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Emm Jun 2014
came to visit me again last night
seeping in when i was half asleep
embracing me from the inside
keeping me awake in his presence
he's not a friend
nor a foe
we solely co-exist
then i should probably get accustomed to his presence
regardless how queasy and uneasy he makes me feel
how he makes i small
probably he cares about me
i just need to
     stop
         him
           *******
Stop.
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,
MST Aug 2014
Speak,
as if you know what you are saying.
Let it roll off the tongue,
******* like a Dung-beetle's ****,
and let me drink it up like a lapdog.
It tastes like heaven from where I sit,
not by comparison,
but lack of.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
Prosecco cocktails, être pour la danse,
cassis pour moi avec limoncello,
madame, passion fruit, and blood oranges

très grownup, breakfast at Tiffany's,
she is all sunglasses and Audreyfied,
me and George P., struggling writers,
checking if i got enough cash
or have to exit smooth, just in case,
maybe we leave our
coats behind, as ransom?

lincoln center plaza cross-dressers,
past the opera,
the sun, a balmy thirty five degrees,
laughing at us teasingly,
cause tonight and tomorrow,
******* all the day,
winter kisses
in case we forgot,
early March
first belongs to the Ides of Winter

Afternoon of a Faun,
another ballet, origin,
a Mallarmé poem.
(you begin to comprehend)
yes quite so,
a perfect synopsis of the day,
Acheron imported from Scarlett Liam
who lives in the U.K.,
but comes to choreograph here,
for gloria Americana

sundown, soul cold back,
"lest we forget,"
but the dancers bid us adieu
with a rousing waltz, frenchified,
La Valse, une poème chorégraphique,
by Ravel, bien sûr!
aroused and heart gladdened,
return home for

for veal chop love

two hours of *** banging,
kitchen banishment, (Yay!)
chanterelles steeped in red wine,
coverlet for a non-vegan tasting,
English peas, red and purple potatoes,
and for desert,
a diet dream of verbal exchanged of detailed
I love you's

He: I love you,
She (happy), replies: I love you more.
(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal danced before)
He: Why?
She: Because you are kind and generous, to street beggars, my single friends, good and smart, love art,
and never let me down, and love my cooking, leave space for others when you park, go thru life making waiters and ticket takers smile and laugh, sleep for hours your head on my hip, write me crazy love poems about veal chops
He: What's for desert tonight?
She: A ****
Just an afternoon in the city...whatever
ln Feb 2017
Depression - My Story

I suffered in silence. For months, I felt like I was making excuses for myself and being lazy. The once bright, smart, cheerful me disappeared a bit at a time. With each wave, I'd feel more exhausted than I already did before. I felt tired, hopeless and dead on the inside for as long as I can remember. I started losing interest in some of my favorite things and even basic things like eating and showering had drained the living daylight out of me.

And then I tried to reach out to my friends. My head was telling me that I needed help, I couldn't do it on my own anymore. My body was reluctant but there were only two obvious options - help, or death. I tried therapy once, I gave up. Soon, everything kept *******. My life was out of order. I couldn't get out of bed for days, I was self-harming. I saw myself get into substance abuse and was counting on alcohol to get me through my days.

My grades suffered too, I could no longer focus on anything at all. I couldn't sit through a 2 hour movie, I couldn't pay attention to a one hour lecture, I couldn't finish a novel for over 6 months and I still haven't ( I'm the kind of person who finishes at 400 page novel in 2 days, mind you ), I couldn't hold conversations without zoning out. My sleep schedule was altered terribly and all I thought about was death. I was numb, emotionally empty and gone. I had lost my willingness to live and through all of that, I kept pushing myself to achieve good grades just to prove that I could do it. That, being my biggest mistake.

Each time I felt like I had won the battle in my head, it would last a week at most. I would then find myself falling into the same black hole and crawling, choking, gasping for air and trying to find my way out of it. I felt like I was doomed into eternal damnation and that was it for me. My life was over.

And then, came hope.

I think I finally accepted how terrible things were  after my numerous suicide attempts, and soon I had no choice but to leave my Pre-University course and seek for help, and this time quitting was not an option. I will always remember the day my parents and I decided that I would pack my things and leave college immediately. Two of my closest friends sat on my bed, we held hands and exchanged prayers for my recovery. These are the very friends who opened their home for me every time I had an episode. The very friends who rush from class with food for me every time I am too tired to get out of bed. The same friends who cook dinner for me, wake me up each morning. Send me messages of encouragement, and most of all - constantly pray for me. The same friends who saved my life, time and over again. And through it all, chose to love me without ever complaining.

