Pleat, pleat, pleat,
Fix that drape,
Cantankerous petticoat,
Is all bent out of shape,
The mirror jeers,
That's a singularly inelegant drape,
What are you gawping at,
It's time to undrape,
Watch those ankles,
Stop dancing like an ape,
How hard could it be,
To simply undrape,
In walked Mum,
Her mouth agape,
Laughing uproariously,
Got me shipshape

Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.

Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.

They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.

They would no guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they

Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the grass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-littered ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigures them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.

The city bus jostles down the street
On every other seat a *** rests
As I glance around I see shoes
Instead of bare feet.
As I glance around I see pants
Instead of shorts.

When I look down
I see my gladiators, fuchsia accented
When I look down
I see my ten piggies with coral paint

I ascend up to my loosely pleated
Polka-dotted, monochrome smock
Sliced in half by the strap of my
simple, salmon, cross-body satchel
Sitting ever so obediently at my hip

I reach to eliminate a treacherous itch
Feeling my perfectly formed pleat
A pleat adorned with a moss rose
Itching without disturbing a pleat
Is always a tricky task to undertake
I find myself asking if it's in my head
If it's floating through my mind
like the smoke of the mind altering substance
That floats through my brain

I glance around the stopped bus
No one is moving, we are stopped.
So why am I still jostling in my seat
Like the bus is jostling down the street?

Paris has traditionally been the city where inter­national designers – from Australia and England to Beirut and Japan – opt to unveil their collections. However, Karen Ruimy, who is behind the Kalmar label, chose the runways of Milan Fashion Week for her debut showcase in September.

The Morocco-born, London- based designer hosted an intimate al fresco event in a private palazzo to launch her holiday line of fine cotton and silk jumpsuits, breezy kaftans, long skirts, playsuits and off-the-shoulder tops in tropical prints.

Ruimy had a career in finance before moving into the arts – she owns a museum of photography in Marrakech – and has become increasingly involved in fashion and beauty, thanks to her personal interest in holistic therapies.

These are clothes, she explains, that marry luxury and wellness, and are the things she would wear when she wants quality time by herself. The fact that they are made in Italy, convinced her that Milan was the right place for her debut – where she showed alongside the likes of Gucci, Prada, Verscae and Marni.

On fashion calendars, Milan has conventionally been the place where the runways confirm the trends and themes hinted at ­earlier, in New York and London. However, this season, the Italian designers did not speak with one voice, making Milan Fashion Week all the more refreshing for it.

Often, there might be an era or style of design that dominates the runways during a particular season, but for spring/summer 2017 in Milan, there was a standout showing of techno sportswear and techno fabrics employed in updated classics such as coats and box-pleat skirts, or with references to north African and Native American themes.

The Italian designers sent looks that would appeal to everyone, from the haute bohemian and athletic woman, to the cool sophisticate and the art crowd, as well as – as in the case of Moschino – to the iPhone generation.

Only three seasons ago, Gucci’s creative director Alessandro Michele was lauded for his complicated maximalist styling. Yet in Milan, Gucci channelled a dreamlike vibe with Victoriana, denim, athletic apparel and oversized accessories, thrown together in delightful chaos, making it difficult to predict the direction Michele is taking Gucci in.

Currently he seems to be in a holding pattern, hovering at once over 1940s Hollywood glamour, 1970s flared pantsuits, and ruffled party dresses from the 1980s, in a cacophony of ­colours and fabrics.

The feeling of joyous madness continued at Dolce & Gabbana, where street dancers emerged from the audience to start the party in the designers’ tropical-themed show. The clothes used some of their familiar tropes, such as military jackets, corseted black-lace dresses miniskirts. New, however, were the baggy tapering trousers redolent of jodhpurs, and the lavish and detailed embellishment the designers used to sell their story.

Wanderlust dominated the moodboards at Roberto Cavalli – rich patterns, embroidery and patchworks inspired by Native Americans – and Etro with its ­tribal themes on kaftans, duster coats and Berber-style capes.

Giorgio Armani, Agnona Tod’s, Bottega Veneta and Salvatore Ferragamo – with its stylish twisted leather dresses and crisp athletic sportswear designed by newcomer Fulvio Rigoni – all answered the call of women who want stylish but undemanding clothes.

