“We’re cleared for takeoff,” the pilot announced, “settle in, our flight time to Atlanta will be 9 hours.”

The Gulfstream roared down the runway and in a moment the tops of trees flashed by. We climbed quickly, and banked. Paris dwindled, the Seine became a string of blue, the world a patchwork of colors before we punched through a layer of hair-like cirrus clouds.

My roommates and friends were all a-chatter as we lined up on the runway but as we ascended, they grew quiet.

Thoughts of Peter ran through me and gripped me like a serpent. The last time I saw him he was dressed in a summer outfit I bought him - a short-sleeve, pale-pastel-plaid seersucker shirt, kentucky-derby breaker shorts, pop color flip flops and a straw fedora. His sweet-face was all grin, he looked like a deck gillespie. Meow.

When I think about Peter, my skin tickles, my pulse accelerates, I’m confuddled. I think about the disturbance that moved through the air between us when we met. We were strangers, but a magnetic flux seemed to roll off him and break against me.

I didn’t let it show. I drew in, looked away and became quiet. What else could I do? Later, when I described it to Sunny, our meeting seemed like nothing. When I described it to Lisa, it sounded like too much.

Of course, my choices must be consistent with my ambitions, but I want Peter to come to Athens, so badly. He was a human placebo, for me, in otherwise stressful times. Now I want to be with him without school pressures - to see what that’s like - and get closer, a lot closer.

I don’t want commitment, but I’m saturated with desire. All I want is a fun July or August - with him. I seldom reveal the businesslike hardness I have buried inside. I want this and I’m ready for derp.

Peter worries - about money, about gender roles, social positions and what’s apposite. I don’t care about any of that. I want to give him a free month, like an amazing gift. He’s so male, so deceptively complicated, fragile and intoxicating.

I really need to think about this, and work it out - HA! - like I can think of anything else.

The Little Black Dress


The concrete city summer-heat will beat
most men into a state of distraction,
confess their sins w/o waiting for Miranda,
to warn them of their foolhardiness,
to warn them that silence is golden.

Some men will torch, not touch,
themselves to gain relief from city street heat,
Their loosened ties look like used nooses,
that have done some good hanging.

but not you babe, not you.

Sleeveless,
your shape shifts
effortlessly within,
a cool container,
your black sheath,
and what's underneath,
a knife in the heart of
most mortal, immoral men.

Black is the color of choice,
of les femmes fatales,
in the summertime, when we drink,
on rooftops, in search of a breeze,
and the lassies order silly drinks
with silly names, looking refreshing and
fetching, in their little black dresses.

Manhattan, my beloved, misshapen,
fingerling of an island-city-fortress-playground,
named such by the Algonquins,
the original poets-in-residence.

In a city of stone and brick
gets so **** miserable hot,
Good Humor melts instantaneously,
and the toasted almonds taste fried,
the papers report of Poets suffocating,
unable to exhale their own fiery breath!

But not you babe, not you,
in your Little Black Dress,
you suggest all is well with world,
perhaps I should try one as well

We fight the temp rising with
white linen, white shoes,
straw and seersucker,
not you babe, not you.

Black silk that rustles,
Black silk that mocks the sun,
Stirring up rustling in faint-hearted men,
observing your languid promenade across 57th Street,
we the idiots, panting, tongues extended,
standing still like Frozfruit bars,
cry out in unison, I have been released!

Contradictory miracles still occur,
disbelieve me if you want,
from June to August,
this isle ruled, by tan goddesses
in a uniform of a Little Black Dress.

May 28, 2013

ONCE UPON A TIME, men’s style in Los Angeles was laughable. Think loud, logo-driven and larded-up with more skulls than a pirate cruise. Remember the jeans with back-pocket stitching visible from a block away? What about the faux-vintage concert T-shirts? The flaming eyeball Von Dutch trucker caps? I’m sure Ashton Kutcher wishes he could forget.

But the cheesy L.A. of the mid-aughts—when paparazzi swarmed West Hollywood store Kitson and Mr. Kutcher hosted “Punk'd”—is a thing of the past. Kitson will close its doors forever this week, Mr. Kutcher is now a budding tech mogul and the city’s fashion scene is associated less with Ed Hardy and more with Saint Laurent creative director Hedi Slimane, who maintains his design studio in L.A. instead of at the brand’s Paris headquarters. In fact, Mr. Slimane recently announced he will show his fall 2016 men’s collection (and part of the women’s range) at the Hollywood Palladium on February 10instead of in the French capital.

