors

Her skilled fingers
Kohl mining
For soft medley
And the new liminality
Above the spectator's eye
~

His hair was ruffled as the wind picked up

"next time, I'll wear a hat"

He kept on painting, not deterred

And to him..well, that was that.

As the weather worsened and rain moved in

He packed up and moved on

By the time the storm had taken hold

And the rains came, he'd be gone

He headed home on up the road

Past the little village shoppes

He counted, silent, to himself

Of every time he'd stopped

He knew each curb and crossing

From the river on his route

It was 5 blocks, 1/2 mile

Just time for one cheroot.

He'd smoked them now for 60 years

But now, he just smoked one

It relaxed him as he walked on home

He knew his day was done

He painted by the river

On an easel, nice and light

He would go there in the morning

And would stay there until night

He painted what he saw each time

The pictures he created

Were images from in his head

Some were finished, some belated

He didn't always get them done

So, he'd put them to the side

And he'd finish them another time

For now, these he would hide

As others looked upon his works

As they passed by him by the shore

A few would ask him what they were

And they didn't say much more

The paintings that John Joseph

Were for him, and him alone

He didn't care if others

Stood and stared, and sometimes groaned

He lost his sight a lifetime back

He'd splashed some acid in his face

He may have lost his eyesight

But his blindness taught him grace

For people looked upon his art

Seeing only paint and lines

Until he told them of the images

He was painting from his mind

He'd been around the world a bit

And the things that he had seen

Were all captured in his memories

And he would now paint every scene

One day he'd paint the Taj Mahal

As only he did know

But to someone passing by that day

It may look as only snow

The Eiffel Tower, black and tall

With the blue sky there behind

Made people wonder endlessly

What went on in John J's mind

His canvases were covered in

His palettes tints and hues

But, the shapes folks saw upon the board

Were not crisp, they were askew

But John Joseph saw his artwork

As a postcard of his life

He'd mix paint with his brushes

And sometimes use his knife

He'd change his strokes to fit his mood

Some short and sometimes long

But, because he couldn't see them

Nothing ever would be wrong

His grass was blue and sometimes black

The water might be red

But John Joseph never cared at all

His art was in his head

No one ever saw the thngs

that Old John Joseph did

They would always look, politely

And then farewell to him they'd bid

But one day while describing things

In a painting that he'd done

To a family here from out of town

Two parents and their son

The father said, "I'd like to see"

"More places from your mind"

"Can you bring some down tomorrow"

"If you would please, be so kind"

John Joseph said, he'd bring some down

But he laughed, and said "You'll see"

"that the pictures aren't what you'd expect"

"I just painted them for me"

The next day when they met again

They had brought their son called Paul

He just stood off in the background

While John Joseph told them all

Of what was on each canvas

Of the paintings in his mind

He said "no one else sees them"

"To me, most folks are blind"

But the father told John Jospeh

You have opened up the world

For as you describe each picture

Your images unfurled

A world of unkown wonder

That can't be measured by a mile

But, Paul you see can see them

We can see it in his smile

Paul is blind as well you see

Lost his sight a few years back

But, your descriptions of your painting

In his mind, you've brought it back

Paul then asked John Joseph

To paint more pictures, from the start

And this young lad and his parents

Had touched John Joseph's heart

John Joseph gave his painting

To the people and their son

And he said when they returned again

He'd have another one

True blindness is within us

It's not just in what you see

It's also in the way you think

It helped this blind man be free

He painted pictures in his head

For him and him alone

Now, he shared his muddled painting

With a family known as Stone.
.

After the screams
I was coming undone,
splitting at the seams.
I hauled all my watercolors
out of my brother's office.
I took the paintbrushes
and palettes of a thousand hues
lodged between his camo army vest
and his heavy shoes
and I sprawled out in the
spinach-green living room.
I painted
willow trees and silhouettes
and viridian snakes spilling from ***** lips.

At 2am I got up
headed to the deck
and watched the stars
Because sometimes I forget.
I let my nights
be slaughtered by sobs.

