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judy smith Apr 2017
So you know you’re looking at two very different styles of dress, here. But precisely what decades? When did that waistline move back down? What details are the defining touches of their era? How long were women actually walking around with bustles on their backsides?

Lydia Edwards’s How to Read a Dress is a detailed, practical, and totally beautiful guide to the history of this particular form of clothing from the 16th to the 20th centuries. It tracks the small changes that pile up over time, gradually ******* until your great-grandmother’s closet looks wildly different than your own. As always, fashion makes for a compelling angle on history—paging through you can see the shifting fortunes of women in the Western world as reflected in the way they got dressed every morning.

Of course, it’ll also ensure that the next lackadaisically costumed period piece you watch gives you agita, but all knowledge has a price.

I spoke to Edwards about how exactly we go about resurrecting the history of an item that’s was typically worn until it fell apart and then recycled for scraps; our conversation has been lightly trimmed and edited for clarity.

The title of the book is How to Read a Dress. What do you mean by “reading” a dress?

Basically what I mean is, when you are looking at a dress in an exhibition or a TV show, reading it in terms of working out where the inspirations or where certain design choices come from. Being able to look at it and recognize key elements. Being able to look at the bodice and say, Oh, the shape of that is 1850s, and the design relates to this part of history, and the patterning comes from here. It’s looking at the dress as an object from the top down and being able to recognize different elements—different historical elements, different design elements, different artistic elements. “Read” is probably the best word to use for that kind of approach, if that makes sense.

It must send you around the bend a little bit, watching costume adaptations where they’re a bit slapdash. The one I think of is the Keira Knightley Pride and Prejudice, which I actually really enjoy, but I know that one’s supposed to have all over the place costuming-wise.

Yeah, it does. I mean, I love the BBC Pride and Prejudice one, because they kept very specifically to a particular era. But I can see what they did with the Keira Knightley one—they were trying to keep it 1790s, when the book was written, as opposed to when it was published. But they’ve got a lot of kind of modern influences in there and they’ve got a lot of influences from 30, 40 years previously, which is interesting to an audience and gives an audience I suppose more frames of reference, more areas to think about and look at. So I can see why they did that. But it does make it more difficult if you’re trying to accurately decode a garment. It’s harder when you’ve got lots of different eras going on there, but it makes it beautiful and interesting for an audience.

The guide spans the 16th to the 20th century. Why start with the 16th century?

Well, partly because it’s where my own interest starts, in terms of my research and the areas I’ve looked at. But more importantly in terms of audience interest, we get a lot of TV shows, a lot of films in recent years—things like The Tudors—that type of era seems to be something that people are interested in. That time is very colorful and very interesting to people.

And also because in terms of thinking about the dress as garment, obviously people wore dresses in medieval times, but in terms of it being something that specifically women wore, distinct from men’s clothes, I really think we start to see that more in the 15th, 16th century onwards.

Where do you go to get the historical information to put together a book like this? What do you use as your source material? Because obviously the thing about clothing is that it has to stand up to a lot of wear and tear and a lot of it doesn’t survive.

This is the other thing about the 16th century stuff—there’s so little surviving. That’s why that chapter was a lot shorter and also that’s why I used a lot of artworks rather than surviving garments, just because they don’t exist in their entirety.

But wherever possible, you go to the garments themselves in museum collections. And then if that’s proving to be difficult, you go to artworks or images, but always bearing in mind the artist will have had their own agenda, so they won’t necessarily be accurate of what people were actually wearing. So then you have to go and look up written source material from the time—say, diaries. I like using letters that people have written to each other over the centuries, describing dress and what they were wearing on a daily basis. Novels can be good, as well.

Also the scholarship that has come before, the secondary sources, works by people like Janet Arnold, Aileen Ribeiro. Really well researched scholarly books where people have used primary sources themselves and put their own interpretation on it can be really, really helpful. Although you take some of it with a pinch of salt, and you put your own interpretation on there, as well.

But always to the dress itself wherever possible.

What are some of the challenges you face, or the constraints on our ability to learn about the history of fashion?

Well, the very practical issue of trying to see garments—some of them I did see here in Australia, but a lot of them were in the States, in Canada, in New Zealand, so it’s hard to physically get there to see them. And often, even when you can get to the museum, garments are out on loan to other exhibitions or other museums. That’s a practical consideration.

But also, especially when I’m talking about using artworks and things, which can be really helpful when you’re researching, but as I’ve said they do come from a place where there’s more interpretations and more agendas. So if someone’s done a portrait and there’s a beautiful 1880s dress in it, that could have been down to the whims of the person who was wearing it, or the artist could have changed significantly the color or style to suit his own taste. Then you have to do extra research on top of that, to make sure that what you are seeing is representative.

It’s a fascinating area. There’s a lot of challenges, but for me, that’s what makes it really exciting as well. But it’s really that question of being able to trust sources and knowing what to use and what not to use in order to make things clear for the audience.

Obviously many of these dresses were very expensive and took a lot of labor and it wasn’t fast fashion—people didn’t just give it away or toss it when it fell out of season. A lot of times, you did was you remade it. When you’re looking at a dress that’s been remade, how do you extract the information that you need as a historian out of it?

I love it when something like that comes up. I’ve got a couple of examples in the book.

Well, it can be quite challenging, because often when you’re first looking at a piece it’s not obvious that it’s been remade. But if you’re lucky enough to look inside it and actually hold it and turn it round different angles, there’ll be things like the placement of a seam, or you’ll see that the waist has been moved up or down according to the fashion. And that’s often obvious when you’re looking inside. You can see the way the skirt’s been attached. Often you can tell if a skirt’s been taken off and then reattached using different pleats, different gatherings; that can give you a hint that it’s then been remade to fit in with a different fashionable ideal.

One of the key ways is fabric. You can often see, especially in early 19th century dresses when they’ve been made of these beautiful 18th century silks and brocades. That’s nice because it’s the first obvious clue that something’s been remade or that an old dress has been completely taken apart and it’s just the fabric that’s been used. I find it particularly interesting when the waist has been moved or the seams have been taken off or re-sewn in a different shape or something like that. It can be subtle but once your knowledge base grows, that’s one of the most fascinating areas that you can look at.

You page through the book and you watch these trends unfold and there are occasional sea changes will happen fairly quickly, like when the Regency style arises. But how much change year-to-year would a woman have seen? How long would it take, just as a woman getting dressed in the morning, to see styles just radically alter? Would you even notice?

Well, this is the thing—I think it’s very easy, when we’re looking back, to imagine that in 1810 you’d be wearing this dress and then all the frills and the frouf would have started to come in the late 1810s and the 1820s, and suddenly you would have had a whole new wardrobe. But obviously, unless you were the very wealthiest women and you had access to dressmakers who had the absolute newest patterns and newest fabrics then no, you wouldn’t have seen a massive change. You wouldn’t have afforded to be able to have the newest things as they came in. You would have maybe remade dresses to make them maybe slightly more in line with a fashion plate that you might have seen, but you wouldn’t have had access to new information and new fashion plates as soon as they came. To be realistic, there would have been very little change on a day to day level.

But I think also, for us now—it’s hard to see it without hindsight, but we feel like we’re fairly fluid in wearing the same kind of styles, but obviously when we look back in 20 years, we’ll look at pictures of us and see greater changes than we’re now aware. Because it happens on a slow pace and it happens on such a subconscious level in some ways.

But actually, yeah, it’s to do with economics, it’s to do with availability. People living in towns where they couldn’t easily get to cities—if you were living in a country town a hundred miles away from London, there’s no way that you would have the resources to see the most recent fashion plates, the most recent ideas that were developing in high society. So it was a very slow process in reality.