Is that enough to position Los Angeles as a style capital—strong enough to contend with Paris or London? A confluence of factors has given that idea momentum. Factor one: L.A. is attracting creative talent in design and retail thanks to relatively affordable real estate and low operating costs. Factor two: As high-end menswear has moved away from formality, a “creative casual” wardrobe has become more vital than a suit and tie to the working lives of many men all over the country. Not seeming so far-fetched anymore, is it?

Certainly, a number of stylish and influential guys have embraced the notion. “For a long time, Manhattan was the epicenter of all creative thought, but now I feel like that’s changed,” said Josh Peskowitz, the former men’s fashion director of Bloomingdale’s, who settled on L.A. for his first independent retail venture, a 1,500-square-foot men’s specialty store called Magasin, opening Feb. 20.

Mr. Peskowitz said he’s seen the city evolve beyond a metropolis driven by one or two industries: “Entertainment and music are still important, but now there’s also tech, art, clothing design and all the creative services that go along with Silicon Beach.”

And he’s hoping to outfit a good portion of that population in a refined but casual wardrobe of unstructured seersucker Camoshita suits, garment-dyed polos fromMassimo Alba, cashmere T-shirts from Naadam and handmade slipper-like leather shoes by Feit. “It’s for people who need to look like they are put-together and mean business but don’t want to wear a coat and tie,” he said of his store’s offerings. “It’s clothing that expresses personality but is still business- adjacent. There’s a big market for that.”

Even men who still wear a suit to work every day can benefit in their off-duty hours from the well-executed fare, elevated via fit and fabric, that L.A.-based labels such as Greg Lauren, Apolis, Aether and John Elliott sell in the city, in stores worldwide and on e-commerce sites.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth

www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

after a dyed fabric has dried, it may be kept as is,
or treated with a substance bath to alter its appearance.
when treated with tannins, dyed fabric fades.
the industry jargon for this is "saddening";
dulling it, diluting its color till only
a muted, polyphenolic echo remains.
such is to sadden fabric.

and such is how i felt:
plunged into scalding water, adulterated
by the bitter tincture of your amnesiatic neglect.
clench me by the collar of the button-up i wore just for you,
encircle my hollow torso with your corrosive hands
(i starved just for you, almost-lover),
no holds barred, and keep me down under until
i am steeped tasteless, bled of everything that
makes me sing cerulean and cry pewter,
rejoice goldenrod and pen indigo...

and i will be stained the hue of your rapture.
would you love me then, almost-lover?

i want you to (please / don't / touch) me—
to strip me and admire my figure in your myopic vision,
without restraint, because **** makes my heart ache
and this is so much better, is it not? (is it really?)
i want my neck bruised by your vigor,
and collarbone perforated by your teeth;
my tongue will set time to this sordid minuet
of thrice-bitten lips over four spindly limbs
that are unsure of what to do with themselves.

it's these nights i need you more than ever,
almost-lover, when the hospital folds and
seersucker duvet covers of homes away from home
seem to, suffocate, ensnare, cremate
my perspiration-slicked figure whole,
contorted and aching from cold,
in romantic heat death embrace;

in the shades of the gloaming, i sundown,
sometimes with lust but always
with adoration,
with exaltation,
with deification;
laying what feeble oblations have i
on the altar of my old testament god,
who grips indulgence in his left palm
alongside pain.
i am tired but tired never wins.

the harvest comes late and the punishment
is his wrath, my deathless death by his hands,
and in those tainted waters
he could baptize me again and again,
**** me over and over,
till every orifice is inundated with
everything i (never) wanted.

as i force myself to stare at those bare,
writhing bodies for hours, those hours when
carnal leisure so often accompanies vice,
my scratchy, woolen throat abrades at my voice
and i want to retch with each inhale.
as the torpid tide pools of saliva
lap against my cheeks,
an overwhelming sense
of nausea consumes me.
i take these sensations
silently as they come,
moment by moment,
patiently enduring this
migraine of the heart.

i’ll *** for you any night, almost-lover,
if it makes you happy:
my god is just as he is cruel.
sadden me till my epiclesis,
my prayers for intimacy,
are duly answered either with
flesh or scraps of providence
(devout as i am, i will never complain
or be in want of more than i am permitted).

forget the sins i have yet to commit.
forget the sins i am too scared to confess.
forgive them, because i am your
most esteemed worshipper,
a singular boy of faith
in your hell of babylon.

dear god, if i cannot have your love,
i...
will feast on your body in its stead,
taking unholy communion from unclean lips,
in the futile hope of mollifying
the abyss i carved out within.

death comes in many flavors, almost-lover,
but none so decadent as this.