These nights, this view
It’s mine, you can’t have it.
Everyone needs a place
and this is mine,
this tiny nirvana,
2 o'clock constellations
in the dark purple bruise of night
are my home.

A pool of watercolors,
magenta, cyan, indigo, emerald and cerulean,
swells in my chest,
in the empty space between my lungs.
A drowning, a baptism.

Everywhere, in everything,
your unblinking ghost.
It refuses to dissolve.

When I looked at you I saw the world,
The way you saw the world.
Everything was shaded with the brightest yellows
And the deepest blues,
But all the reds were gone.

Looking away from you
I saw the blinding white haloes around the stars,
I saw the pink laces between different cells of my hands,
I can see the red ball thrown in the field of green.

I just had to look away from you.

How can I expand on my thoughts that pushed me
to the conclusion of what was proceeding was indeed
not out of desperation.
I was artistic in my endeavours, but with a little one these
concluded in less than affluent earnings. I could not feed us
with words or palettes that seeded blank canvasses alone.

I would borrow off friends but one can only ask out of
pride so many times. I want about to be looked upon
as an Oliver of adulthood, can I have some more mate.
Never would I stoop to that as I had a child of innocence
to bring up in the correct manners of the world...

But when the food banks rescinded my pleads for food,
not for me but a child that did nothing wrong.
A mind was set in motion an undertaking not to use violence
in a manner of vocabulary where none was to be used...
I sent my baby of to school her thoughts not of what I was
about to levitate myself too...

I approached its doors, I had wondered past different times
to see when streets and this monument to moneys endeavours
was least to show in the manner of silent desks and minds
wondering on there own. I entered in sullen thoughts that I
wasn't doing this for me, but us. I walked up as gasps of the few
were heard, I thought the attire appropriate for this moment.

I saw her eyes glance in direction as eyes orbited around the
room ours were synchronised. Her oceans were what my
thoughts were swimming in and as I washed up on her shores
I handed her the note. She blushed as smiling she opened it.
"This is a robbery I have a gun, my bullet is my words and I
am going to steal your thoughts away,

"Ok, lets recap for a moment I was an artist and I had fallen
for this woman in a hundred lifetimes that were condensed into
this one, she asked me to ask her to marry her in a  unique way.
"This was that offering in gesture and word,
But in my eagerness to be the artist, I had pondered on what
I'd just done. Seconds past and then alarms bled on my ears.

"What can I say I was daydreaming and the last a hundred
and forty  words that just played in my mind were just dreams,

"Back to reality,

I just realised that I was indeed staging a robbery, "CRAP, "Crap,
"Ruunnnnnn, I was within grasp of the door when I
heard her voice like an angel breathing on the air, "Stop him,
I turned winked, which I got a puzzled look and into the air
of freedom I stepped only to see those men in blue saw my
features and they ventured in my incarceration in haste.

I tried to run, but I was up against an invisible wall they were
gaining so I found the lock and ran though that door.
I locked it, lets see the boys and girls in blue get around this
so I ran with all the speed my legs could muster.
Looking behind I saw them just run straight through that
which took me at least a minute to get through...

Catching on my heels I was nearly at my end, I thought
only of my daughter I did this for her. Maybe not the
right way, but I couldn't let my light that shines so
bright be silenced by the hunger that no child should
suffer.. I cried as tears streamed through blurred vision
"I love you my baby, daddies so sorry,

As I thought those words, I stumbled through a door
not of my own making. What visited my sight in
silence but those of my kind artistic in virtue and like
penguins we fell over like dominos. Not a word but
silence and startled gazes. The police bust in to find
not one suspect but a room of 1000 mimes in silence.

It took time but I was set free as my thought of individuality
was repurposed with the thought of how close I was to
losing everything. On the news they said that a mime had
tried to rob the bank with no gun but a hand in the shape
of holding something that wasn't really there? one thing
caught my eye, the bank teller spoke a few words.