Order still isn't restored, I still have my ugly days. I still see my psychiatrist, I'm still on antidepressants. But now, I know that my life isn't over. As a matter of fact, my life has just begun; and I have a purpose. One of my greatest dreams is to inspire people and so, I want my story to make a difference to anyone who feels like they are alone. To anyone who feels like the answer to all your suffering and pain is suicide, to anyone who feels like depression has taken over their lives and to anyone, who feels like no one understands. To anyone who feels like it is over.

Depression isn't just the lack of love, it isn't just the loss of a loved one. Not just how you feel after a broken relationship or when you fail your exams. I had more love that I ever deserved, I had all the support in the world. I had amazing people around me who more than anything - wanted me to survive. I'm not there yet, but I know that some day, I will be.

My depression does not define me. My scars carry more stories than my heart ever will, and my smile, it carries stories of how recovery; like I once said, isn't a myth. It is possible.

Through it all, I owe my greatest thank you's to my family, friends, lecturers and psychologists for never once giving up on me, even when I did. To the people I barely even knew who reached out to me every time I was starting to sound suicidal on my social media accounts. For never complaining, for being my rock. I love each and every one of you so much.

A little note to you, reader.

Hey you,

First, I want to tell you that you have nothing to prove. You live for yourself and every single one of us has a different journey. I want you to know that things will get better. It sounds clichè, I know. Everyone says the same **** thing, I know that too. But I promise you, the sun will rise again and the storm will pass. Darkness will evaporate and light will surround you. The weight of the world will be lifted off your shoulders, and life will restart. You will live, you will get through this. I am with you. Now, and always.
Klaus Apr 2013
Instinct becomes arbitrary when my willpower deters my integrity
Aspirations are mere illusion when my intuition exceeds my ailing grasp

A ******* creep of disintegrating fantasies releases
a
sense
of realism.

Nicotine surfs my limbs
as thoughts align with tectonic disasters.

Malice masks insinuating balance,
An inevitable roar of discontent prefaces
A cruising tune of initiated indifference
yet hope
Sacrelicious Mar 2012
Sorry you're a worn out bigot.
I Guess I'll see you when I'm six feet under
or six states South.
We can pretend we're family then
=] .


There are two things I will never comprehend.

1. Why people have to have a bewildered reaction upon finding out someone in their life is gay.
Gay people exist and we're not urban legends.

2. Why people feel the need to call gay guys *******, we know what we are. If you're going to make a quick jab at me, tell me something I don't already know. *******.

Ignorance, fear, hatred and differences are what's ******* up the world.

You can say that everything is fine and that it's just a phase I'm in or even on a larger scale you can say that the blatantly ignored ******* hatred doesn't exist.

** Excuses don't explain anything. I know you have trouble sleeping at night, if I was evil, I would have the same problem.