Marni would appeal to the art world for its graceful, pioneering ideas. The label’s finely pleated dresses displayed a life of their own, and its micro-printed dresses were gathered, folded and distorted to walk the line between stylish and quirky.

In contrast, the sportswear at MaxMara and Donatella Versace targeted the dynamic generation of athletic women, with sleek leggings, belted jackets, power suits and anoraks. Versace has made it clear that she thinks this is the only way forward. She may be right, but there’s always room for the myriad styles displayed at Milan Fashion Week in all our wardrobes.

It was feathers with everything at Prada. Silk pyjamas, boldly coloured and mixed checks, cardigans and wrap skirts with Velcro fasteners show Miuccia Prada reinventing the classics. Most glamorous was the series of evening dresses and pyjamas with jewelled embroidery and feathers, worn with kitten heels that married sporty straps with heaps of crystals. Prada’s must-have bag of the season is a bold clutch with a long strap fastener, that comes in a multitude of geometric and daisy patterns.

Versace

Over the past three seasons, Donatella Versace has been carving out a new image for her brand – a shift from the luxe glam of red carpets and superyachts, although the inhabitants of that world will be sure to buy into the new Versace vibe. Donatella’s girls are both glamorous and empowered. The sporty look is tough, urban and energetic, judging by the billowing ultra-thin high-tech nylon parkas and blousons, stirrup trousers and dresses (the shapes of which are manipulated by drawstrings). Dresses, skirts and tops are spliced at angles and studded together. Swishy pleated dresses and silky slit skirts gave energy when in movement, and were as soft as the look got.

Bottega Veneta

Model Gigi Hadid and veteran actress Lauren Hutton walked arm in arm down the Bottega Veneta runway, illustrating the breadth of the Italian maison in Tomas Maier’s hands. This was a double celebration of the Bottega’s 50th ­anniversary and Maier’s 15th as its creative director. Menswear and womenswear were combined, and the focus was on easy, elegant clothes in luxurious materials, such as ostrich, crocodile and lamb skin for coats; easy knits and cotton dresses worn with antique-style silver jewellery; and wedge heels. Fifteen handbag styles debuted along with 15 from the archive.

Fendi

Silvia Venturini’s new Kan handbag was a star turn at Milan. The stud-lock bag dotted with candy-coloured studs, rosette embroidery and floral ribbons couldn’t help but charm every woman in the audience. It was the perfect joyful accessory for Karl Lagerfeld’s feminine vintage romp through the wardrobe of Marie Antoinette, with sugary colours, bows, big apron skirts and crisp white embroidery juxtaposed with sporty footballer-stripe tops – effectively updating a historical look.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

Through my lungs to my heart , smoked you like a volatile joint ,
Your love proposition , holding my impotent life at gunpoint.
As you embroided my life with lacerate scars of pain and deceit,
Which I merely clothed myself hemming my love pleat by pleat .
Stripping me down you flung me like half smoked cigarette ****,
That’s when I knew you created that crater deep till my gut
                                 But life is a drama backstaged with chances,
Once again it would rain on you a downpour of judgement,
Then ill be the sky to judge with a turbulent temperament.
I want the thunder to clap in approval and gain ,
The darkness to blanket my self inflicted pain .

But again you breathe I love you into the air …and I melt my life once again before you  .. because   simply I love you.

If you're gonna be lonely,
maybe learn how to cook.

Parade the smoke to the rafters
after doubting the book.

Alert the parents in vowing the earnest
salt in the brook.

A fervent effort relays to bacon kisses you took.

Brine is cheap,
and on days like this
find a Mrs. or friend,
apply the bread crumb crisp.

Buy the egg to allure.
confide that "this might miss."
If not to them to yourself.
Try the odd light whip.

Find a guide or a dozen.
Fire doesn't necessarily deny the pleasant after math.
Passable dishes levy comfort on cold nights,
dying for treasure dancing in the lights,
and forming function digging diamond from plastic wrap.

"I could serve a candied berry
pair it fairly cold below a lighter cream."
See the finer things elaborate below the theme.
Mise en place allowing,
yolk to heat,
folk wreaths are crowning.

