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Jonny Bolduc Nov 2014
Every thanksgiving,
My family gets smaller.
Gone to college. Gone traveling. Gone to another woman. Gone to Florida. Gone to prison.
Gone to see the lord.

Funerals are how
I visit the lord. God is drawn to eulogies.
He’s there, a fixture,
almost a cliche,
like a great aunt with a black veil
weeping into a floral
handkerchief.

Today, at this funeral,
a thin layer of snow and ice
has frozen the ground.
Black dress shoes
press ridged footprints into the
snow.

Every funeral I’ve ever
been to has been cold. Dress
clothes and peacoats
aren’t thick enough to keep
me warm during a funeral.
I keep my hands in my pockets and hunch forward,
watching my breath hit the winter wind.
The winter wind is
an evaporated sadness, like god.

During thanksgiving, the gravy boat
on the counter
let off hot, thin steam.  While pouring it thick
on my potatoes,
A shadow in the corner of the room caught my eye.

The days after a funeral are
filled with a confused, hopeful mysticism. Every moving shadow,
every unexplained noise
is a visitation.  

So I ****** my head towards the corner of the room. Nothing.
Glancing back at the table,
I look at his empty seat, reminded

how much I’m him. I’m quiet, like he was.
I
laugh like he laughed.
My teeth are as bad as his were.
I drink like he did when he was
my age,
days, nights at a time, stumbling home from dark pubs,
watching, with blurred vision,
my whisky breath hit the winter wind,
and evaporate, almost as fast as God.

After the turkey and the pie and the coffee,
I go down to the basement
and I pour myself a stiff
*** and coke.  

I drink, in silence, to the gone.
judy smith Mar 2017
The streets of Paris were clogged by rallies and demonstrations on the Sunday of fashion week. At the Trocadero, a pro-rally for embattled French conservative presidential candidate Francois Fillon, blocking the route between the Valentino and Akris shows; at Bastille, an anti-Fillon demonstration.

The French elections — and ever-increasing security — were providing a tense backdrop to the autumn-winter collections, much like Donald Trump, Brexit and Matteo Renzi did on the fashion circuit of New York, London and Milan this season. Politics and the changing of the guard, women’s rights and diversity may make fashion seem irrelevant until you add up the value of the industry to the world economy. In Britain it is £28 billion ($45bn) — and that is small fry next to France and Italy.

Perhaps politics and social change have influenced the French designers for there was much less street style this season and a lot more tailored, working clothes on the catwalk. They used mostly masculine fabrics but worked in such a graceful way. You need only look at Haider ­Ackermann, Chanel, Alexander McQueen, Christian Dior, Lanvin, Akris and Ellery to see this — lots of great wearable clothes.

Karl Lagerfeld wanted to fly us to other worlds (to abandon the mess here perhaps) in his Chanel space rocket. There were checks, cream, silvery white and grey tweeds, for suits and shorts and dark side of the moon print dresses that cleverly avoided the 60s’ ­futuristic cliches. Silver moon boots, space blanket stoles and rocket-shaped handbags were as space-age-y as it got. There was quiet, seductive tailoring at Haider Ackermann — tapered silhouettes in black wool and leather softened with a knit or the fluff of Mongolian lamb for a blouson or skirt. At McQueen the asymmetric lines of a black coat or pantsuit were ­inspired by the fluid lines of ­Barbara Hepworth’s sculptures, whereas David Koma reclaimed the soaring shoulderline of Mugler’s 80s silhouette for pantsuits and mini-dresses for the brand.

Christian Dior’s uniform-inspired daywear was produced in tones of navy blue with 50s-style navy belted skirts suits, long pleated skirts and some denim workwear. “I wanted my collection to express a woman’s personality, but with all the protection of a ­uniform,” explained Maria Grazia Chiuri before the show.

There was more suiting at ­Martin Grant with voluminous trousers, cummerbunds and men’s shirting. The cut was more mannish at Ellery and Celine with ­Ellery balancing her masculine oversized jacket looks with feminine bustier tops with giant puff sleeves. The mannish look at ­Celine was styled with sharp ­lapels, slim-cut trousers under crushed textured raincoats, whereas ­double-breasted jackets (a trend) and peacoats over loose-cut trousers appeared at John Galliano.

Checks jazzed up the tailoring at Akris where there were more sophisticated double-breasted jackets and swing coats, and at ­Giambattista Valli from among the flirty embroidered dresses a dogtooth coat emerged with a waspie belt and a suit with a peplum skirt.

Stella McCartney displayed her Savile Row skills in heritage checks for her equestrian-themed show. Of course, she is crazy about riding and her prints featured a famous painting by George Stubbs, Horse Frightened by a Lion. It turns out Stubbs was another Liverpudlian, like her dad Sir Paul.

Of course Hermes’s vocabulary started with the horse and there were leather-trimmed capes and coats that fitted an equestrian, or at least country theme worn with woollen beanies and big sweaters, offering a different way of tailoring, in an easier silhouette with a soft colour palette.

The highlight of the week for Natalie Kingham, buying director at MatchesFashion.com was ­Balenciaga. “Great accessories, great coats and great execution of ideas,” she says of Demna Gvasalia’s off-kilter buttoned coats, stocking boot and finale of nine spectacular Balenciaga couture gowns reinterpreted in a contemporary way. “It was wearable, modern and the must-see show of the week.” It was also, she pointed out “the must-have label off the runway with every other person on the front row decked out in the spring collection”.