If you have a lot of money you can change out your wardrobe quicker and wear the latest styles. And so the wealthiest people, their clothes were what in a lot of case stood the best chance of surviving and being in modern collections. So how do we know what working women would have worn or what middle class women would have worn?

Yeah, this is hard. I do have some more middle class examples, because we’re lucky in that we do have quite a few that have survived, especially in smaller museums and historical collections, where people have had clothes sitting in their attics for years and have donated them, just from normal families over the years.

But, working women, that’s much more difficult. We’re lucky from the 19th century because we have photographic evidence. But really a lot of it will come down to written descriptions, mainly letters, diaries, not necessarily that the people themselves would have kept, but there’s examples of people that worked in cotton mills, for instance, and people that ran the mills and their families and wives and friends who had written accounts of what the women there were wearing. Also newspaper accounts, particularly of people who would go and do charity work and help the poor. They often wrote quite detailed descriptions of the people that they were helping.

But in terms of actual garments, yeah, it’s very difficult. Certainly 18th century and before, it’s really, really hard to get hold of anything that gives you a really good idea of what they wore. But in the 18th century—it’s quite interesting, because then we get examples of separate pieces of clothing worn by the upper classes, like a skirt with a jacket, which was actually a lower middle class style initially and then it became appropriated by the upper classes. And then it became much fancier and trimmed and made in silks and things. So then, we can see the inspiration of the working classes on the upper classes. That’s another way of looking at it, although of course that’s much more problematic.

It’s interesting how in several cases you can see broader historical context, or other stories happening through clothes. Like you point out that the rise of the one-piece dresses is due to the rise of mantua makers, who were women who were less formally trained who were suddenly making clothing. Are there any other interesting stories like that, that you noticed and thought were really fascinating?

There’s a dress in the book that a woman made for her wedding. I think she was living on her own, or she was living with a servant and her mother or something. She made the dress and then turned up to her wedding and traveled quite a long way to get there, and when she arrived, the groom and all the guests weren’t there. There was nobody. So she went away and came back again a week later, and everyone was there. And the reason that no one was there before was that a river had flooded in the direction that they were all coming from. She had obviously no way of finding out about this until after the fact, and we have this beautiful dress that she spent ages making and had obviously gone to a lot of effort to try and work out what the latest styles were, to incorporate it into her wedding dress.

Things like that, I find really interesting, because they talk so much about human and social history as well as fashion history, and the garment is the main way we have of keeping these stories alive and remembering them and looking into the kind of life and world these people lived, who made these garments.

Over the centuries, how does technology affect fashion? Obviously, we think of the industrial revolution as really speeding up the pace of fashion. But are there other moments in the history of fashion where technology shapes what women end up wearing?

One example is where I talk about the Balenciaga dress from the early 1950s—with a bubble hem and a hat and she would have worn these beautiful pump shoes with it—with the introduction of the zipper. Which just made such a huge difference, because it suddenly meant you’d have ease and speed of dressing. It meant that you didn’t have to worry about more complicated ways of fastening a garment. I think the zipper made a massive change and also in terms of dressmaking at home, it was a really quick and simple way that people had of being able to create quite fashionable styles on a budget and with ease and speed at home.

Also, of course, once women’s dress started to become simpler and they did away with the corset and underwear became a lot less complicated, that made dressing a lot easier, that made the introduction of the bias cut and things that sit very closely to the natural body much more widely used and much more fashionable.

I would say the introduction of machine-made lace as well, particularly from the late 19th, early 20th century onwards where it was so fashionable on summer dresses and wedding dresses. It just meant that you could so much more easily add this decadent touch to a garment, because lace would have been so much more expensive before then and so time-consuming to make. I think that made a huge difference in ordinary women being able to attain a kind of luxury in their everyday dress.

That actually makes me think of something else I wanted to ask you, which is you point out in your intro the way we casually use this word “vintage.” I think about that with lace. Lace is described as being a “vintage” touch but it’s very much this question of when, where, who, why—it’s a funny term when you think about it, the way we use it so casually to describe so much.

Oh, yes. It’s crazy. I used to work in a wedding dress shop and I used to make historically inspired wedding dresses and things. And brides used to come in and say, “Oh, I want something vintage.” But they didn’t really know what they meant. Usually what they meant is they wanted something with a bit of lace on it, or with some sort of pearls or beading. I think it’s really inspired by whatever is trending at the time. So, you know, Downton Abbey became vintage. I think ‘50s has always been kind of synonymous with the word vintage. But what it means is huge,
Slapdash into the ****** pan
Is thrown the longed-for son of man.
Between the gossiping cups of tea
God attains mortality.

In the cathedral calm and cold
Kneel the erroneous-memoried old.
But in the womb's cathedral calm
The walls collapse in a birth psalm.

The blood sings from the soiled hand
The apprentice cleans at the washstand.
Undismayed by omission,
For everything, everything is won.

The proof blazes in impudence
Above the miopics of science,
Swaggering in love inviolate,
Over the uninitiate.

And over all the angels dart
Like squadrons in a war apart.
Dropping parachutes of bliss
On everything that is.
this flourishing silence feels more of
a trite hack-job than it is a writing stint.
     my fingers (frenzied, brazen) continue to tap
and my mind starts to spill like a spigot
   left open. I have taken to smoking and laughing
away

       in an obscured day for myself in the parking lot
and sometimes I can do without company; only the snarl
of the well-oiled tractor in front of me.

    the days are full of yellow and the Sun is a dog
on a leash. the roses smell of brine and their slender
stems bones of the young.

    I can see cheeks flushed with red and skirts
neatly trimmed just above knobby knees
   and I know somewhere in that tender flesh,
a man sifts without knowing what it feels to eat
    bone before flesh, flesh after bone. my silently augured
procurement of today’s induced comatose is but
    a Freudian slip – the world with its burly physique
is a chauvinistic man
           drinking whisky in the red light district of hazy Makati.

                 each slapdash word in penitent reprisal
is the moment’s clearest reprieve. I am glad that this room
is darker than the eyes of the love I have lost
     staring back with a mound of the abysmal or the yearnings
      of a chagrined mother startled back to her home;
  it must be dreamy, the dogs outside pant in heat
        and the obnoxious *** of vehicles outside bears the cadence
  of two people   starting to fall in love:  all chaotic and unmoving,
             fastened to the Earth, aware of the passing minutes,
                                         wishing to be somewhere else but there.
Polly Perks Jul 2012
So here i write. In a parking lot outside CVS in a town in Virginia, I now sit holding a notepad and the cheapest mechanical pencil money can buy, ticking away. Here I write, though I'm not sure I am (I mean I'm unsure about my existence, not my current writing state) (Yes, Descartes, I think therefore I am, but what if I don't feel?)
At this point in a story, you'd start getting hints about my 'tragic past'. Well, in reality, it might sound pretty ******. It'd go like this;

"Polly Perks, born April 17, 1993 once deeply and profoundly felt. She held lust and envy, bounded in happiness and spun out thoughtfulness, wandering with curiosity, released lust, her body was a compendium of emotions (whatever that means). And sometimes she felt them one by one or glutted herself on many feels. Then, as per usual narrative style, came a boy who made her heart beat, her brain swoon and then her insides scream all within a school year. That boy was no good for her because he was, you see, deeply forbidden (translated to exclude melodrama, he was dating her best friend, that *******). Polly carved through that summer with whiskey, daydreams, and a quiet ripping noise coming from her chest as the emotions shanked their way out. Then her dad died. Then she went to college."

You see, after I watched my father's skin turn yellow and his eyes churn milky tears, after i left behind my life with shallow and fleeting throes of excitement for books and tests, after I was finally escaped from this man-child who pulled and pushed me like a yo-yo, i made a pact subconsciously, or maybe hallucinatory, or maybe completely aware-ly, but from that day on I abandoned emotion, and so I have lived for nigh on 279 days (I made that number up, but the gist is its been awhile since me and feelings have hopped into any kind of bed).

