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

Disaster Preparedness Checklist**

Double-A batteries, a map out of town
A tank full of gas, a mind full of plans
A flashlight, toilet paper, a radio
A can opener and cans to go, go, go

Leather gloves and duct tape, whistles
Waterproof matches, and match-proof water
Blankies and ponchos and a change of clothes
A medical kit and a pocket knife

But

No one ever lists a box of cigars,
And a Wodehouse for reading by lamplight

Hurricane Preparedness Checklist

Double-A batteries, a map out of town
A tank full of gas, a mind full of plans
A flashlight, toilet paper, a radio
A can opener and cans to go, go, go

Leather gloves and duct tape, whistles
Waterproof matches, and match-proof water
Blankies and ponchos and changes of clothes
A medical kit and a pocket knife

But

No one ever lists a box of cigars,
And a Wodehouse for reading by lamplight

De pronto, en el silencio de la noche,
se alzó un rumor lejano y temeroso
y el camino que corre frente a casa
sonó de viento y se encrespó de ola.
Era una larga tropa de ganado,
cientos de vacas, bajo los testuces,
desgarrando la sombra con los cuernos,
midriáticas de espanto las pupilas,
deshechas con la helada las pezuñas,
dolientes de mugidos maternales.
Era una larga tropa de ganado,
flanqueada de fantásticos jinetes,
apretada a pechazos en la huella,
toda alada de gritos y de ponchos.
Mañana un hombre desde un carricoche
en el local sonoro de la feria,
al enérgico golpe de martillo
que hace al sol un relámpago de plata,
indiferente os venderá, vaquitas,
y resignadas partiréis de nuevo
tal vez hacia la muerte.

Fulge mi cigarrillo;
su luz se limpia en pólvoras de alerta.
Y a su guiño amarillo
entona un pastorcillo
el tamarindo de su sombra muerta.
Ahoga en una enérgica negrura,
el caserón entero
la mustia distinción de su blancura.
Pena un frágil aroma de aguacero.
Están todas las puertas muy ancianas,
y se hastía en su habano carcomido
una insomne piedad de mil ojeras.
Yo las dejé lozanas;
y hoy las telarañas han zurcido
hasta en el corazón de sus maderas,
coágulos de sombra oliendo a olvido.
La del camino, el día
que me miró llegar, trémula y triste,
mientras que sus dos brazos entreabría,
chilló como en un llanto de alegría.
Que en toda fibra existe
para el ojo que ama, una dormida
novia perla, una lágrima escondida.
Con no sé qué memoria secretea
mi corazón ansioso.
-Señora?... -Sí, señor; murió en la aldea;
aún la veo envueltita en su rebozo
Y la abuela amargura
de un cantar neurasténico de paria
¡oh, derrotada musa legendaria!
afila sus melódicos raudales
bajo la noche oscura:
como si abajo, abajo,
en la turbia pupila de cascajo
de abierta sepultura,
celebrando perpetuos funerales,
se quebrasen fantásticos puñales.
Llueve..., llueve... Sustancia el aguacero,
reduciéndolo a fúnebres olores,
el humor de los viejos alcanfores
que velan tahuashando en el sendero
con sus ponchos de hielo y sin sombrero.

Why I love you?
Is a thought,
I have in my mind,
From the time sun rises
To the appearance of the moon.
And I don't know why,
But then you ask about
Ponchos.
And I smile, then giggle
And, I know why
It is just meant to be.

©  Nick Strong 2014

the heat infects everything, muggy rain batter churning through murk

i close my hand and
   cut the fingers on the lip


  we left the forms on the third floor, which
is the fourth floor, really, english standard  i
  always forget that

the generator hums
  they're     doing something with the piping
     sounds like drills
        but probably isn't


we had to close up early when the vents broke and
   water gushed all over the computers, washed away the paper screens, we were
  told to vacate, but I just stand, you
                in baby blue  slacks, poke me   but i’m too busy  
staring at my bleeding hand


the envelope was addressed here but i didn’t recognize the name,
no, wait, the other; it was to someone
         i knew but
                                         not from around here, i   think