"Strangest thing ever, but I have to say he was cute,

"I was cute, hell ye, "what was that daddy? I smiled
and cuddled my girl as I was a free man and my artistic
heist wasn't a complete flop, as those that I had collided
with had handed me a card in silence. My first job,
a pay check I had food on the table and we smiled.
I never broke the law again my baby was my only thought.

How easy it is to paint people
With one color,
With one broad brush.
Over time the various
Colors on your palette
Swirl together to form globs
Of gray.
And now your monochrome
Judgement renders your world
A bleak, barren desert of ashes.
No longer do you see the world and its
People in its colorful splendor.
Some become acclimated to this dulled
Perception that has taken hold.
A perception that dominates the
Senses and gradually turns the brain
Into gray mush.
Undead they become, starving creatures
With the urge to devour.
To hurt.
No empathy. No compassion. No feeling.

Others, thankfully, know better.
Palettes must be cleansed regularly,
Layers of dried, crusted paint scraped off
With patience.
Then fresh paint is restored.
Fresh perspectives, encounters, and knowledge
Passed down by models to the artist.
Yes, we are artists.
We paint the world as we deem fit,
Plastering on others one’s own
Values, morals, and ideals.
But the true masters of this craft go beyond,
Discerning the vast spectrum of colors
That compose a human soul.

But that takes time.
Years of experience and keen observation.
But possible.

Learning the art of absent love
she absorbs herself with a
perspective only to be seen through
the glasses of rose tinted sunlit skies

Planting seeds of love
she lays amidst meadow fields
staring at pastel palettes

Drifting motions as, her hand lifts
her finger tracing clouds
as painting upon a clear canvas
where her art knows no boundaries

Singing herself lullabies
her soul fed by stardust
her eyes wavering, flickering
& finally closing, into a dreamscape
of mysterious lucidity

Her longing eased, escapism from
a skipping heartbeat bleeding for attachment,
awaiting the blooming of flowers
which follow a winter of freezing hearts
now pining to thaw.

© Sia Jane

Acquainted with Mark,
I walk to the bookshop;
not the one with the *****,
instead the neon green nightmare
where there’s nothing good to read.

It’s not so much that I’m searching
for anything in particular, but the sun
has gone down and there’s a need in me
to get out of the house and walk around
someplace that feels like someplace.

Walking past the skateboards,
(Why the **** are there skateboards here?)
I start looking for Mark.
“He doesn’t live here” they say, “He never has.”
No, he doesn’t, I gather.

The King does though,
and if I wanted to fall in love
with a vampire there, I certainly could.
But, Mark is nowhere to be found.

The Laureate of Drunkards has a room
there, but he hasn’t moved in and the
staff cannot remember the last time they
saw him.

Dr. Lovecraft and Chitulu have been known to set
up a lemonade stand now and again, but they never
stick around very long, their product is too sour
for palettes around these parts.

Regardless of this, my search continues.
Mark is not here today, but Robert Parker
has rented some space and is rooming with
Ray Chandler, down the hall from Larry Block,
sometimes they cook up some pasta and mussels
in white wine, with good bread.

Sometimes they pan fry steaks, and make home fries
drinking rye until it’s all medium rare.

It’s mysterious, how Mark became an afterthought
and we all hope he hasn’t been murdered, kidnapped,
or met with some other form of foul play.
It’s poetic really,
how Mark will come around now and again
he’s not lost or forgotten,
he’ll be waiting for me when I get home.

We’ll sit in the dark, under the lamp,
together well read his poem titled: “Poem”
and I’ll tell him that he’s better at this noir stuff
than all those other hacks.

But, for now, Mark remains…Stranded.
*

-JBClaywell

©2016 P&ZPublications

Autumn
     arrives
on waves of
sheer exhilaration  
for those summer
  worn  bodies  
hungry for  horizons
enveloped in  
  colorful palettes
fall is courted
with the best
of intentions
a clearly
moody lover
   who year after year
whispers goodbye
in piles of leaves        
         among rapidly
vanishing  vistas