Well today, nearly one year later, Polly has had enough with emotionless-ness. Let's get back to narration, shall we?

"One day after work Polly finds herself shaking her head. Not in a manner of saying 'no' or conveying confusion, more like a 'wet dog shaking off the rain' shake. rain is what she wants, and like a fairytale rain is coming. She hears thunder and strikes up, leaves the house and enters rain. Inside, she feels (not emotionally but in a scientific way, as if she's taking inventory of her organs and thoughts and building blocks) movement, like her pulse is bracing to start. She's felt it before this year, while watching shooting stars with a cute, drug infested boy in college, and while witnessing the comedies of friends, and after telling the nightmarish apparition of her yellowed father he died and must leave her dreams alone. She feels she should feel."

So I run. I run and run and run in the rain, and God, I'm feeling like emotions might not ****. But then the rain starts slowing, and I start skimming, and soon I'm on a tree, a fallen fractured tree upon a metal playground (there's probably symbolism in that, so go ahead and rejoice, high school english teachers). I think 'i don't want to be empty' and then I whisper it and soon I find myself standing on this tree, yelling at empty clouds and the bricks and the metal climbing bars i don't, I Don't, I DON'T.
and then... a heart beat. a strong one. I feel it.  I feel the story, I feel colors, I feel inspired and man, I feel like ****. But I'm feeling something.

"Delirious with this re-discovered feeling, Polly decide to challenge the skies. She sees a flag pole with an shiny brass eagle on top sitting as a bright and proud beacon of America, home of the free and the brave and those who eat their feelings or starve them out.She sees the clouds, she hears the thunder, and the eagle speaks. 'So you feel now, Polly? Come put it to the test. Feel reckless. Come and feel my skin, cool metal, during a lightning storm.'

So she does. And she dies. And her feelings die with her. That, or she lives to write her odd, slapdash story in a frenzy in a parking lot outside CVS, to the pitter patter of mad rain.
S E L Dec 2013
mix
mixed stirrings
hard to place this constant ire rising from ashes of a fire not quite, yet felt
stir into that melting *** the sum of miscellany unknowns
all wrought from the unsweet gifts of quotidian sighs
no need to wrap the present, baby, for it's already here
twinkling in the birth of every moment
we hardly know it nor acknowledge
so busy wrenching pain from secret places the darkness loves to keep

yesterday brought unsought smiles of outer space dust
then space in pushed into the blue spit bubble of crayfish folly
and fear frozen into place on cauldroned cheeks
as tendons pulled fury tight on a cocky bounty's cry

I want to carry that sweet loading joy
which scorches my receptiveness in astringent non reciprocation
I die to please that spangled energy so much
which holds back its cagey kernel, far from my prying hands
I kneel to take in out of the blue blessings
which fall slapdash on this preoccupied trajectory, forever waiting in sozzled hope
I take the package you flash and cast heavy
which leave sweltering whiplines across my insides
all fine, all just a fine melange

beneath your magic fontanelle lies a sunken cache
there are painfully few privy to that miracle
I live in hope of neither looping nor taking
but just to be happy to bear witness to the shiny array of your gem stock

you are like none other, inimitable and hard gemstone (inside)
a mix of purity stirred in crazy, along with star shine and fire sparks
*my angel with honey eyes
With its sinuous green edge and its delicately
decorative white venation this dewy cress laid
on a fine crystal platter would fit well next to that
chunk of cement facade ensconced in a vitrine
at the Art Institute’s new Louis Sullivan exhibition
There’s little cause to wonder why these particular
atoms once afloat on inchoate seas and awash
in the hummed mumbles of humble vibrations
chose to decohere into this one captivating pattern
from among an infinite variety of mattered schemes
even limiting their choicest range to those paired
colors A tree frog for example its narrow lime toes
suctioned on a broad leaf and its watchful pearl
eyes misconfigured with a blind spot too soon
exploited by a beak spouted peril Or the gallant rider
in uniform myrtle and mounted atop an albino steed
who at a mirthless gallop through routed troops
delivers this message Mother I am so far away
from everything They’re oddly jarred couplings but
with any choice whether slapdash had or carefully
considered what’s our guarantee it will live up to
the iron of romantically clad expectations I have
heard It’s always the salad that gets you in the end
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
slapdash rush
collision of lips
that open like flowers
eyes acorn-brown
red lust flush
blooms from fingers to toes
tingle of fire
licks through veins
like dripping water
skin on skin flickers
and hot sleepy breaths
quirks and delights
together as one
potent potpourri
taste of oranges
and cinnamon
something entirely
new
Written: March 2015.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time - what is kissing like to somebody who has never experienced it?
Feedback always welcome and appreciated.
NOTE: 224 older poems of mine will be removed from HP in the coming weeks (161 from 2012, 43 from 2013, 18 from 2014, 2 from 2015).
Spring yielded it's light blue, sending
little spines of fiber-work glass clippings about
and smelling like summer and sun and
reminiscent days long past and gone away.

He, blissful, weary, marched unfettered
amongst the wrecked flora, a hop in his step,
prancing about like someone younger
than he, who had seen little and felt less.

He had an attitude; bumbling, messy,
he was hardly a man for all men, but rather
a stoic symbol of time stood stone still, a
slapdash rendering of a simpler, better era.

Summer gave way to Autumn's yellow chill.
Soon winter stood, watching still and
silent, frigid as the bones in the funeral home.
The seasons painted his headstone. A canvas.
Sarah Jaran Dec 2015
A mouth, simply tired
It requires much too much
To open or to produce sound
Let me remain silent
It is the best cure for this
To think rather than react
And to listen rather than spew
Ideas, words, letters, balderdash
For that is all we have ever been
A slapdash mixture to survive
Never to enjoy or to savor
Anais Vionet Feb 2022
Sunny and her love-object have broken up.

It was a selfie-inflicted wound - a slapdash pic taken,
that like a puzzle, revealed more than intended.

We try to be thoughtful and considerate but
we’ve only recently escaped from captivity.

Perfectly nice people are capable of unfaithful deeds.
Isn’t that what so much of great literature is about?

Our lives are written in disappearing ink,
and it’s not as if all kisses are meaningful.

We stretch for happiness or for fleeting pleasure
- we’re not married and only vaguely committed.

What would tempt you - what could you actually resist at 18?
Or now - but maybe you’re a saint.
BLT word of the day challenge: slapdash: means "haphazard," "slipshod," or "sloppy."
The blackcurrant words
     seemed grotesque to you
     on the vast tarnished landscape.
Letters curling as October leaves
     pricked your old silver eyes,
     slapdash lines
and glitter thoughts
     splurged upon your paintings.
     You were a poppy,
a dark, minute dot,
     but every idea burst in gaudy red
     from you.
The poems would arrive,
     would come eventually,
     leap from your fingers,
punch onto the page
     and would it be good enough?
     Your product, complete.
Written: May 2013 and April 2014.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, another one related somewhat to Sylvia Plath.
Dark n Beautiful Feb 2016
Once again lonely winter days and frigid nights
Hibernation or desperation flutter one’s mind
Oh how we long for those summer day, as we
Basked in the warmth of the sun rays,
Pink umbrella glasses of Pinna Coladas or
Coconut-flavored Malibu ***

Now it's what will be will be
Quod erit, erit!

The last bikini tan lines of summer fade like autumn leave
But here today it still lingered in one’s mind
It was a summer of secrets or was it too much exposure to the sun?