Found a leek to brown,
found out what friends to feed can mean

Be the barer
taste your food
silk confections
social fruit
Buck the system
Find connection
tuck the mood in
ginger root

get your list out
pay it forward
take the order
grab a whisk
make an impact
Pleat the border
break the silence
wrap a gift

I now delight
In spite
Of the might
And the right
Of classic tradition,
In writing
And reciting
Straight ahead,
Without let or omission,
Just any little rhyme
In any little time
That runs in my head;
Because, I’ve said,
My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed
Like Prussian soldiers on parade
That march,
Stiff as starch,
Foot to foot,
Boot to boot,
Blade to blade,
Button to button,
Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton.
No! No!
My rhymes must go
Turn ’ee, twist ’ee,
Twinkling, frosty,
Will-o’-the-wisp-like, misty;
Rhymes I will make
Like Keats and Blake
And Christina Rossetti,
With run and ripple and shake.
How pretty
To take
A merry little rhyme
In a jolly little time
And poke it,
And choke it,
Change it, arrange it,
Straight-lace it, deface it,
Pleat it with pleats,
Sheet it with sheets
Of empty conceits,
And chop and chew,
And hack and hew,
And weld it into a uniform stanza,
And evolve a neat,
Complacent, complete,
Academic extravaganza!

the doom puke treacle of our dim sum sundays, asunderous.
the bluff of our taurus. the trim thumb, green on the terrace
of our epiphanies; wondrous.
the crease in the pleat of our borealis. the allusive chalice
of our majesty. the dead kingdoms we relinquish to the roiling unjoy.
the thunder of our feet to the heel of a shadow. our peter pan in the fire.
our kettles black.
the opposable lovelies. the lovelies that preen jewels. the extreme youth of our gods
now at the hour of our foolishness. our funny bone. and the fracture.
the actual damage to our heaven. and the near after.
the gross bloom of our anguish
and parade.

and the bells. and the comma. and the laughter.

wearing your heart on your sleeve is a dangerous game
that only the lonely people play
and i have found, that when you smoke a pack of desire a day,
you are constantly searching for a flame.
onlookers examine all the fissures and clefts left by yesteryear's guests
the men who treated your heart like a map, riddled it with tacks,
realized it lacked a place to live in, and left.

all the antiquated philanthropists who searched for their languages in your pulse,
strands of hair in your bed, so pleased to have left their scent on the pillow
and you've begun to hold your breath
to prove to them that only you can make your heart skip a beat
and you've begun to dry clean your sheets, cold water
hanging them from the rafters of your childhood bedroom in your mother’s house
sweat it out girl, you’ve gone too far south
found yourself melting like butter in the devil’s mouth
and now you wring out the warm bodies tucked in your every pleat and crease,
letting the sun bleach away the pieces of people still surviving in me.
when you look at the sky, blink your eyes and change your rotation
so what if this society treats infrared incubation like it’s latent
I’ll rip the past from every pore, i abhor those kind of TV audiences,
the ones that are obedient and well fed
coming back to dine on the same lines each time, it's high fructose revenge
the sinister scent of stereotypes is hanging in the air
those little lies people tell when insisting that they care
about anyone outside of themselves.

and genuine kindness never really seems to come in stock
but i never **** the birds because i refuse to throw the rocks
my life is not just another kiss laced with arsenic, that
sick kind of hint about how thick my blood really is.
this is not a drama, this is not a soap opera
my life is not a novel and you are not the author
sure you’re having a hard time but you’ve been improving your posture
and it looks like he didn't know you were nitric until you dissolved a linguistic string,
and now he's realizing you bite back when attacked, and you have some surprises to bring
my new hype track for the evening is silence not seething
they didn't know; arsenic can only dilute a nitrous being
so this time, my knees will not break like the fickle figs from their stems,
sequestered in skin cells, ****** shell dropping dead
and this time I’ll find the strength to change, isn't it strange,
how you can wake up one day, and refuse to keep being misled.

and today they brought my bones to the cellar door in his chest
he didn’t mistake even an instant of no for the plump petal of yes
and he tells me, "there will always be people out there who will love even your
imperfect blisters cracking like transistors,
because when you're looking electric everyone’s listening to the frequency within ya
you were put here for a purpose, you will never be worthless.”
and this is no longer a decision; there are places you belong and places you'll fit in
where you'll flourish and gain a thicker skin
and it's about time we stopped chalking up our mistakes to bad habit.
so when i see that golden ticket i'll grab it and let life flow because see i've been told
rivers reflect train windows in the mornings till they glow, first gilded and gold,
then subtle and slow. the hope creeps in, i make the decision
to go

Round and round and round I whirl
I exist to pirouette, to twirl.

