"pantsuits" poems
The one-off bag is by Louis Vouitton
The sheath dress by Dolce & Gabbana
The low-top shoes by Christian Louboutin
The vaporisation is by Sukhoi
Evening wear goes with biologicals
Retro pantsuits with a casual bomb
Alice Archer jeans for a weekend massacre
Jonathan Simkhai swimwear for an ocean boil
Ohhhhh, yeahhhhhhhh…
She turns every head when she enters the room
But The People’s Army delivers the BOOM
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC
The would-be King is angry,
adamant that his silk suit trumps
all the other suits and pantsuits
vying for the throne.
His head is in his ace hole.
He thinks all the Queens are airheads,
gropes them as if they are ******
to be replaced when one gets old
and a prettier one comes along.
He shuffles his Jacks,
mere minions, all interchangeable,
discards them, sluffs them off.
His would-be subjects
are treated like deuces and tres;
the cards that do the hard work
of making a winning hand,
mostly with spades,
are clubbed into submission.
Though he values diamonds,
his deck contains no hearts,
they bleed too liberally for his ilk.
With his hair pulled over his eyes
like a dealer’s shade,
he deals from a stacked deck,
under the table, cards hidden up his sleeve.
He can’t see himself for what he is,
the fifty-third card in the deck,
the joker.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 7:24 PM UTC
Getting to a 4
After the dinner of rising losses,
in the bedroom, where open finds shut, shut
finds open, a sprawled business shirt crosses
the flowered spread. Its armless sleeve in the rut
between two pillow with matching bolsters.
A sole cufflink, like a dignified mourner,
ignored the calls of a telephonic pollster.
Its brother is abandoned in the corner,
by the shoe boxes arrayed in columns
of flats, high heels and sneakers for the gym;
sneakers worn down by her vow given solemnly:
“If I lose weight, I won’t mind losing him.”
In her closet, pantsuits size 8, size 6 size 4
And tiny cut-offs hanging from the door.
Marc Tretin
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
Emma Stone must have known she was a dead cert to take home the award for best actress — her gold Givenchy gown was calling out for accessorising with the gold statuette. Stone led the charge for shimmering metallic gowns at a ceremony that was underwhelming from a fashion perspective, bar a handful of stand-out stars.
Those included Nicole Kidman, Jessica Biel, Halle Berry, Charlize Theron and fashion’s latest It girl Janelle Monae, who translated fashion chops from her musical background into acting with spectacular results, courtesy of designer Elie Saab.
Fashion pushes a more casual agenda and elements of this are filtering onto the red carpet. Hair was more undone: loose waves for Kirsten Dunst, a half-up style from Felicity Jones and Alicia Vikander’s messy topknot. Berry’s wild curls deserved their own statuette.
A mini-trend emerged with actresses wearing jewelled headpieces, including Ruth Negga, Salma Hayek and Monae.
While things did get political in speeches at the event, embracing diversity in the arts, stars didn’t give in to the current feminist mood. There was a distinct lack of pantsuits, which had been increasingly common at recent awards. Meryl Streep almost went there, in a “drouser” ensemble of dress over trousers, but that was as close as it got.
The lone political nod was an abundance of blue ribbons, supporting the American Civil Liberties Union’s action against the Trump administration’s immigration policies. Best supporting actress nominee Ruth Negga pinned one to her red Valentino gown, Karlie Kloss to her white Stella McCartney, while Moonlightdirector Barry Jenkins and best original song nominee Lin-Manuel Miranda added them to their tux jackets.
“I think art is inherently political,” said Miranda.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
.
When dark clouds collide and
thunder erupts on shaken stares,
rains fall in unrelenting sorrows
along bramble thorn threads,
screaming leaves crash
into a frozen ground
of broken branches
and disgraced smiles,
as cardboard condos
dot the litter strewn landscape
and graffiti drips
in tobacco stained puddles
at the feet of those
standing in an endless line
for bits and scraps
of the life they once knew,
while sons and daughters
face the monsters drugged
by beliefs conjured
on sand blasted battlefields
and bibles of their own deciphering,
bridging the elongated gaps
between lies and promises by those
disguised in designer pantsuits
with fingers crossed
behind their backs
and children have secrets ******
upon them through filthy fingernails
hiding under bed frames
of rusted iron and disgusting touches,
silenced by the horror
of squeaking hinges
and foot steps in the hall,
crying for mothers who don’t believe,
the tears of a poet will be revealed,
bleeding through the page
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 1:07 PM UTC
I.
The wretched house
looked upon the sea,
with sagging sashes
and peeling skin,
preserved in the shade
of it’s brand new neighbors.
II.
Subatomic particles
and Mother’s pantsuits
were never quite understood;
after the vexation
they became necessary for no other reason
save for they were simply interrupting existence
and had to be accepted.
III.
Twin-pack printer ink
is only distinguishable from
the cat in the tree
by one feature:
one of them didn’t make the evening news
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 8:58 AM UTC