The gleaming sand upon the Caribbean shores
Summer!  Oh summer where are you?
Oh summer, oh summer where you,
Please slapdash with your misty blue skies
There are more faults
than the San Andreas
but it doesn't pay us
to mention them,

Pride comes before pricy
in the dictionary,
ha
can you picture me
searching through the dictionary
looking for this?

One must take pride
and make of pride
a
part in everything
we do

I try to,
sometimes I fail.
hair like melting bronze

long and thick as honey

coagulated to the waist

mellow slosh of water

viridian wrinkles

reflect a singed tangerine

shade of the bridge

a miserable dense fug

up above her head

lips like lavender

black sweater collar

cuddling her neck

and freckles dusted

slapdash on those cheeks

little marigold flecks

but her gaze grasps you

you can’t look away

she’s detained your attention
Written: September 2015.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, about a photograph of a girl. A woman named Mihaela Noroc is travelling the world and taking photos of other women to highlight the 'diversity of natural feminine beauty.' The series is called 'The Atlas of Beauty.' Some time ago, a selection of her images were featured in a magazine, and one image in particular caught me eye - a girl standing in San Francisco, with the Golden Gate Bridge behind her. After doing some research, I found another image of the same girl in a similar location. Her name is Sarah Gullixon. I found the photo to be very striking, and I felt right away I would have to write about it somehow.
All feedback is welcome as always. A link to my Facebook writing page is available on my HP home page.
NOTE: Many of my older pieces will be removed from HP in the coming months.
The pearl slapdash of the moon is on the water.

It won't linger there long, so drink up and take back
your legs from wavering's pumpkin lip, before they slip
and are lost in a slurp of mucky goodbyes.

The ruby blush of the sun is on your shoulder.

It will fade with a mounting calm, unless you dive in
and cast off that dithering squirm of a pout.
Afterward we'll sip, now is the time for devout swims.
The first line is from a poem by Norman Dubie. The next seven likely owe it an apology.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
Shirley Mar 2015
Art
Weak static creates an uncomfortable tautness in the air.
A sound emitted from the screen is heavy, weighing.
Muted light grips to ions which imperceptibly moss over the dusty glass monitor.  
A world within a dish.  
Slapdash pixilation.
Fragments—just fractions, part in snaps.
No image takes form in the storm of digitalized points, indistinctive refrain is absently composed.
The apartment, thick with a cloudy green hue.
Stripped, pink shoulders, a flush which spreads in a subtle frenzy—
Bleeds across an exposed chest.  
Vulnerable core.  
Noticeably contracting, beating the high concentration of life from one source
Into branched capillaries.
Into plush, coy lips—
Hush.
Sinews tear, a dark liquid pools, liberated from perforations.  
Flowing from the source and staining porcelain teeth.
Indulgence.
The innate capability to devour proves true outside feasting.  
Femininity of unbridled ******* and echoing amusement,
Eternalized.
Cataplexies pressed and dried upon blank, white pages which prove difficult to turn—
only facilitated by the hand of time.
A vast expanse of briny depths outstretches further than what’s perceivable.
Waves rock a feeble coo which escapes from child’s lips at the spectacle of a mother.
*Cri de Coeur
Vernon Waring Aug 2015
There was a poet named Nash
Who earned buckets of cash
From rhymes funny and brash
With a dollop of panache
His work was never slapdash
Always a top-drawer smash
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2020
“of late, I have been falling in and out of love with words.” (Pradip)

Dear Pradip,

yeah had them symptoms too, pizza and penicillin, lost my sense of taste and smell, but neither helped, guessing gets tougher, when older, all those associated, assorted, amazing never ending, abracadabra, baptismal-bathing-broadening, buttered-up jobs & responsibilities when your suddenly taller by a new generational addition to the family tree, which means much more concerning, burning worrying words, you dare not say aloud, cause Shiva is too interested, and has too many arms, in interfering with your many small pieces of composure in pandemic days.

Sorry, buddy got no solution, maybe rubbing alcohol, maybe hard liquor, prayers on knees to a 57 variety of deities, try a different temple, start the week on a Wednesday, learn to rhumba, practice meditation way out loud, be annoyingly concerned bout everybody else, offer to do all the kids homework, buy the wife a new dress so you can have an argument regarding wasting money, so you can kiss and make up, heck and ****, you could even write crazy words in any order your personal dictionary commands, reorganizing them in reverse order, and then slapdash them together and call it stew,

don’t matter as long as you got the jaw jawing, the eyes winking, the people looking at you like you gone cuckoo mad, tell your children how much you love them in the middle of day, wave to a neighbor across the street, the gossipy one who always spying on you, sing some cowboy ***-on-little-doggie lullabies, interspersing a Yellow Submarine, croon A Long and Winding Road, and Do Not Forget to include Let It Be, preach with a whang damnastic fever to the street peddlers, then ask for a better price, by now your not-so-well repute will precede you, everyone be offering a cool drink, or hot tea, fresh paneer, really big discounts, the most comfy chair, asking what else ya need, tell ‘em a pen and some paper, please, and everyone will be relieved! cause you back to merely, plain, ordinary crazy, simply composing that wonderful poetry you love to
w r i t e
and everything is
r i g h t
in the world.

other than that, got no consoling words. Sorry.

Sincerely,

The Natster
Julia Brennan Sep 2015
You are
a Slippery
Dark Parasite
that Clung to me
Numbed me
Fed on me
Until
my Veins
Ran Dry
You
A Small Creature
of
Formidable Force
and
i Victim
to a
Slapdash Hunt
You Were
Hypnotizing
Your Presence
Thrilling
But
I peeled
you off
of Me
and left you
to be
Finished
by The Birds
MARIA PANOUTSOU Jan 2017
Dedicated To  Elena  Toumazi , Yiannis Antiohou,  Stamatis Polenakis





YOU
IMAGE/ MINE


Valorous  visor
Αsk / Gaze
Upon the gravel thy habitancy/ hesitancy /
I hold tightly my two hands
A pray  for a  marble / black/ black
Only black/
Crash you down
Crash me down/
Life with your other face  / small vulnerable thou
Today you / exist  / and   will / will  will willlllll/  for ever
Thinking of you and admire you / what audacity /
You look  around   slapdash/ and curious     /
Loking and Loking
Searching/
For this to beatify / now with tolerance /
Great   you/ now and sure / I find  you /
In a pink tones cloths / and  colored / rooms /
Slippery paths wish / finding
Find you unscathed / light lips
Face altered /only  by joy
Beyond the truth / that  hurts /
Run to catch up /  stop / those  people
So welcomed / invited / time is running
The opposite house/ the nights / look / flickering
A flame coming from  unwarmth  / faces
Yours / you are  hanging a picture /  like painting
You said / Come Life / I will teach you  /Ha
With my  own voice /mine only/
Do not  resist the electric flow of the universe
I let myself / and I am not / that seems to be
I get lost in the size of this world  /
Does not exist /before I even perish
Everything is a drop / already evaporates / before even born /
Now   know it /
Even / even /even
And nonexistent  pain
People are losing /lusting/ for a fresh carrot
I have nothing with carrots…..
But/ yes/ yes/  I want to be baptized
To a name / to a man
To  his  hot/ saliva   /
Keep me  out of the limelight
The poem  translated by  me from my Greek poem  ΕΙΚΟΝΑ ΜΟΥ
The dog scrabbles
in the lady’s arms,
tongue flopping every which way.

‘He’s only young’ she says
as a bark coarse as sandpaper
rips through the cabin.

A man with teeth
briquette-black
chuckles at us, at the mutt,

its hair like chestnut
paintbrush strokes
slapdash around the mouth.