   there is much     and i

fall,  though cushion and sponge
          big eggplant river

              remember when you were eighteen months and you ran and fell into the mirror? under a deep conviction that that was how you passed through, into the image beyond? but instead you just saw it shatter, and it gashed your arm up all the way up along the metal hinge? still have the scar, right? nowadays you don't trust reflections; you're always instead looking for that jagged lip, that latent violence of the edge, it's
   probably a good attitude, really


in the mirror    shattered birds,
               break their necks on  bad design  
too pathetic for tragedy
   don’t worry, we’re all self-hating narcissists here, you’ll
feel right at home-
     chuggin  on woolf and plath
           only seek wisdom from self willed death
       it’s an indulgent bias
             but the living are all such ******* suits, man

  just, look, how
        they are speaking, now, in a row, a flat screen, projected, and words filter out. the faces are blur, the words are static,  but the form is discernible. accusations. charges. prosecute; indite. plaintiff paper wrung. burn the body and pin it to itself. axiomatized sin. society as the codification of a hatred too bored to sustain itself.  i ask for a glass of water, but the words only form wheeze through the strain. Quiet. Your turn to speak is later. i'd run away, but i'm invested now. gotta see how it ends. the screen retches on. do you recognize this letter? i ask, but the words are wheeze-


sorry, sorry, i know, even if it's all about you, i'm just carrying on about-
   yeah.
       Well!
                Then!
                          So!
   Do
           do you-
                        do you prefer to just embrace it?  wear it out, burn it all up at once?
     the repulsive husk at the end is just confirms that there was something prior, after all. death is affirmation as well as negation.
         or           do you prefer to hold it close, hide it away in dark spaces? i mean, that's fine too. a candle rarely lit never burns out. and only a few flickers are all you need for a wax seal; to drip your mark over sheathed words-

        maybe it's the smell. it was sent from my hometown, after all. the name was never important, but the winter and coal. The olfactory of old factories. sorry. i know, but i couldn't resist  
                         how we'd

we'd laugh in silence,
moths flooding through broken glass,
bodies only figured
       as sparks in orbit
     against the amber light
  always
     all too light
light light
  and colour.

weightless as paper
               a paper weight,   wait-
   thrown through a window?
no,   too
                 long ago to recall


  the post office says they'll take it back to the sender. they can retry, repeat. it'll find it's way from there. it's okay, your responsibility is over; hand it over, leave your body at the door. as long as it's still sealed; as long as the envelope's not too frayed to cut, it's still good enough to exchange. interchangeable.   i run, still clutching  

  and   they,     funnel us out,
river down the concrete stairway,
  those echoing closet tones,
to the street below,
  and stare back at the mess, they're
   putting out cones,
                       and handing out ponchos,
for the typhoon rain of summer bare


and- and that's it. so what do you do? it's not entirely rhetorical. what can you do? do you
      just
   scrawl a note, explaining yourself -everything this misplaced message became to you,- over the outside, and send it off? forcibly insert yourself into the conversation? and just, imagine, project some understanding, some insight, that they'll get from it, that you provided?
    just break the seal? you can't open it, can you? it was never meant for you. hell, what answers would be found there, in words for another?
  but   perhaps-
    perhaps   there are secret codes; messages, not in the words themselves, or the letters, but only to be found and understood by the eavesdropper, the guilty. that outside, absent third party, on the boundary of it all; just gazing in, standing there, speechless, beyond the mirrors glare

    
      but that's just fantasy

It was noon, sometime in mid-July;
Imagine the road, a twisting highway to my grave.
The bus, a roller coaster ride unhinged from the tracks.
Dodging missiles with headlights, horns rattling my nerves.
Just another three hours.

It was midnight, somewhere out at sea,
Somewhere in the universe, the Milky Way, another galaxy.
A shallow heartbeat, a distant echo of a Chinese Karaoke show, but all else was still.
The stars never seemed so vast, and I remembered that they were bigger than me,
I was just a speck.

It rained on the way back to ** Chi Minh,
The roads turned to rivers, the scooters grew ponchos; under them a family of three.
The city brought chaos; sad, tired faces, begging for one thousand ****; a cent.
The children danced in the downpour, jumping over sticks
Like hopscotch.