I use to write for my high school newspaper, but after one year, I got kicked off for writing editorials like this.
MereCat Dec 2014
There are two ‘Institutions for the Mentally Ill’ in my town
One is grimly Victorian. Lunatic Asylum.  
Forgotten by all but the pigeons and pylons
As it thrashes and wrangles and mangles the memories
Of the ghosts of the ghosts that lived out their non-lives there.
The other is a modern, glass, Christmas tree
A circus tent in brown and beige
Like sepia and coffee stains.
You aren’t Lunatics anymore, we got told
Like renaming a problem could diminish it.
You slip past us just a little too quickly
So that you don’t see the woman who smokes cheap cigarettes
Out the front
And who bites December like it was something that could be torn from the walls
And pressed out of sight somewhere
And the metaphors in her head get muddled in her oesophagus
And she speaks to a man who’s never been evicted from her right ear
And who’s never been born or been buried but has simply whispered
With meretricious comfort
Up the road you could pay to gawp at the carol singers
But why bother because she’s singing
Driving Home For Christmas
Like no-one ever wrote her a melody or an audience
Gives a nice festive atmosphere, our psychiatrist said
And I asked the car park if optimism had ever been so odious
And if the snow around our feet was ‘festive’ and ‘nice’
While a girl as papery as December
Tried to smother herself in it
She rolled it in her bare hands as if hoping there’d be nothing left of her
If she could only freezer her heart
And scrape back the whiteness of the snow and her skin to the ivory
That still lingered beneath
Unstable death trap, rigged scaffolding
Although it was threatening to slice its way out
From her shrinking face and arms and thighs.
She lay down and made a snow angel in the hope that she’d become one
If she could only riddle out a way to please Anorexia.
And did the car park see that no one cares that there’s a fourteen year old
Who’s hung a cigarette from his lips and is chewing on it
Because what more damage can be done
That isn’t already curdled and notched into the skin of his wrists?
And written into the lining of his skull
Or branded in each heckled vein or carved into his gums
By the lip piercing he’s worn since he was twelve.
He has pulled the arms of his sweater beyond his finger tips
And hugged them into him to stop the secrets
He’s stashed there from spilling in front of a car.
If only he could forget what he was.
And I kick my boots against the curled up world
And want to shout it out of my vision
And want to ask if I’m thinking ‘nice festive’ thoughts
Because I’m thinking about the snow I’m ploughing  
And the way that I’d like to tie fairy lights
Over my eyes until I can’t see anything but fairy tales
And I’m thinking about our parade of broken-bottle people
Wearing masks so empty that we don’t look human
Not to you
And I wonder if this is enough of a pantomime for you
That I’ve dressed my thoughts up in drag
And they’re telling you a ****** joke from a ****** Christmas *******
Thoughts rolled and congealed like the rims of strained bathtubs
Thoughts broken and fleeting and self-imploding like headphones
That got left to tangle beyond redemption in a back pocket
Too far gone to be saved
Thoughts that are forever curled back to the replay button
Re-destruct, re-punish, re-****
Pink Elephant thoughts that will never be sorted and thrown out
Cynical self-disposal
I’m on a retrieval mission that never knows what it’s trying to find
Because I’m a Chinese doll
And each face is cruller
And uglier
And blanker
Than the one before it
Until at the centre you find that the last doll is missing
And there are only a few jumbled messages where she’s supposed to be
And fairy lights
And maybe a memory of when Christmas meant stockings and fireside
Not carparks and frigidity
If only all my ******* repeats led to redemption.
Look;
We’ve built you a snowman, is that enough of a freak show for you?
Can you move on and join the carol singers in glorifying God
Safely out of Purgatory and back on holy ground
Or do you require something more?
The pitiful Christmas Dinner that’s currently being counted out in teaspoons?
The girls and the boy who’ll press their fingers across their lips
Like prison bars
And keep themselves under lock and key in their own
Lunatic Asylum
Joshua Wooten Aug 2016
if I walk for a while
I can get out of the city,
the chaotic place
echoing from the causality
of all of the wire skeletons
and every silhouetted structure
painted against the sky.
the night burns a brighter dark
than the shadows of skyscrapers,
and the architecture is an oily black
droning a metallic buzz
that sticks to the road
and the people that cross it
with cars and shoes
so they remember where they are;
drop their inspiration
down storm drains and gutters
and forget the words
they worked so hard to find again,
searching their closets and dressers
for eloquence they can't remember
tucking carefully under their pillows
just the night before
or was it a month?

I can keep going for hours
watching mile signs pass--
reading them with no reason:
mile 337, 338, 339--
feeling the road beneath my feet
writhe like snakes in its unevenness
and turn to dirt and pebbles
that keep pace with my steps,
******* into boulders
that roll slowly forward--
but I leave them behind
in whirling eddies and clouds of dust
kicked up by my trudging
and the sighs of wind.

the signs are becoming infrequent.
they skip numbers now as I pass -
surely 764 doesn't come after 749 -
I can't see the old buildings anymore
and all of the buzzing people
are safe in sound, far away
too far from the mile 764 sign
to hear my heaving breath
or my beating heart,
but I can hear them both.
the last mile sign is scratched off,
the number on it replaced by silver:
crisscrosses and a crude, scrawling zero.
below the mile sign is nothing -
a steep drop ends the ground,
swallows the snowball boulders
and signals my rest.

here I sit and dangle my legs;
I lean against mile zero
and stare into whatever it is
stretching out forever before me.
this is where the storm drains empty
and all of the inspiration pours out,
I've decided, like surging rainwater.
beyond the last mile is an ocean,
troubled, violent waters in the distance
but almost mirror-like at the shoreline,
so far under my feet
I can barely see it.