A sea of jewels at my feet shimmer,
They twinkle, glisten, shine and glimmer.

A rich array of cherished treasure,
Of value far too great to measure.

I hear the music as I turn…
The only tune I’ll ever learn.

My pose is ever full of grace,
A smile is fixed upon my face.

My hair is twisted into a perfect pleat
My ballet points laced on my feet.

My pink tutu stands out starched and straight,
As I mechanically revolve, rotate.

My spinning trajectory gently slows
My jolting pivot draws to a close.

And I’ll stand stock still until rewound
To again start swirling round and round.

The legion of mine zeal for thee
Outreaches unknown boundaries,
No barbed wire to holdeth me back
Just a ( I loveth thee to mine mami) (  to mine love)
And a ( I needeth thee now) oh papi ( from mine love)!!!!
From the one I sit on hold....
Slang we shalt speaketh as peasants
But ourn amare richer than most,
To guide her by mine allegiance
To bathe with her in comet lighting toast...
Her jazzy sensual patois
To pleat me in mine king throne bassinet,
The queen to taketh mine angst
And lie me in a dream I canst forget.
She whispers deeply secrets
As mine ears perk in excite,
Her eyes burn voluptuous through mine
She comforts me at night!!!!!
I canst never tread off
From the only familiar ***** rose,
I've toldeth thee all long ago
We were past life amour's of long beginning show.
The asteroids we used as projection
To maketh ourn way here,
Yet now the earth's ending
We must return to infinate angel years...
Ourn Chronograph's don't telleth Pace's
Only ourn soul's affection for eachother,
As a monarch of the Luna atmosphere she is
Twas I was sent here to bring her back into her home
Mine arms.....
Mine eyes
Mine mind
Mine soul
Mine spirit......

Wherein she already knoweth she belongs!!!!
As tis
She was mine
Long before she ever kneweth it..

delicate folds into endless
creases, the wrinkles
in mother's hands. asking for
more, taking
& creating new faces
when you think the last of you is gone.

& though the world may
    tuck away your
    flaws &
    pleat you into
    origami stars,
take to the earth,
uproot the trees.

stand tall as your last in-
carnation,
become the called bluff
& bloom in the space
between   sky
                   &
              ground.

                     before you hit the earth,
                     become the bird that you
                     are & perch on
                     opportunity.

this thing called distance
we got it beat
for now every instance
can not be complete
experienced bluebirds
the tuff, the pleat,
down Rues, sidewalk words  
…………………………………………
love walking with four feet

A seed found furrow in my brow
Awaiting harvest, hungers now

Through my fertile mind’s palimpsest
A vine breaks soil where memories nest

Pushing on with a writhing stem
From deep brown earth toward blue welkin

With nostalgic rays, a star unfolds
a leaf, a story, yet untold

Each bud a poem that’s yet to bloom
In flowered couplets for the moon

awaiting dawn, for petals pleat
to release a blossom’s fragrance sweet

And from one strand a spider weaves
a gossamer web on trembling leaves

to capture prey that seeks to read
Poetic verse among the weeds.

Plant and spider thus conspire
conscripting minds of like, inspired,

to sew words of thorns, that never wilt
till every bough, a bookshelf built

Raindrops descend, puddles form,
A stream engulfed, a river is born,
A course is set, the sea to reach,
Meandering ponderously to a far off beach.

The sea reclaims its myriad young,
Kidnapped by clouds, thunder-slung;
The storm is long past with calm all around;
Albatross glide, with a whisper of sound.