Although tailoring worked its subtle charms on the catwalk, there were flashes of brightness, graceful beauty and singularity. Particularly bright were Miu Miu’s psychedelic prints, feathered and jewelled lingerie dresses and colourful fun fur coats with furry baker boy hats. Then there was the singular look evoked by Austrian-born Andreas Kronthaler in his homage to his roots, with alpine flowers, Klimt-style artist smocks and bourgeois chintz florals worked in asymmetric and padded silhouettes for Vivienne Westwood — some of it modelled by the Dame herself.

Pagan beauty, the wilds of Cornwall, ancient traditions such as the mystical “Cloutie” wishing tree led to Sarah Burton’s enchanting Alexander McQueen show, which was another of Kingham’s favourites with its unfinished embroideries inspired by old church kneelers and spiritual motifs. “I loved the artisanal threadwork and the spiritual message that was woven throughout,” she says. The artisanal and spiritual she considers an emerging trend around the shows. “It had a slight winter boho vibe but much more elevated.”

Chitose Abe shared that mood for undone beauty with her Sacai collection of hybrid combinations of tweed and nylon for an anorak, and deconstructed lace for a parka, and puffers with denim re-worked with floral lace for evening.

There was more seductiveness at Valentino and Issey Miyake. The latter’s collection shown in the magnificent interiors of Paris’s Hotel de Ville, shimmered with the colours of the aurora borealis and used extraordinary fabric technology to create rippling movement as the models walked.

Valentino was a high point. On a rainswept Sunday Pierpaolo Piccioli cheered us with high-neck Victoriana silhouettes and long swingy dresses in potentially (but not actually) clashing combinations of pink and red in jazzy patterns of mystical motifs and numerology inspired by the Memphis Group of Pop Art. The sheer loveliness of the collection was enough to drown out the world of politics only a few blocks away.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/blue-formal-dresses
Torn scraps of paper in a torn scrap of time

Both equally insignificant

yet have unseen potential

to create a masterpiece



Eyes glazing over both microscopic elements,

forgotten and unrecognized



Torn scraps of money

weigh down the pockets of peacoats,

feather light



We are blinded by bills and coins

not seeing the scraps that surround them

not seeing the materials they are made of

not building on those elements



A mountain of scraps builds,

having more benefits

than coins and bills.
Lake Jun 2015
the lines of the grates in the radiator
imprint onto the backs of my legs
people shuffle through the lobby,
swishing peacoats and snowflakes
dripping from their hoodies. i curl
my fingers around the phone
and press you closer to my ear.  

i've always wanted you closer.
you're tangled in earbuds
on the bus, arm wrapped
through the straps of your bag.
you wear someone else's grey
varsity sweater, red letters marked
across the chest. you lock
your windows before you go
to sleep, white paint chipping
and painting your nails.
your goodnights are eclipses of
the daring day stepping out
without clothes and reminding me
it's time to stop with you.

"i think i'm going to get help"
you rasp, and i am silent as a family
toddles through, children clinging
onto the swollen mittens at their
mothers' sides. i swallow and
lean against the wall, sit against
the radiator, cross my ankles
over the blowing heat.
the gate locks behind us as we scuttleunder snowfall
bundled in peacoats and scarves
Coffee in our hands, so that they may not hold each other.
Gloves that hold no warmth, so we couldn't touch, in case we did.
We want to hold hands, but we're too happy with our coffee.
playing chicken, who's gonna be mentally stable first
driving cars at each other seeing who will turn.
but the roads long.
we pass open fields of ex-lovers
mountainsides of therapists
what started as a race, seems ike a leisurely scenic route now.
our white knuckles loosening,
Our manic tunnel vision, fading as we become narcoleptic
nodding off slightly as the cars pull closer.
Whenever we take our gloves off,
We'll be lucky not to have driven off road
collide with another field or mountain.
because we couldn't put down our coffee.
afraid of falling asleep
what if our eyes are closed, and we can't decide to be brave.
What if one day we made up in a hospital, in the same bed
two broken windshields.
Crashing, only when we fall asleep.
can we truly call it a conscious decision?
Bodowzski Jun 2017
From records to cassettes, CDs to Blu-rays.
Jam Master Jay to Jay, from NWA to Kanye.
From white tees to peacoats,
Nikes to Reeboks.
From durags on hoodrats,
From gang signs to hangtimes.
From brothers who spent time,
To those who spat rhymes.
Mad love to whose who spent time on their grind.
I'm part of the Foundation, they call me the blueprint.
You're welcome to walk the talk, if the
shoe fits.
No-one admitted to putting the game to shame,
So who did?
I'm asking one more time, so who did?

I'm trying to hack away the chains that bind so tightly to this game.
But when I'm done, someone else will put the clasp on her wrists again.
Feels like I need to get her sins pardon by the president.
Nothing has ever been
The same. Ever since
Hip Hop was incarcerated, I had been
grieving ever since.
She is on the death row.
Death crowed,
every night.
Scythe in hand, still by the window.
She ain't fazed, though.
Got jumped more times than a trampoline.
Point blank with a 5.4".
With her eyes closed,
She heard Icewater
in her mind, soul.
Her eyes watered,
as she let go.
Simone Gabrielli Aug 2020
Where is my muse
lost in pixies dreaming over Hollywood hills
parties over gleaming cities,
hidden houses,
quiet roofs
Gilded eyes suggesting otherwise
tugging on grey peacoats
fragile Virgo risings
Beings of the sea
of scorpionic lust
drowned in ***** with lemons from the tree.
Beatnik drunk,
Bukowski wannabe
Missing keys
misplaced by a Neptunian tragedy.

— The End —