is this a dream?
one grows tired of dreams
and yearns for sleep.
the boulders groan forward,
hurling themselves one by one
off the edge to the water--
they fall quietly and are no more.
I want to follow them.
I close my eyes,
push off of the sign,
fall quietly as a rock.
for a moment I am open,
****** into beauty and inspiration,
my lovely splurge of hyperactive thought
and then I wake up,
return to the city that buzzes
with useless words
and lost musings.
my shoes are where I left them.
I decide to slip them on -
I know if I walk for a while
I can get out of here -
one grows tired of sleep
and yearns for dreams.
I wrote this one after a period in one of my literary doldrums.  (one of those times when every word I write sounds unoriginal and fake and I can't stand anything I come up with--not fun) but this kind of describes how my mind works when I do write well.
Simon Clark Aug 2012
He plays among the stars,
Throwing space dust in my eyes,
******* in orbit,
A spaceman,
My love.
written in 2006
I often have conversations
With objects around me -
From
Mindless banter ******* into
Heart-to-heart conversations,
To
Waking up in the middle of the night,
Fumbling for the right switch in the darkness
To put the lights on so I can see
For a split second,
Things obligingly lying still in their place,
As they stagger through burdened time
To lull myself into sleep
With an assurance of familiarity.

On days I enter my room
With bottled thoughts, when these things,
With all their weathered, withered strength
Spur me on to etch out utterances at length
Knowing as they do,
You don't always seek
A response, reaction, remark, judgment,
To something you nevertheless feel the need to speak,
Which at times starts to turn incomprehensible
To yourself and to the other,
As your tongue rolls them out
In the gibberish of vowels and consonants.

So I start off on a mindless rhyme
At times confessing my mind's crimes,
Scraping out fears rusty with neglect
Pulling out halted thoughts from a staggering stack,
Laughing as I admit to myself that joke was funny.
Crying with relish for I won't be accused of being weak.
Stretching out a tune I'd only ventured to hum [in public],
Into a song, hearing my voice sing & strum,
In a long time.    
                           [Hitting the table with a pen
                           To make up for the beats.]
Dancing with awkward steps on my two left feet,
But dancing nevertheless.
[Thank goodness I have feet to dance.)

P.S At times, when the familiarity
      Of my own presence poses a threat,
      I need their company, these non-living things,
      The only solace sensitive to my minds' mutterings.
Context: “I do not believe,” [Edison] said, “that matter is inert, acted upon by an outside force. To me it seems that every atom is possessed by a certain amount of primitive intelligence. Look at the thousand of ways in which atoms of hydrogen combine with those of other elements, forming the most diverse substances. Do you mean to say that they do this without intelligence? . . . Gathered together in certain forms, the atoms constitute animals of the lower orders. Finally they combine in man, who represents the total intelligence of all the atoms.”

“But where does this intelligence come from originally?” I asked.


“From some power greater than ourselves.”
Christian Reid Oct 2014
Silent settling spurred
Conscious contrails of
Rebellion--
Subtle synergistically-imbued incarnations
Of space and time
Humming deeply clefted vibrations
In the company of conglomerating waves
Crescendos gathering
Sounds unspeakable
******* down self-carved channels
Recycling
Into
the
Source