Seagulls circle, dogfish sleep,
Gannets dive and dolphins leap,
But black clouds return and lightning flashes
O'er storm-tossed seas, as thunder crashes.

Once more a stealthy cloud abducts infant water,
The sea's own offspring: a son ... a daughter;
The thief sets off at a wind blown pace,
The anguished mother unable to chase.

The criminal finds refuge in a partisan crowd,
A formless body in a vaporous shroud;
The cloud has no guilt, shows no remorse,
But heads inland on a predestined course.

A hill stands guard, like a customs post;
It stabs the guilty, but allows past the host;
The rogue cloud is ruptured, severed seam and pleat,
Releasing its captives and accepting defeat.

Raindrops descend, puddles form,
A stream engulfed, a river is born,
A course is set, the sea to reach,
Meandering ponderously to a far off beach ...

And I find myself seeing everything pertaining to her.
The sunset on seagreen waves reflects off the sand like her creamy white skin and ice warm eyes.
Some stranger’s smile in the park seems to glisten just as hers does when her rosy blood-drained lips spread so even.
A character from the TV screen seems to match her perfectly perfected pitch or create the same unthought delicate gesture that is more graceful than the ballerina’s pleat.
And I think maybe if I fill the utter corners of my heart and soul with these minute details of her mere existence I will become closer to her.
Closer to grasping her heart and her hand.
Closer to holding her soul and her face with mine.
But, it has occurred to me that no one person in the world can symbolize this woman.
No person in the world has her beauty and her rhythm.
And I can try all I can to be with her. Even when she is right next to me.
But, I know that I will never have her.
Because this woman cannot be had.

we've been perched on the hot seat
from this weather there's no retreat
a week of the sun pouring scorn
no wonder we're feeling so worn
day break confirms more of its beat

reprieve not coming to the pleat
air temps truly stifling of bleat
they're so draining our seared corn
we've been perched on the hot seat

summers not being a pleasant treat
consistent the burn of defeat
far too much of it did adorn
we await a cooler fall morn
to breeze in with a notice neat
we've been perched on the hot seat

There is too much
hardness in this life
too many knife-straight
utilitarian edges
offering  too little
pleasure for the eye
and no comfort for the soul

Here and there
a bit of curviness
helps with balance
--***** of chair back
pleat of drapery
a table that won't
bruise your hip
as you stumble
around in the dark.
Not much but
better than nothing.

The poet, the painter
and makers of music
have a better handle
on soft creations
that wrap themselves
around you like
wooly comforters
or crack your heart
wide open with beauty
like being impaled by
shards of broken glass.

Eileen Auger
12/30/06

To my Mom,




Folded amid the pleat of your pleading phalanx
The polished stones perspire against the liquid
Metal. Pleasing among ladies the most placid
Alas the precious possessing them does not mix,

With the muzzled and mild-mannered muted muses
Or with mischievous ones pummeling the world’s walls
Grumbling in their baleful and poisonous houses
Masters of the sapphire which in their hands falls.

And binding the blessed garland along the long line
Of your blinding blazing gorgeous blond golden hair
I thus hope it is to you a fine and a fair,

Sign of a love whose ripeness has just bloomed like wine
This gift could be detailed the echo of a dart
That is, in this sole spring repeated by my heart.

Lyon, May 23, 2014

Steady was the motion
rpm ten fifty five in emotions
let that arrow finish me
on that day in twenty sixty three

They will fly to calm me
some of the brave will try to disarm me
but they know I am from the warrior clan
when the word is said.... all hits the fan

The silent and dead will walk the streets
not one word will be uttered
as in their ruffs of silver
with every fold a pleat to many defeats

Let the swords of honor never die
let light fill my eyes
we and ready and steady and waiting to go
from the darkest days of sweet wind rain sleet and snow


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

Miller Moth

Promises were made
that dress of yours
yellow as a Miller moth
batting about the bulb
of a painted porch light
yearning on hanger
to caress a ***** of shoulder
ride a swell of hip
bell the well-turned ankle.
Pleat and dart pooled about
first one foot
then the other
rose to lip
a halting smile of neckline
assumed an aspect
of sail gathered wind
sung vows in the rigging
where I madly batted  
drawn, ensnared.