The lift judders to a halt.
We go one way,
the dog goes the other.
Written: October 2016.
Explanation: To mark National Poetry Day on 6th October, I wrote 25 poems over the course of eight days, and sent one poem each to one of 25 of my Facebook friends. After some deliberation, I am now posting the poems on HP (in order of when they were written), albeit not all in one go. 'Firework' is poem one, for those of you who wish to read the series in full, in order. None of the poems are about their recipients. Note: Saltburn is a town in Yorkshire, England. All feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
NOTE: Many of my older pieces will be removed from HP at some point in the future.
Aa Harvey Apr 2018
Oft too a flyer.


Thrown to the wolves as lions approach,
Never just left alone.
Kicked out of the club for being too drunk,
The ghosts have stolen your phone.


In this midnight hour a traffic cone,
Is thrown through a greenhouse window, waking up the neighbourhood.
They all see you walking back home;
“He’s up to no good.”


Cans on strings as letters of complaint leap,
Along the local grapevine.
Playing the telephone game, muggle messages,
They all watch and pass a guilty verdict; eye for an eye.
You stand accused of drinking legal beer.
Social complaints against late night cheer.


Revelry is not welcome here,
At the cul-de-sac at the end of the road of fear.
So scared of youth because envy gets old.
So cold to you because you smile like a fool.
So angry!  About nothing.
The rain pours down, feel water proof.
So pointless to have a conversation,
When you are thirty five percent proof.


The drunk is a punk to conservative ways.
They would never be that drunk in their day.


They only ever drank every time they got paid
And every day is now a liquid lunch.
Do you remember an Irish coffee breakfast,
After the after hour’s club?
Now a fine brandy, a sherry or two when visiting;
Or are you so drunk you are still misremembering?


I am righteous!  Pride takes me to church!
To drink the blood and fall asleep
And because whiskey is the only thing that gets you forward,
You lurch!
And stumble over all the pews.
You end with an almighty crash!  


Make up, slapdash,
You landed at the altar and got up to say “I do.”
You got in your car and now you are so sure;
Oh so sure, that you are pure.
You are better than they are…
Really?...
You?


And later as you blow into the straw,
You realise you are not so sure,
That you can see a way out of this.
Why not arrest them!  Instead of me!
Those stupid drunken kids!
They vandalize and disturb my peace!
What about me!  I never did a thing!
I only had a glashh or six (laughs)
And there wasn’t a…er, a lasting damage.


I’m not a drunk!
I think!
I think…

I think I love you…


What place is this...?
Where am I...?
Hey!  
Who are you!  To arrest me!  For being drunk!


The following day, you wake up and say…

What time is it?

Excuse me officer…
What day is this?

It’s Tuesday.


(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
mar Jun 2016
I have a bad habit of sticking my head out of windows that don't belong to me
swallowing smoke in the cold as I try to validate this existence
the setting london sun has never been this orange
and I can vividly remember you saying how wherever I go I seem to drink the color around me in a slapdash effort of being the most beautiful thing in the room
and it doesn't work
it never works

But now it's him
and suddenly I'm looming over his warm body
ripping everything off that isn't skin
when god split us apart did he keep the notes he made on how to put us back together?
because I hate this cold separation
and I don't care if people stare at my neck
the painting you left on my fleshy canvas
and I don't care if you don't feel as much as this ash filled heart
because I'll stay up late writing down everything you make me feel
you sleep so close to the edge of your bed I worry you'll fall
would bruises bring you more comfort than your arm around me?
listen to this
my sad ramblings in attempts to try and love you less
I don't appreciate it when you look at me like that
with your mischievous eyes
Why do people say they fall in love?
I'm being dragged
weighed down with every nice word and warm embrace

Everyone has a story they tell when they've had one too many
I listen to them like radio shows on a forgotten channel
and if you hang around someone long enough you see how they change
I don't ever want to be your drunken tale
the girl who loved you too hard you got scared
the girl who felt everything with such intensity you fled  

This love is deeper than any cut I've ever had
they could severe both my hands and it wouldn't be as painful
because you know my tendency to overthink
and every goodbye could be final
I try not to let it get to me
when I'm alone and the only light is that filtered yellow from streetlamps

I can't help but notice you don't look at me when you sing
but instead close your eyes as your fingers speak more than your words
more than any message you've ever left me at 2 AM
I can't help but notice how you're all I seem to think about

Corridors lined with paintings
but all I seem to stare at is you
Rooms full of music
I just want to listen to you
My current self curses my past at the memory of her lust filled wants
Such a stupid little girl
unaware of the tidings love would actually bring down upon me
like hellfire
like hail
now even organic connections don't do you justice
because no offense to the moon, sun, or all of the stars
but you're more beautiful than anything I could have ever dreamed
I just wonder if you feel the same
Big Virge Dec 2020
You Know Sometimes....
... Within This Life...

You Have Those Nights...
That DO SURPRISE... !!!

Now I've Shown That I...
Am INDEED A Dark Knight of A Different Type !

But THIS Was A Night...
of A... Marmite Type... !!?!!

Hanging With The Whites...
On Bims'... West Side...
Caribbean Type Vibes...
Drinks And SUNSHINE...
Right By The Seaside... !!!!!

But Soon The Tide...
Would CHANGE Alright.... !!!

As Our Host Dropped Folks...
Back To Their Home...

A Vibe Had Arrived...
That WASN'T So Nice... !!!

Because of Talk...
That Had A Cause...
Like... Vaders' Force... !!!!!

So Of Course RETURNED...
Like... Fires BURN.... !!!!!

There Was A... “ Preview “...
That Things WEREN’T Cool...
Between A Woman...
And An English Dude... !!!

BAD WORDS Ensued In The Afternoon...
Over MARMITE And A Pair of Shoes... !!!

Don't Get It Confused... ?!?
This Story's... TRUE.. !!!

People Sometimes...
Are Happy To Choose To …
… PLAY THE FOOL... !!?!!

So As Our Host Left These Words Were Said...

"Big V you'll need to become the guard !"

For This Woman Who'd MARKED...
A …… DANGEROUS Card …… !!!!!

The Guy Had Walked...
For The Night Fa' SURE... !!!

Or So We All Thought.............

But It Was Clear That A WAR...
Was To Be The ENCORE... !!!

He Came Back... RAW... !!!
Straight Through The Door... !!!

And... Next Thing I SAW...
Marmite Had Been Poured...
On The Woman The Floor... !!!
And Some Shoes That She'd Bought... !?!

For This CRAZY ASSED Dude...
And Some Cushions TOO... !!!!!

So Then I Knew...
That I HAD TO MOVE... !!!
To Escort This Dude...
And His IGNORANT Mood...
AWAY From The Scene...
Cos' Marmite BELIEVE...

Doesn't Leave Things CLEAN... !!!
Except For... ME... !!!!!!!!!!

Because My Theme...
Is HEROIC And Seems...

To Be What Deals...
In... Respectful Deeds... !!!

UNLIKE White Peeps'...
Who I've Met Recently... !!!

Whether FILLED With CASH...
Or Talk That's SLAPDASH...

This Is CLEARLY WHY...
This Was The First Time...
And Hopefully The LAST... !!!!

Where I Had To Show CLASS.........
In The Face of An ***... !!!
Whose Actions Were DARK... !!!!!

But You Know...
You've Gotta LAUGH... !!!!
Because It Seems Sometimes...

When You're With...
... CERTAIN Whites... !!!!!
That... Just Like I...

You May Just FIND...
Yourself... INSIDE...

... “ A Marmite Night “... !!!
As the poem states, every word of this is TRUE !!!
Joseph S Pete Apr 2017
The zine entailed a ton of work
that mostly went unnoticed.

He printed, folded, stapled
a slapdash publication few appreciated.

Stacked ten-deep, it festered unread in coffee shops,
indie bookstores, craft breweries.