--The Great Echo--

Reverberating through infinite probability
Casting shadows like statues in stone
Seen by strobe lights
MS Lynch Nov 2013
the human body
has three hundred and fifty bones
when we are born
which fuse together
as we grow
to two hundred and six;
further simplifying
down to condensed calcium
and summated marrow,
growing our skeletons down
to simpler beings as we grow.
if only the human soul
was not the opposite;
******* into
spreading stardust
particles so quickly that
we cannot put a simplified
finger on exactly who we are.
black & gold.
Andy Nov 2016
The clock always shows 4:40.
Simple man rings out
High above thousands of
Twinkling lights; motorways scoring
Horizons.
Our time together is finite, the curtains drawn across fine grain wood -
Planks in three lengths -
The stage light sun extinguished.
Love to me is fame.
Placated rhythms atop vacant halls,
Four chambers capture
******* phosphorus desire:
Compassion and feeling passed
Unlocked and bleeding.
I was once told, 'thinking does not mean feeling,' - but how can a feeling be interpreted in the absence of thought?
Kia Nov 2013
im *******
down
down
through a downward spiral
again
except this time
i dont give a ****
about what im becoming.
Emily Martinez Aug 2011
I see myself headed to Nowhere, and fast.
I'll be ******* down South towards there real soon.
Forgetting all that I've known in the past,
to try something entirely new.
It's really very far from here, Nowhere,
near this high point where I've stood all my life.
Maybe I'll happen upon fortune and fame,
or spend the rest of my days in soul-stealing strife.
I don't know exactly the coordinates;
when I get there, I'll send you my address.
And I don't have a plan, a road, or a map,
but I feel in my heart exactly where it's at.
I know I'll find it, I'll send post cards along the way
as I wander hopefully towards
Nowhere in the US of A.
Stanislaw HHM Feb 2014
She is my best friend because . . .
I immediately call her when I see something really funny happen in my daily life.
She is my best friend because . . .
Even though neither of us is particularly a fashion maven, I  trust her implicitly when it comes to giving good style.
She is my best friend because . . .
I can’t even really remember how the two of us became friends, it just kind of started happening and ******* down a giant hill of love and care for her.
She is my best friend because . . .
We have a completely made up terms for mine and her people and very specific things.
She is my best friend because . . .
I basically expect her to be a more harsh version of Simon Cowell and put any of my dates through the judgy tests which prove her worthiness for the crown.
She is my best friend because . . .
Pretty much everything ever recommended to me by her in terms of entertainment has been a spot-on choice.
She is my best friend because . . .
The two of us have been to a concert together, it was amazing and we gossiped about the people in the crowd around her.
She is my best friend because . . .
I can always go back through my chat histories, text messages, and email exchanges to get a quick laugh or some reassurance that I am loved and understood by her.
She is my best friend because . . .
Sometimes I rediscover old inside jokes that I used to have with her and remember how hilarious and ridiculous they were all over again.
She is my best friend because . . .
Ultimate trust in her knows things that I have told literally no one else in the world.
She is my best friend because . . .
She is very understanding and little problems in day-to-day friendship do not affect the amount of trust and loyalty I have for her other overall.
She is my best friend because . . .
Every time I talk about her to someone who doesn’t know her yet, I gush a little bit.
She is my best friend because . . .
We help each other practice for job interviews and meeting, and are almost as nervous/excited about her getting hired as I do about your own job opportunities.
She is my best friend because . . .
The two of us pig out together and never worry about the other one judging my and her eating choices.
She is my best friend because . . .*
My friendship makes me feel, in a lot of ways, much less scared about the future and the problems which might lie ahead of me . . . her . . . us . . . them.
Linnea Dee Jun 2013
Let your mind flow.

Let the thoughts swirl.

Let your words come out of nowhere.

Out of nowhere.

But somewhere something happened.

No cliché figurative flickering fluorescent set you off, no slight nudge sent you *******; no, you've been lit on fire. You don’t know it, but you’re burning. But that flame is not the one nestled neatly in your grandmother's fireplace, nor the uniform petals licking up at underside of her tea kettle. It is a forest fire, raging and impatient, intent on turning over and devouring every leaf of your inspiration until you let it out. From far away it might appear to be merrily orange, but underneath it's blazing blue and white.

Maybe you can feel it. A burn like that would leave a mark.

Those stories that crackle from your tongue are going to tear this world down and replace it with one of their own. The energy they create is irresistible. It will consume you like old newspapers in an autumn bonfire.

Yes, it will consume you, just like the search for the perfect word. Remember? That tickling on the tip of your tongue that will not go away, not in hell, until you can name it. You’ll wrack your brain for hours, sometimes days, as though it were a cluttered attic and in the most hidden corner huddles your word, grinning impishly when you stumble upon it. That quest that devours your mind again and again is only the beginning, the end, the in-between, the pinpricks of color on your canvas that make up your painting, your masterpiece. And it will be a masterpiece. Your beginnings and your ends and your in-betweens will become a wonderful whole.

But, a warning. The window to your mind is not the lens that everyone will look through. Those whose opinions distort their sight will tell you your beginnings are simply weak scaffolding, your ends have loose threads that remain unsewn, and your in-betweens are only the unoriginal fluff of a muddled mind.

Their words, however, are only kindling for your fire.

Watch them burn.

They will learn to respect the writer.
You're born,
you live,
you die.
Is there time to evolve?

Sometimes I sit cross-legged and I hum,
and I congregate with familiars to hymn,
and I congregate with warriors to gym,
and I smash keyboards to poeticize,
but it there time to evolve?