I thought of Ha Long Bay, just the night before,
I couldn’t hear the silence; I couldn’t see the stars; a dingy hostel ceiling, grumbling strangers snores.
I went to sleep dreaming of peaceful valleys, fresh spring waters, trees as far as the eye could see,
For tomorrow was a new day,
The next part of my journey.

Hare Krishna's
In their Pickups
Depressed Comics
Down on their Luck
Teenage Girls
Screaming Meme's
****** *****'s
Leftward Leaning
Vincent Price
Flo and Eddie
Rodger Rabbit
Priscilla Presley
Nuns in Habits
Dwarf's in Ponchos
Deadbeat Dads
Munching Nachos
Right-Wing Nut Jobs
Trading Slogans
A few Hero's
Including Hogan

Are just a few of the sights you see
At the front gates of Graceland
Memphis, Tennessee

Buddhist Monks
With Electric Banjos
Holding Signs Up
Of Marlon Brando
Taxi Cabs
Blaring Show Tunes
Pregnant Women
Down-loading Soon
Derby Jockeys
Flying Monkeys
Kool-Aidholics
Skittle Junkies
Bozo The Clown
Bumper Stickers
Psychedelic
Crazed Toad Lickers
Rhinestone Cowboys
In their Skivvies
Gothic Girls
Heebie Jeebies

Are just a few of the sights you see
At the front gates of Graceland
Memphis, Tennessee

Blue Haired Granny's
In pink Moo Moos
Ballerina's In
Tattered Tutus
Mathematician's
Number Crunchers
Even have Some
Out to Lunchers
Model 50's
Do *** Daddies
One More Round Of
Flo and Eddie
People Sneaking
Across the Border
Lonely Fry Cooks
Taking Orders
A Few Wannabes
Not Saying Much
Will The Real Elvis
Please Stand Up

Are just a few of the sights that you see
At the front gates of Graceland
Memphis, Tennessee

Thank you...Thank you very Much

Ladies and Gentlemen
Elvis...Has Left The Building

To begin to end a line not finished: I want you happy not sad to be.

River

The kitten is small painting near, it had many days to await,

  Our a real painting, it is a man woman man relationship us and thank you.

      & White & White & Black & whitening greyhound does that did

Room

Held back a bed to view waiting room I love you. I need that girl less and less each day. I need my family less and less each day.

I need that woman more than I need my family I don’t want mustard on my hotdog what’s after two?

Hmm, three that was a turn table as we were leaving our house more like to be able to afford it and it will cost you money for your own payment of course I do of course you don’t know that why would I expect you to understand? Will you still love me?

If a nice affordable apartment loves dog friendly can’t she love dogs friendly in the next 5 years? Hmm we’re possible that would down time and less more more need less.

I love the turn table like if cassette deck, had a lot of knobs me you to determine.

I want my peace back baby I just want you so much I won’t have you, yours ohh “yours” I get it they’re charms it’s not community they’re charms dumbo I love she and she she I love she

Blurrr

It would take a while to figure out how to work it.

Like it’s thinking at least you are beautiful and young not young and beautiful movie and the love of you guys all day good night hope all you good with the day love, yours.

She has long hair and is thin, doesn’t mind my interests and will leave and no longer certainly will leave or definedly will leave or definitely will leave, she will leave and that makes it all the way better, sorry about your car accident and I hope you because I know you will improve your bank accounts too ambitious no name for more than five years at least it sounds good, we don’t steal that’s not right to see that a book award plaque was stolen,

In The Library

I got it: Hunter S Thompson painted the house, hmmmmm,

The interior walls are sound proof and healthy,

The walls of her house are dark brown and are rich and flavorful. They remind me of coffee.

I want you that way and actually I am big enough and am capable and yes, you are right this will not happen.

That way: I only want them that way

The Beach

Okay, I found several diamond shaped pieces and waited for eternity in parks I wore a white shirt which reminded me of a neon light bulb. It’s okay it’s not your light bulb. It’s your light bulb.

-

A Mountainous Future

Somewhere in San Antonio sit three mice dressed in Spanish dresses and ponchos,

Rights, we care for your small RV for another and yes your career is important and surprising and that what we want, we want something surprising and new and have not been able to find that, I have 10 friends on Hello Poetry.