A zinester isn't daunted by obscurity.
After all, a zinester is never voiceless.
Dennis Willis May 2019
Reached for my bag of darkness
this morning
To pull out some slimy lump
And smear it across the page
Slapdash as usual

Only it's not there
my bag of wallow
and push
Have-to's, shoulds an'
can't-face-'ems

Do you have it?
Yes, I see you have yours
No need
ta clutch it
so tight now

Not sure
How hard
I'll look
As I'm unclear now
As to why I have it

Though I recall
being here before
and, alas
It did turn up
again

Perhaps
I should make
and fill a bag
with lightness
reach for that



Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis
Donall Dempsey Mar 2016
GETTING IT TOGETHER

just as my eyes open
I catch a glimpse of the world
throwing itself together

nearly caught the world
putting itself together
bit slapdash this morning

world in a hurry
just manages to put itself together
as my eyelashes part

I stay up
to catch the world in the act
but alas sleep seduces me

I can see the world
laughing at me
"I'm too fast for you!" it smirks

finally I've found
that I am just one of the things
the world puts together
Chandra S Dec 2019
An uprooted tree lies ebbing in the street.
The one who pledged everyone with a refuge
is herself in exigent need.

People come, see the fallen one.

Not a soul seems to be concerned.
Zero, zilch, nada, none.

They don't remember
those cloistered, sizzling infernos of June
those solitary, shivering nights of witchy new moons

and those

sodden, sultry volleys of pouring monsoons

when they, like sprayed bedbugs, ran helter-skelter
with the beast of disarray at their sorry heels -
snarling callously at all their jet-set culture,
structure and order

and

when all and sundry went slapdash
…haphazard

that stalwart of timber
gave them reassuring shelter.

…no fine print, no strings…




Today, when in the aftermath of storm and rain
her generous framework lays mortally drained
there is no one who would even stop
to look for a while
let alone bestow a precious drop
of life.



In this progressive society –
dynamic, forward-looking, revolutionary –

each enterprising personality
is interred beneath umpteen layers of conceit
and on the assay of fulfilment
estimates the value of the being.
Donall Dempsey Mar 2019
GETTING IT TOGETHER

just as my eyes open
I catch a glimpse of the world
throwing itself together

nearly caught the world
putting itself together
bit slapdash this morning

world in a hurry
just manages to put itself together
as my eyelashes part

I stay up
to catch the world in the act
but alas sleep seduces me

I can see the world
laughing at me
"I'm too fast for you!" it smirks

finally I've found
that I am just one of the things
the world puts together
Wk kortas Jan 2021
(In memory of Glen Slater)

Ya stupid sonuvabitch, the place is deserted!
It’s gotta be a ******’ night game, ya ******’ mook
,
But though the parking lot had the forlorn look
Of a down-on-its luck strip mall on a weekday afternoon,
There was just the hint of activity and indeed a game,
A friends-and-family affair with the Cubs,
Losers if not particularly lovable,
So we departed the ancient Gremlin
(Ostensibly painted cab-yellow,
Though festooned with enough Bondo and duct tape
To make it difficult to tell
Where car began and slapdash repair ended)
Strolling toward the deserted ticket window
To drop the two-bucks per for upper deck seats,
Knowing that we would find amenable ushers
Willing to let us move down to the boxes
After it became fully apparent
There was no last-minute influx scrambling off the 7 train,
And we sat in the sun-drenched field level seats
(Though its warmth a relative thing,
The rays’ angle and the decidedly April wind
Requiring buttons to be snapped
And collars to be turned upward)
Viewing the spectacle of two clubs
Dutifully and somewhat optimistically
Performing the rites of Spring, each nine knowing
There would be no October heroics in their futures,
Their first-rate plays and foibles
Gathering our appreciation or scorn
Between gulps of over-priced watery beers,
And as we sat in this unlovely stadium,
Looking for all the world
Like some Bunyan-esque chipped ashtray
Plopped down on an unprepossessing landfill
(The hopes and wistful dreams of this children’s game
Perched uneasily atop ancient sardine tins and discarded rattles)
We agreed that we would do this again,
But it never came to pass, as life its ownself
Rolled on like the cap of John Pacella
(Invariably flying off his unruly mop
From the effort of launching yet another fastball
In the all-too-vain hope it would find itself
Somewhere in the vicinity of the strike zone)
Tumbling brim over crown in the swirl of the breeze.
is it happening again?
am I expelling my tears, a rare, ugly act,
my head crumpling at the thought
of stepping on, then off,
my slapdash navigation through unfamiliar streets,
the hours as red as crushed cherries.

at that age I should’ve been better.
at this age, surely, better,
or not? Soon the questions will pour in,
indigo sky thunderstorm, discovery of love
jump-scaring up as through bread in the toaster,
my conversation sieved with droll ripostes,
a flame of humour, laughter clasped in your hands.

I feel a change coming,
tastes like liquorice on the tongue.
Crumbled at eighteen, but what of twenty-six?
My flaws still surface like bottles from the ocean,
rusty reminders that I still, I say, lag behind.
Will I need your hand? Do I want it?
Tell me history has not become present again.
Written: October 2019.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time for the National Poetry Day 2019 challenge #speakyourtruth. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
Fresh home from therapy,
     and resonate with zeal
**** air cerebral cogs a turn'n
     analogous to rack and pinion wheel

hence attempt made to bare soul,
     sans thru poetry re: veal
ling avidity, asper barreling neurological
     daily kos loaded truck full

     heading toward figurative
     lifelong landfill deposits
     on weekly ******
     logical session I unseal

manipulating bothersome issues
     controlled via bot size thumbwheel,
which grave undertaking i.e.
     professional counseling allows,

     enables, and provides opportunistic
     gradual process at selfheal
ling oft times necessitates
     reviewing silent Virgina reel

comprising the story
     of earlier life piecemeal
akin to a slapdash montage
     chronicling existential ordeal,

now referencing adenoids
     (removal first mention within
     poetic endeavor, when young boy)
     loosely linkedin with nasopharyngeal

pseudo oral palate
     highway tucking each meal
     across miniature bridgework,
     ma late mum meekly

     acceded to doctors orders,
     said operation sub
     sequently deemed unnecessary
affecting negligible decreasing nasality

     predicated on split (bifid
     or bifurcated uvula), viz laryngeal
utterances finds me speculating
     speculating now, whether taking kneel

ling pose possibly coo dove
     wrought divine intercession
giving me super powers ideal
for fighting off being bullied

     gloating this instant imagining
     bringing beastie boys to heel
actual reality visit my kid self,
     a most convenient scapegoat

socially withdraw puny size lad
internalizing hateful barbs glom
     ming up significant emotional gearwheel
inferiority complex predominating

     supplemented with cumulative
     anger, a potent feel
ling exacerbating anxiety prone disposition
     courtesy chromosomal
     (pop'n mom genes) art of the deal.
Maritza Torres Mar 2017
our malleable beings
lay gentle asleep
as water pads upon
indigo springs of water
infinitum
rests slumberous
on our verdure palms

taken and torn
dreams lay waste
beneath pillows
stitched into slapdash costumes
too heavy to wear

diaphanous florets of dandelion
dance quiet
as vocal cataclysms awake
reverberate heavier
than summer air

trees
throne power aloft
with fervid strength
our alate souls rise
David R Feb 2022
in a crevice of the earth
beats a heart
like a newborn babe at birth
at the start
as new life emits a gurgle
and a cry
prepares to jump the hurdle
or to die

so the snowdrop lifts its sleepy head
from beneath its snowy spread
a revival from the dead
at the edge of flower-bed

its flash of white
like moon in night
augurs sight
of colours bright

as Artist starts anew
His canvas set and true
no imprecise slapdash
or impotence 'n backlash

for here He blends true harmony
the plant, the flower, the bird, the tree,
and all combine and music sing
in herald of [the] season spring.
BLT's Merriam-Webster Word of The Day Challenge
#slapdash
(alternately titled no particular reason:
bring unto “fake” trumpeting Caesar
seven salad dressings from deep freezer
and lettuce deign at your plea azure.)