I will not let you substitute my evolution.
It is not some rabbit evolves from hat trick.
It is not some ******* nothing to something odd.
I don't know what it is, but you're not substituting it.

It's something weird.

I can go insane and wake up a god,
is that not evolution?
I can fall in love and become superman overnight,
is that not evolution?
I am the ka-me-ha-me-ha fusion of my parents!
I was,
once as worthless and aptly sized
as the penny under your bed,
but just you wait (you know what I mean)
I became big enough to rob you of common sense
and maybe your cents (yeah, about those pennies... can I sleep with you?)
I became big enough to hurl mountains across lakes (warning: stated objects are proportional to ants).
I became big enough to be the most insignificant speck on the earth, but I could nuke San Francisco and you'd see my handiwork from the moon,
is that not evolution?

Evolution is the survival of the fittest,
that's right,
every football player could be the next evolutionary link,
just wait until the end of the match,
you might be the first witness ;)

Tell me I'm not wrong!
If you say the opposite, you're a communist... (see what I did there?)
Is that not evolution?

What exactly are we passing through,
to get from where I am typing "a" to you saying, "Why'd he choose 'a'?"
from all across somewhere else where I am not?
Mouthful? Mouth full of what? Imagination?
Is that not evolution?

I don't know where I am sometimes,
and then I pull out a cellular doohickey,
and I command a machine 100 times my size
that's somewhere where there's no air or gravity
to tell me where I am. Sometimes I threaten it,
"I'll give you the AIDs equivalent of a computer virus you,
you... you pervert! Yeah, I know you know where I am every hour,
of every minute,
of every second,
so... there!"
You've got to give satellites the what-for sometimes.
IS THAT NOT EVOLUTION!!!

I don't know.
I guess you don't believe me...
Is that not devolution? (See what I did there?)

Okay, okay, I'm not impressing you with anything,
neither wordplay nor swordplay,
neither hiccup nor genius,
okay,
I'll leave you with this.

What did the signing ape say to the other signing ape?
Boom.
(Is that not evolution...)
Had a lot of fun with this one.
Writing three poems in succession can be a bit crazy, so maybe that's why this poem is so zany, hahah.

Enjoy!

DEW
evolove Apr 2021
I used to think comets were shooting stars falling. Til I grew to understand how our earth was *******. Oder out of chaos. The Masons are stonewalling. But the truth is your true calling. The worship of Cain has left us.
barely abael.
and crawling..
Christian. End times.
Andrew Rueter Oct 2019
Government secrets undermine democracy
in the same way lies undermine honesty
by circumventing accountability
at the expense of truth and credibility.
As citizens we should have a say in decisions
which is impossible when they’re clandestine.
Proponents say that’s why we have a representative democracy
we choose who handles our secerets
which is fair enough I guess
but once the secrets start *******
how are we supposed to know who should represent us
when we don’t even know what they’re doing?
It's hard to tell
If I should feel hatred towards anything
Should I start from the beginning?
Would that help?

Should I be mad towards my parents
For loving one another but apparently not enough?
There are infinite definitions of the emotion love
Who am I to judge their past intent?

Should I be mad towards myself
For halting the progress they both worked towards?
They would both tell me with conviction that those words
Are just bad for my mental health

Should I be mad towards the world
For ******* my life into where I am now?
My happiness has elevated past the highest cloud
My smile never curls downward

Should I be mad towards the past
For constantly occupying my entire thought process?
It never helps to dwell on mistakes and losses
Even if they pile up way too fast

Should I be mad towards the present
For shifting my actions without my permission?
I can't always see today as an inescapable prison
Though it's difficult to live in the moment

Should I be mad towards the future
For making me question and doubt everything?
People have died having that way of thinking
I will too if I continue, I'm sure

I feel the need to have hatred
Towards literally anything I can find
But my life's perfect in my own mind
Clearly, by what you've just read

So what was the point of this?
Probably to bring out my inner neautralness
Anonymous Feb 2019
Cut open by love, my heart's been bled dry
Said too many goodbyes, no tears left to cry
But you came along and suddenly I'm falling.
Couldn't stop those feelings from *******.

The way you control me, I must be crazy.
To love this pain, yeah, I'm going crazy.

Tried so hard to fight, but it was all a waste
Like a drug, it only takes one taste
Just one touch of sweetness, and now you own me.
Fill my head with dreams, but you're all I see.

The hope you give me, more proof I'm crazy.
Why do I see what's not there, unless I'm crazy?