Yes, we know the definition of socialism.
The another city was hot in that month and  less broadly defined less than it was in Fiji like we were in the other day/way or in Argentina like we were in the other day/way and which both we value and are nice and reminded us of waterfalls in one way or another.

In the way we were directly pouring universities and colleges

There are tables near the beach and you don’t care about gender norms just want the best for me too, I want the best for you too knowing something will not happen, let’s make something happen, whatever.

Without her valor we in water ripple of memories of old friends like an was image of time zone and arrived at our third trashcan yes you didn’t count yes I counted that’s a benefit we are all different you don’t have to use his voice and can insert here that you don’t have to use he voice but if you want something you could because like his job description and the concept of his as a catalyst is in the microwave not on the microwave. One of the other screens which yes, in fact, we did paint I know you understand and sheets with yellow stripes, a whole families that are really only like a single man who on the ground in a red sweater surrounded by fifth said hey, I’ve got to clean this up but I’m growing old of Thai food I want to cry writing that I’m growing old of Thai food, what’s a new city?

It’s a citywide call to do better - I do better all the time citywide call to do better. You’re such a little boy and sure, in the one new city mentioned in our apartment we spoke about recently and agreed on that I do actually care for your heath and I do not like them or think their nice, I guess the bigger big

At least I think you are gorgeous.

I want to be thin.

I want you to be my girlfriend.

I want a house.

I’ve honestly had enough coffee and beer to last a lifetime, I just get headaches. It’s actually not that bad when than singular way perspective is what I want a girlfriend in another state, in another country, on another continent.

Just then the University of Southern California emailed me and yes I have talked to them and if your experience is college is anything like my experience at one college where I spent two years then I may not might I may know more than you.

I came to mind from you, independent
and a visual of an Indian woman on the painted screen this is how it is painted, who considered working for a nonprofit to educate primary school aged children in India came to your mind and I was down on you while looking at a piece of plastic like Benjamin Franklin’s a horse, this is the will happen in my imagination because it won’t happen, but to me, this is the way it would happen, it won’t happen.

I’m upset that I haven’t met her yet but I hope we will be happy, unmarried, let’s talk about how it will happen so we can get married and then both both smile, not dumb smile, smile, not dumb smile, smile. Woah, privacy.  

We woke and thought about what to eat: the microwave.

The stove is nice. I am quiet, smart, and determined and you want me so I hit the switch on the wall hurt after thinking man, I get to walk to the light socket thinking that I know you want me I know you want me.

I’m the queen bee in the store lost for my money. He’s not that tall, is he and yes I can pay.

Fine, you’re was handsome, got it? I’m better now.

I don't like football though and at 22 I saw my shadow on the way home from the university and I saw just that, my shadow I had gotten a haircut and was probably writing emails and reading so I was reading and writing emails. This is the way. This is the way. This is the way. How much do you weigh? My mother doesn’t care how much she weights and how she doesn’t wright herself my mother doesn’t care about how much I weigh or how I don’t weigh myself. This is life defined. I want better for myself. I need to go home to quickly make it right quick. My mom is here.  

back in the mirror, see our shadows and pass a muslim woman, the mountains were large, we went to a movie and took him home to his pink house. Plus or minus it’s plus or minus only please be a pink house and will hold my arms out when I can’t afford them?

  ironic before me that’s present,
    asking myself how the white clouds          which reflect the
green grass could juxtapose my middle-class house.

Your shoes were Asiscs - the expensive kinds and our malls are mysterious, I think I should share with you, though it’s better if I know you and share with you then after discussion such that we were young and left the better for a three story building in Miami, but I enjoyed it. It’s cool. The people in San Francisco were nice but I remember playing guitar in a corner by myself and it’s that that I want to change.

I stayed in a hostel and the flowers in the hostel were so beautiful I took a picture on the third floor of them when I arrived to the third floor.

The front desk male licked his lips.

                                  why did he lick his lips? I was enamored by the magazines
offered by the U.S. mailbox and HEB produce and I do not have a sad face mother why can't you see?

“In the backseat is a
mountain less window
with pictures
on the wall
and chairs
I sit on, books to my right, camera, reefs above chimney, and tons of token stuffs, from all the places we've
visited.

Outside the wind finally blows.

Months passed windowless park.