Graced with boyish good looks,
innocence and naiveté to boot,
an especial loathing toward me
chicken legs re: spindleshanks

(which serve as laughingstock
of dis hair reed ole coot)
oft times clad with deep purple
polka dotted sweatpants
don this nontrumpeting galoot

Asian old wise owl chimes utters
embarrassing non repeatable hoot
thus even bestowed with ample loot
to purchase peloton bike
would be laudatory suggestion,

nevertheless vigorous exercise point iz moot
cuz said skinny limb foregone conclusion
impossible mission anatomical feature aye
(nor anyone else could ever troubleshoot).

See them dang toothpick
aforementioned limbs used walking
permanently stunted courtesy anorexia nervosa,
I experienced during prepubescence
comprises subject of mooch talking
especially if yours truly wore shorts,
or even daresay skivvies out in public.

Both above listed portion of poem I write
surprisingly, truthfully, and
aye preferably, and uncomfortably uninvite
today (night) May 12th, actually tonight
electronically date/time stamped
05/12/20  10:06:21 PM

presented scary sight
regarding every other
regular instance I showered
as occurred earlier... quite
lamentable, these twiggy
body parts give Lesley Hornby

Dame Lesley Lawson DBE
blink to fast, and she becomes an oversight
born September 19, 1949
still going strong, flitting light
to and fro, hither and yon
an English model, actress, and singer,

renown during the nineteen sixties
approximately 5′ 6″ in height
widely known by the nickname Twiggy
get a serious a run for her money
totally unbeknownst to her
if so, she would serious take flight.

Matthew Scott Harris bejesus, he tried
(think self starvation)
nearly successful being unseen,
yours truly set his permanent physique
as one wimpy, scraggly, and nerdy teen

unlike above faded former star
regaled as Twiggy on silver screen,
yet his posthumous fifteen
minutes of fame encompasses
poetic style like (like for real) never seen

arose during 2020 pandemic
i.e. coronavirus CPVID-19 quarantine
and commenced quirky endeavor
crafting slapdash poetaster philistine

nonsensical, heretical (rather hair reticle),
and atypical ridiculous rhyme
wondering if ye keen
find any redeeming quality
courtesy this human haz been.
Presents the following slapdash
higglety-pigglety bupkis, whereby reader
experiences being mentally hogtied
perusing pseudo poetic perambulation
devoid of sense and sensibility
welcoming character assassination
concerning pride of yours truly,
who merely strung together
words sharing "arian"

as their last five letters
for no particular rhyme nor reason
quite aware that forced gobbledygook
underwrites storied reputation
of unnamed aspiring author
cramming nonsense linkedin
jibber-jabber hodgepodge fashion
deplorable basketed mumbo jumbo
giving pop slop a run for its' money.

Yours truly considers himself
(courtesy obsessive compulsive fixation
with alphabetization even when dreaming
counting sheep jumping
over figurative fence by first name)
drawn toward being abecedarian,
albeit hankers being agrarian, yet
I consider myself suburban simian
(a garden variety **** sapiens)
no more significant than alcyonarian

expressing his antiauthoritarian,
intolerance toward antiegalitarian,
antihumanitarian, antilibertarian,
agog over antiquarian tomes
replete with antitotalitarian manifesto
buzzfeeding ma (zee papa's)
sixty plus shades of gray,
cuz hive got news for you
courtesy doxy me, a generic erudite apiarian,
non-aquarian, once mighty araucarian,

(when during Jurassic and Cretaceous periods
our family achieved maximum diversity
distributed across almost entire
webbed wide world), nevertheless
one humble wordsmith
decries authoritarian, barbarian, Cesarean
segmentation of rooted centenarian elders
strongly resembling cnidarians,
who foster communitarian, contrarian
culinarian, disciplinarian,

disestablishmentarianism
decrees expatiating dogmatic,
emphatic, idealistic duly strict ethos
incorporating freedom of the press
documentarian, egalitarian
establishmentarian, filarian favoring fruitarian
disavowing jump/kickstaring futilitarian endeavors
administering grammarian, hereditarian,
questioning humanitarian
versus inegalitarian paradigms

celebrating progressive legislation
courtesy coterie as Democratic jubilarian
attributing insights to sustenance
comprising Diet of Worms
and laminarian, which boosts rock ribbed
lapidarian, libertarian, librarian lunarian,
who dons gay apparel and trumpets
majoritarian fly in the ointment milarian
espousing millenarian credo,
whereby absent free will necessitarian

forces at large effect staid
senior citizens, especially nonagenarian,
advocating nonauthoritarian, bookish nonlibrarian
nonsectarian, nontotalitarian, nonutilitarian,
beefy nonutilitarian, nonvegetarian,
and octogenarian brethren,
begat in part courtesy
ovarian haploid gamete,
which offspring could trend toward
ovolactovegetarian maybe collecting

parian ware adornments
pricey merchandise afforded
courtesy parliamentarian income
sessions conducted (without resistance),
whereby officials closely resemble
blood ******* planarian ceaselessly
patting each other
(and themselves) on the back
congratulating exulting,
gushing ala Old Faithful platitudinarian

attributing their foibles to postlapsarian
forebears awaiting salvation postmillenarian
bags already packed eagerly awaiting
deliverance into seventh heaven
as promised by divine predestinarian
a time analogous to virtuous age
of innocence re: prelapsarian
or lost souls peopling congress
and house of representatives
purportedly official do bidding

for proletarian class of population
once upon bajillion years
in the past initial life forms
similar to radiolarian
propelled themselves thru primordial sea
after lapse of eons diverse riparian organisms
with nary a hint of vocations such as
rosarian, sanitarian, sectarian seminarian
dedicated worker still going strong
as septuagenarian, or sexagenarian.
Soundlessly ricochet to and fro
hither and yon
roundly bobbing within squarely donned
talking heads of ****** killers,
one pyromaniac burning
down the crowded house
sparking magnificent conflagration
towering inferno emulating

caterwauling, kickstarting, ululating
(think) stray cats on a hot tin roof
nsync with 10,000 maniacs
intense heat and duraflame
long since eroding
weather beaten soul asylum
strip mining away
vestial trace, hence impossible mission

rectifying purposeless existence
imputed to passive self sacrifice
upon cusp of prepubescence
mystified, mummified, modified,
stilled, lulled, andhushed
obsessively grammatically fanatical
oftimes feeble efforts yielded countless
corrective editing measures
subsequently rendering lame

resultant deplorable effort
despite NON GMO gluten
and monosodiumglutimate free
diet of (hooked) worms
limply tethered symbolic constructs
analogous to dangling participles
scraping, plowing, etching...
imperfect triangulated Hollywood squares

across parched stream of consciousness
former luscious cerebral riverbeds
long since bone dry
millennium since onset climate change
courtesy global warming
blowing in the hot torpid wind
sands of time elapsed
accepted biological demise

forever linkedin with his forebears
birth/death repurposed cycle
activated, demonstrated, gifted...
integration, narration, reincarnation...
biochemical, geological, paleontological...
legacy randomly begetting me
epochal, integral, orbital saga
since time immemorial
fifty plus shades of once ashen gray

well muscled athletic human specimen
oblivious corpse good n plenti
petrified, metamorphosed, coalesced
bleached skull and crossbones
grown brittle when blazing sun's
rays generated aforementioned disparate ideas
jangled, rankled, and zapped
in tandem with bared tiger (no lion)

slapdash pell mell, helter
skelter, higglety pigglety...
germane blitzkrieg rained down above
leaving writer, tortured, mortified, and benumbed
without either sense or sensibility
nor pride and prejudice
perusing discombobulated chaotic
kamikaze lobbed muddlesome nonsense.
I attribute being a grown mad scientist
linkedin with tacit approval of parents
(both long gone to the smoky afterlife),
and donned wizard trumpeting magic spells
while dark and stormy night
(one week before Halloween),
which usher nostalgic memories
encapsulated within the following poem
initially drafted quite some years ago.