While I wait to hear your voice and see your face
Thinking pain is better than the numbness it replaced
You shut me out with those walls of ice I dream of breaking.
Leaving me cold and alone, with hope to keep my heart aching.

To think we belong together, I know I'm crazy.
But I can't stop looking for a sign that I'm not crazy.
k e i Jun 2022
may crosses the threshold;

still  in place despite being shaken,

things dangling in a state of shock, matters frenzied.

all i could do is stare at its tail ends, its ides, its roots, fiendish.



time is a quicksand, it has taught.

the month’s chasm i find myself suspended in,

as only half and in a room hellish, four corners built precariously

pent up dread *******.



breathe in breathe out



may leaves,

a sigh of only minimum relief
days late but have at it anyway
The heavens softly don
an enormous
gray silk bonnet
adorned with birds, blue curls
white nonpareils and
bits of Queen Anne's lace

My morning jaunt is
s-o-o much more comfortable
when the sun decides
to take a vacation

Toss in a breeze
******* from the north,
earthy pine kisses, friendly
neighbors waving,
a hug from my honey

And I know! I can make
this two mile trek :)
Ryan O'Leary Dec 2019
Is there anything to protest
about, we seem to be the only
ones not out there braking up
the place and looting.

Are we in our riot minds or
is there something holding
us back.

Global Cooling is something
we could complain about, it
is not fair, Ireland is being left
out of the rise in temperatures.

Soon we will be ******* the
Police, The Hiber Nation will
wake up and do wreck, like in
France, Hong Kong and India.

The only difference being, we
will be needing the umbrellas
for the rain.

We need an Irish Gretta to
increase our CO2 emissions
so that we can grow Lemons.
Mohd Arshad Apr 2018
Little things
Are little masters,
Little gentlemen.
Their little world
Is a lid,
a pen pocket ,
a saucer,
But they treasure
Each moment
Like children
To their balloons,
*******, bursting.
No cavil on lips,
No lour on faces,
Only decorous
In every weather.
Vases in my home
Are 10+2 passed out
From a public school.
I'm glad
They're well groomed,
Well disciplined.
In the sunshine,
And when it rains,
They wait for our nod
To make a choice.
Before guests
They're demure.
Since their arrival
In my villa,
I've been their fan
For their greatness
In their little space
That's what we need
In our hustle and bustle.
labyrinth Nov 2020
Diminishing sincerity
******* polarity
Excessive irrationality
Abundance in disparity
Ever-increasing barbarity
Fading income inequality
His, her or your vanity
Addiction to popularity
Translates to peculiarity
Governmental irregularity
A lot of corruptibility
Destitute of quality
Surplus of insensitivity
Lack of responsibility
Never ending animosity
Disengaging actuality
Too much sexuality
Accelerating obesity
Elites: Malicious fraternity
Utter contemptibility
All about profitability
Causing instability
What a pity
And!!!!
True solidarity
Complete clarity
A lot of integrity
Quite some serenity
Stronger immunity
Back to respectability
Definite profundity
Old-school verity
And impeccability
Absolute race equality
Mutual generosity
Much less paucity
None of docility
Financial security
Fixing credibility
Growing authenticity
Waning negligibility
No images, real identity
A little conventionality
Maybe some spirituality
For sure, intrepidity
Equal opportunity
Lasting prosperity
Happier humanity
With fine dexterity
All necessity
If not!!!
Inevitable scarcity
Impossible maintainability
Increasing immorality
Spreading brutality
Thus illegality
Sheer inequality
Additional vulnerability
Air and nature impurity
Much less inhabitability
A separating community
Everything’s overcapacity
Additional promiscuity
With less heterosexuality
Way more criminality
Presumably more oddity
Leads to inexplicability
Rising radioactivity
Unstoppable ferocity
Along with hostility
Political den of iniquity
All that potentiality
On the verge of criticality
Oh boy, a poor posterity
More than a possibility
Around the vicinity
Shame on complicity
The End!!!
I want my story to be a chapter not a book
And I can’t summon the courage to want
the author to explore my arc

Leave me ragged and unhemmed please
leave me undeveloped

Who wants to live long enough to see
everyone around them suffer, anyways?

I may as well give them something to talk about
something to connect over, something to bring the family together casseroles and black clothes and whispered relief
spoken into lonely evening air

I’m ready to stop ******* my burden
What a lovely escape, what a cowardly end, do I crave.

— The End —