Little homes made of puzzles and angels.

Be silent yellow-legged hippie, sandals on beach, yellow book of pianos. I thought we were modern? Wrapped in blankets, blondes, unshaven with my wrist watch on John Cage says he's frightened by old ideas so we push forward.

You an artist damp sheet synapse connecting me to old bird houses and streets canary to birthday parties basically participation.

We walked together to the theme park roller coaster and saw sandy rocks and tumbleweed. There was a home theater made by blue collar workers from Mexico who came to America and were loveless so we decided to take a plane to Fiji again after talking about it.

The plastic on the trees because there’s plastic on the trees and it’s someone’s job to know the right way to do things basically basically bad snakes under rocks, loud sound of Darfur!

We were models with beers cans on the walls, shelves, broken light fixtures, paintings of two, empty baskets, bar stools, doorways to our room.

An interlude! I hear it and see it. I can see it.

My sister eating cake, I swear!

It's a cubist painting! Beethoven is playing. So, A cubist painting!! Look at the geometry on the walls, it’s kind of so complex like that song. We’re too different. The end. Our tools were our background, the sky was empty, it needed more color I said walking through the university, "I need a big gallon of water and a lot of money."

“Can you protect me?"

I certainly can't - I can’t I cannot.

Are we ignorant or is Argentina *****?

The dirt on the ground, flag blue and white,
the walls that border the sheet lights
white wedding gowns, candles lit to a
blessed Mars, every scene is an image
of you can you please shut up? Come here, dummy, I’m dumb and going somewhere.

I only speak in Allen Ginsberg’s voice and you can and will write essays about each scene!

Beautiful women standing outside red building with slightly open windows in Arizona.

A medium sized Neil Postman - the message is you! You’re that beautiful.

The fire sits behind the phone booth.

An old lady in a grey sweater: “why would you take me here?"

(My apartment)
This is all my apartment lets arrange it.

The pintails in Austin are purple and hot somewhere else this too is old like the space is a colorless skyrocket in bright blue skies I want to marry you I want to marry you. For you, something inexpensive and sea bass and definitely decide sea, got it?

What I’m trying to say is that vial is not vale and that is very sad and makes me very upset that my promise made to you to fold the sheets will take that much longer

Oh, you are strong. This entire piece of prose is messed up and not the singular yes that singular unpublished unplural: Oh, you are strong. This is the way onto development developing devices righttt so start development want more synonyms? This entire piece of prose is sad, there entire piece of prose and so can you. Hi, you are strong enough to make good decisions and trust yourself and collaborate physically and expect thanks for the voices, you are strong and safe and have a community if you need them, you are it and I will gladly take your call and make you feel stronger if I have time,

Fountains fly skyward,
Splattering the boxy hedges,
Impeccably cut,
That line the paths.
Villa d’Este overflows
With sculpted beauty,
Elegant and crumbling.

The infrastructure does not hold.
Static masks bereft of water
Spew blank, dry stares.
Multi-breasted statues
Nourish the grounds
With milk.

Still, we carry on under
Neptune’s ghost.
Gods flourish here.
Inside the villa, Hercules
Performs his 12 feats
Of strength, painted in
Blazing frescoes on
The towering ceiling.
He kills a bear
With his bare hands. Superhuman
power that made him a god.

Another room, more frescoes:
Noah frowns; the 40-day
Flood swirls and surges,
Reeling off course.
He tames the elephants,
Rather than wrestle them
To the ground.

He lay naked and drunk
Before his children in a
Shower of shame.
Facing a lion’s maw
Would have fared better
for him.

Nature unleashes its own
Fountain onto the gardens.
Water spreads everywhere.
Tourists jostle in ponchos.
Lanes empty; the sky darkens.