Both parents possessed pedigreed panache
(but especially my father – renown Chemist
B.B. Harris and to slightly lesser extent
late culinary cuisine queen Harmit Harms
Kuritsky - gal whose troth thy then still
livingsocial octogenarian widower papa
pledged, while holding some bubbling
sinister looking flask in hand while both
donned trumpeting finessed affianced
doctored formula to marry, when both
partook of blind date.

This combustible transunion link analogous
to their representative first electric kool aid
basic laboratory litmus test date), which
took place without a hitch, and telepathically
encouraged begetting retinue of revered
sons and daughters, whose ken hopefully
burned with passion KRISPR incubated,
inculcated, and incurred genetic outlook
ideally transmitted to prolific brood
of begotten babes.

This kid felt embers crackling, popping,
and snapping with yen that burned from
within and without buns sin burner of this
cingular earthlinked son.

No matter a bit tentative to experiment
*****-nilly (wonka like) with rather
explosive materiel, I received truckloads
of ammunition (in tandem with benevolent
benediction) to foster dare devil and
derelict pyromaniac precocity.

Those initial awkward formative forays
assaying, assessing and carefully calibrating
this, that or other liquid or powdery substance
found me meticulously measuring and
weighing the substances using kitchen
midden malodorous kid gloves.

Frequent disappointment arose from
yours truly as well as momma and papa
when net result (of these early attempts
to blend powders and/or liquids) merely
fizzled and self extinguished
into near inaudible ****.

Continual daily practice (would lead way
for me to enter Carnegie – Mellon ---- Hall)
after countless travails, trials and trolls i.e.
uber vaporous wisps to lyft yawping banshee
like holograms, or equivalent of 10,000 maniacs)
eventually bore successful fruit in the form
of near perfect results.

Success in hotly contested field Pyrotechnics
requires striking resemblance
to any other vocation.

One must be able, eager, ready and willing
to maintain burning passion no matter any
unforeseen setbacks or heat from an
objectionable source.

Yes, there would be an errant conflagration
(sometimes set purposely by adjunct professor)
as object lesson to master usage of fire
extinguisher/fighter, a vital piece of equipment
and evenhandedness for getting hold
instantaneously jetting kickstarter live matches)
to contain any runaway flame.

I do sheepishly admit to (ahem) you
on occasion the outcome went awry.

Nonetheless, they prided their potential
fire branded wizard in the making with
kudos and praise with DYNAMITE.

Practice from indiscriminately creating
unpredictable concoctions, these lethally
marshaled nonchalant opportunities
provided quintessentially random results
though usually very wimpy in tandem
with totally tubular nerdy, geeky, freaky,
and dorky beastie boy.

As proof positive and proud testimony, they
proudly pointed (upward) to the kitchen ceiling.

There such handiworks practically covered
entire ceiling with variegated splotches.
These scorch marks keepsake frescoes to show
kith and kin unspecified years into smoky future.

Quite accurate to assume
father and mother coached,
goaded, and nurtured
exploratory ambitions and
tried not to stifle
(at least consciously or deliberately)
my early stage ambition
toward scientific artiste bent.

As homeschooled and to some extent self taught
chemically romanced muralist, I grew up (not
surprisingly) in Unitarian household paid
close attention also adhered to the pioneer spirit.

The near limitless boundaries of life, liberty and
pursuit of understanding
an underlying credo, which
allowed, enabled and provided near endless
experimentation even at the risk of life and limb.

Aside talking head
nearly burning down the house
amidst talking heads practically in dire straits,
an instinctive reflex found me immolating myself,
occasionally singeing the canine fur of Lady,
Schultz, or Socrates, et cetera no frightful
catastrophic outcomes occurred thru milieu
of mixing deceptively harmless looking
inert raw materials.

Trial and error (quite successful with latter)
via blithely cooking dicey elements forming
goulash hiccupping laboratory mishmash
practically eliminated any pained regret to take
daring risks (such as getting married – ha)
in later life.

Despite favorable and lovable upbringing,
my mother (ever the protector and/or proctor
of our family and an excellent chef boyardee
to boot) still managed to insinuate (gently
as possible) the necessity to be careful when
igniting flammable materials lest
some uncontrollable conflagration ensue.

She (mom) did frequently confess to feeling
ever so slightly jittery and uneasy with my
slapdash amateurish homebrewed pyrotechnics
and much preferred to steer my attention toward
safer hobby such as the edible objets d’arts i.e.,
the much more drab field per how to present
and aesthetically appealing and nutritious meal.

Fondness to prepare food and pretend to be
faux renowned cook (this confession admitted
rather baldly and obviously deduced) actually
competed for my most favorite avocation activity
and spare leisure time.

In other words, this chap did relish designing
his own recipes mainly from leftovers in tandem
with unpronounceable multisyllabic organic
compounds filled numerous sized dishes
and aged apothecary bottles respectively.

Without question though, the passion plus
less riskier factor to combine and potchka
dry and wet ingredients together did rank
as considerably safer medium that still
allowed, enabled and provided me an equal
opportunity to test reactions, than those
earlier iterated potentially explosive hazards.

Nonetheless, my cavalier crusading overactive
appetite, hunger and thirst to discover causative
outcomes (even with purportedly innocuous
looking household cleaning supplies or easily
acquired inert materiel) nearly witnessed an
apocalypse at three two four Level Road
on one particular nasty occasion.

I anticipated our domicile would become
rent asunder, and reduced into a black
and decker ashen funeral pyre, yet for
grace of some divine force no family
members nor pets succumbed
nor got asphyxiated from choking acrid air.
Especially one courteously wrapped ably
anonymously gifted to
an aspiring gourmet Chef Boyardee
i.e. not surprisingly... revealing mystery
person none other than...
yepper namely me.

Moost anyone can show
off culinary karate chop
suey, whether schooled among
fishy creatures either
from black lagoon,
or privately tutored,

(this haint no canibal)
courtesy mythological Cyclop,
somewhat riotously,
quirkily and precariously,
when blindsided flop

which slapdash loco motion often
misconstrued for latest dance moves
characterizing boogie woogie
(touting Louis Armstrong talents
as token bugle boy), and/or hip hop.

Audible sigh of relief exhaled by
none other than Chaim Yankel,
whose tail feathers ruffled
linkedin to setback, which former
(malfunctioning microwave) did rankle.

No longer must
hungry tummies all told
eat food frozen and/or cold
leftovers formed into Rorschach,
neigh Horseshack habitat mold
more suitable as clay pigeons,
where strong arms
analogous to accordion fold

readied to take aim and fire
young trumpeting Olympian trained
contestants, albeit aghast at
proliferating firearms when polled
wantonly, indiscriminately, and blithely
taking precious innocent lives
worth more than fine spun gold.

Eve vent chilly this monseigneur
and his madam
(Church Lady) conceding faithful
to follow and acquiesce
and countenance flimflam
toward yours truly,
no matter a fake Imam

who offered up feast
Earth friendly biologically/
genetically modified, prepared
artificial intelligent algorithmically
programmed manufactured in Vietnam,
who cooked delectable
Soylent green eggs and ham.

Best not prepare
former entree in microwave
lest they explode instantly
killing home of the brave
necessitating, none other
than one lame rhymester at large
to end poem quickly senseless verse
in order for his hide to save.

— The End —