Irises bloom like Eden:
Deep purple.
Strolling past the hedges,
We are washed clean
By the rain.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                              Memorial Day: This ****** Field

                   That we may wander o’er this ****** field
                   To book our dead, and then to bury them

                                     -Henry V, IV.vii.75-76

Some say this day began
                    As a memorial to the Confederate dead
Some say this day began
                    As a memorial to the Union dead
We only know that now it is a memorial for those
Who died for causes far beyond themselves

The glory of our soldiers is in the orphans they fed
The huts they helped repair, the ponchos they gave
To the shivering cold, reassurance to the terrified
Poor comforts to the bombed-out and the dying

The glory of our soldiers
Is not in some strident Man of Destiny
Bellowing fancy words from a prompter screen
But in hungry men who gave their C-rats away

Before they died in some ****** ****** ditch

In their honor, then

Let us quietly work in causes beyond ourselves
And risk being made into sacraments

The pinatera in Austin
colorless skyrockets in bright blues
A promise made to fold the sheets

The fire sits behind the phone booth
An old lady in a grey sweater
"why would you take me here?"
(My apartment)

Are we ignorant or is Argentina *****?
The dirt on the ground, flag-blue and white
the walls that border the sheet lights
white wedding gowns, candles lit to my
blessed Mars, every scene is an image
of death I tell you in Allen's voice! I
could write essays about each scene! Poor
woman standing outside red building with a
slightly open window in Argentina. A medium
to Neil Postman - the message is you!

Be silent yellowlegs hippie sandals on beach yellow book
of pianos. I thought we were modern? Wrapped in blankets, blondes,
unshaven with my wrist watch on John Cage says he's frightened by old ideas so we push the envelope forward. You an artist damp sheet synapse connecting me to millionaires. Old bird houses and streets canary to birthday parties. We walked alone in the desert, sandy rocks and tumbleweed - a home theater - from Mexico to America. We were loveless so we decided to take a plane to Fiji. The plastic on the trees, snakes under rocks, loud sound of Darfur! We were models with beers cans on the walls, shelves, broken light fixtures, paintings for two, empty baskets, bar stools, doorways to the room. An interlude! My sister eating cake, I swear! It's a cubist painting! A cubist painting! Look at the geometry on the walls - so complex/ Our tools were our background, the sky was empty, it needed more color I said walking through the university, "I need a big gallon of water and a lot of money." "Can you protect me?" I certainly can't - I laughed.

Downtown in San Antonio
sat three blind mice
dressed
in ponchos and Spanish dresses
Black rights you say? We
took a small RV to another
city, it was hot, less though than
it was in Argentina. Fiji was
nice and had waterfalls, there were
tables near the beach. With valor we
uncrippled the image of time and arrived
at a trashcan painted with a yellow stripe.
Whole families - really only a single boy on
the ground in a red sweater surrounded by
filth - saying do better - I do! Little boy
I do care for your heath. He was gorgeous.
She sat down looking at a piece of plastic
- a horse - and we smiled. We wake and focused
on the microwave. The stove was nice. I was loud.
The switch on the wall hurt. The Queen Bee in the
store lost my money. He was tall. She was handsome.
I don't like Burroughs. At 44 I never grew up.

We looked back in the mirror - saw ourselves
And passed a muslim woman - the mountains were large
In another movie he died so in this poem he'll be pink
and will hold his arms out to men - ironic before me
asking myself how the white clouds which reflect the
green grass could juxtapose my middle-class house.
Your shoes were Asiscs - the expensive malls were mysterious.
We were young and left the better for a three story
building in Miami - but I enjoyed it. The people in
San Francisco weren't nice, but I remember playing guitar
in a corner by myself. The hostel and the flowers, I took a
picture on the third floor when I arrived. And David
why did he lick his lips? I was enamored by the magazines
offered by the U.S. mailbox - HEB produce - my sad face -
mother why can't you see? "In the backseat" is a
mountain less window with pictures on the wall and chairs I
sit on, books to my right, camera in front, reefs above
the chimney, and tons of tokens, from all the places we've
visited. Outside the wind blows. Months passed windowless parks.
Little homes made of puzzles and angels.

Downtown in San Antonio
sat three blind mice
dressed
in ponchos and Spanish dresses
Black rights you say? We
took a small RV to another
city, it was hot, less though than
it was in Argentina. Fiji was
nice and had waterfalls, there were
tables near the beach. With valor we
uncrippled the image of time and arrived
at a trashcan painted with a yellow stripe.
Whole families - really only a single boy on
the ground in a red sweater surrounded by
filth - saying do better - I do! Little boy
I do care for your heath. He was gorgeous.
She sat down looking at a piece of plastic
- a horse - and we smiled. We wake and focused
on the microwave. The stove was nice. I was loud.
The switch on the wall hurt. The Queen Bee in the
store lost my money. He was tall. She was handsome.
I don't like Burroughs. At 44 I never grew up.

We looked back in the mirror - saw ourselves
And passed a muslim woman - the mountains were large
In another movie he died so in this poem he'll be pink
and will hold his arms out to men - ironic before me
asking myself how the white clouds which reflect the
green grass could juxtapose my middle-class house.
Your shoes were Asiscs - the expensive malls were mysterious.
We were young and left the better for a three story
building in Miami - but I enjoyed it. The people in
San Francisco weren't nice, but I remember playing guitar
in a corner by myself. The hostel and the flowers, I took a
picture on the third floor when I arrived. And David
why did he lick his lips? I was enamored by the magazines
offered by the U.S. mailbox - HEB produce - my sad face -
mother why can't you see? "In the backseat" is a
mountain less window with pictures on the wall and chairs I
sit on, books to my right, camera in front, reefs above
the chimney, and tons of tokens, from all the places we've
visited. Outside the wind blows. Months passed windowless parks.
Little homes made of puzzles and angels.

Be silent yellow-legged hippie, sandals on beach, yellow book
of pianos. I thought we were modern? Wrapped in blankets, blondes,
unshaven with my wrist watch on John Cage says he's frightened by old ideas so we push the envelope forward. You an artist damp sheet synapse connecting me to millionaires. Old bird houses and streets canary to birthday parties. We walked alone in the desert, sandy rocks and tumbleweed - a home theater - from Mexico to America. We were loveless so we decided to take a plane to Fiji. The plastic on the trees, snakes under rocks, loud sound of Darfur! We were models with beers cans on the walls, shelves, broken light fixtures, paintings for two, empty baskets, bar stools, doorways to the room. An interlude! My sister eating cake, I swear! It's a cubist painting! A cubist painting! Look at the geometry on the walls - so complex. Our tools were our background, the sky was empty, it needed more color I said walking through the university, "I need a big gallon of water and a lot of money." "Can you protect me?" I certainly can't - I laughed.

Are we ignorant or is Argentina *****?
The dirt on the ground, flag-blue and white,
the walls that border the sheet lights
white wedding gowns, candles lit to my
blessed Mars, every scene is an image
of death I tell you in Allen's voice! I
could write essays about each scene! Poor
woman standing outside red building with a
slightly open window in Argentina. A medium
to Neil Postman - the message is you!

The fire sits behind the phone booth.
An old lady in a grey sweater
"why would you take me here?"
(My apartment)

The pinatera in Austin,
colorless skyrockets in bright blues
A promise made to fold the sheets.

Downtown in San Antonio
sat three blind mice
dressed
in ponchos and Spanish dresses
Black rights periods. We
take an RV to another
city, it is hot, it is terribly hot and not NOT small, I am being mean, rude, and sarcastic I want more and less is what you gave me. It costs 250 dollars more. I should be at actually Harvard University I am happy those ends of sentences. Less though than
in Argentina.

Fiji was nice and had waterfalls, there were
tables near the beach. I once knew him too. What do you want? You decide? They’re on Facebook, there. Okay so now the rest of this sentence isn’t needed.

Here, let me continue:

- With valor we
uncrippled the image of time and arrived
at a trashcan painted with a yellow stripe.
Whole families - really only a single boy on
the ground in a red sweater surrounded by
filth - saying do better - I do! Little boy
I do care for your heath. He was gorgeous.
She sat down looking at a piece of plastic
- a horse - and we smiled. We woke and focused
on the microwave. The stove was nice. I was loud.
The switch on the wall hurt. The Queen Bee in the
store lost my money. He was tall. She was handsome.
I don't like Burroughs. At 44 I never grew up.

We looked back in the mirror - saw ourselves
And passed a muslim woman - the mountains were large
In another movie he died so in this poem he'll be pink
and will hold his arms out to men - ironic before me
asking myself how the white clouds which reflect the
green grass could juxtapose my middle-class house.
Your shoes were Asiscs - the expensive malls were mysterious.
We were young and left the better for a three story
building in Miami - but I enjoyed it. The people in
San Francisco weren't nice, but I remember playing guitar
in a corner by myself. The hostel and the flowers, I took a
picture on the third floor when I arrived. And David
why did he lick his lips? I was enamored by the magazines
offered by the U.S. mailbox - HEB produce - my sad face -
mother why can't you see? "In the backseat" is a
mountain less window with pictures on the wall and chairs I
sit on, books to my right, camera in front, reefs above
the chimney, and tons of tokens, from all the places we've
visited. Outside the wind blows. Months passed windowless parks.
Little homes made of puzzles and angels.

Be silent yellow-legged hippie, sandals on beach, yellow book
of pianos. I thought we were modern? Wrapped in blankets, blondes,
unshaven with my wrist watch on John Cage says he's frightened by old ideas so we push the envelope forward. You an artist damp sheet synapse connecting me to millionaires. Old bird houses and streets canary to birthday parties. We walked alone in the desert, sandy rocks and tumbleweed - a home theater - from Mexico to America. We were loveless so we decided to take a plane to Fiji. The plastic on the trees, snakes under rocks, loud sound of Darfur! We were models with beers cans on the walls, shelves, broken light fixtures, paintings of two, empty baskets, bar stools, doorways to our room. An interlude! My sister eating cake, I swear! It's a cubist painting! A cubist painting! Look at the geometry on the walls - so complex. Our tools were our background, the sky was empty, it needed more color I said walking through the university, "I need a big gallon of water and a lot of money." "Can you protect me?" I certainly can't - I laughed.

Are we ignorant or is Argentina *****?
The dirt on the ground, flag-blue and white,
the walls that border the sheet lights
white wedding gowns, candles lit to my
blessed Mars, every scene is an image
of death I tell you in Allen's voice! I
could write essays about each scene! Poor
woman standing outside red building with a
slightly open window in Argentina. A medium
to Neil Postman - the message is you!

The fire sits behind the phone booth.
An old lady in a grey sweater
"why would you take me here?"
(My apartment)

The pinatera in Austin,
colorless skyrockets in bright blues
A promise made to fold the sheets. . . . .

I don't know where to start
my heart
feels dark
I've lost my spark
I feel so down
the waves are crashing around
and I just wanna drown
dreading the sound
of the words were gonna
have to utter
to each other
I guess I gotta say
goodbye for now
and hope that some how
I make it back to ur arms
where's the alarms
it feels like  the world is ending
and everyone around is pretending
that it's ok
do you feel like that or is it just me
I don't wanna move on
I don't wanna let go
I got nothing left but to
let you know
that I'm here and I'll try
that I won't drown and die
that I'll breathe I'll survive
I'll still wait for that text
it could be tomorrow it
could be next
year and I'll be here
your rap guy
filling the notebook with his thoughts I
don't wanna say goodbye
so I guess it's goodbye for now
hoping that some how
you don't forget me
I beg
I remember you said
Sometimes it last in love but sometimes it hurts instead
and this ******* hurts but why can't it last
why can't it just be Dave and Ash
why can't we talk and
fix our issues
gonna have to spend my check on boxes of tissues
instead of things for you
why can't we just get through
the storm babe I'd buy the umbrella
and ponchos this fella
came prepared for hell er high water
tornados and monsoons
can't we just go back to Cole's and eat some macaroons
and sit on the porch
where my heart starting beating
can we start over
without repeating
the ******* I'm sorry
but I don't wanna say goodbye
not even just for now
not even for a second
I wanna grow this love story
till they speak of the legend
you said your burning so let me  burn with you
I'll walk through the flames
yeah your boy is on fire
on some Creed **** cause you take me higher
let's go back to those places
the parking lot
and that bench
that pool in the woods let's
swing for the fence
let's go into overtime
and hit a homer
your the owner
of this heart that this
bag of bones carries
I love you in a really really big
pretend to like your taste in music
let you eat the last piece of cheesecake
hold a radio over my head outside your window
unfortunate way that makes me hate you love you
so pick me choose me love me
I wanna be your person
so we can be perfectly imperfect
together
but I guess it's goodbye for now
hoping that some how
you don't forget me
I beg
I remember you said
Sometimes it last in love but sometimes it hurts instead