It's like a landslide of small, sharp rocks

falling onto your chest

into the spaces between your ribs

damaging your heart

and whats left of your fading soul

I have memorized the silence in your eyes,
which hides a world beyond the film of blue,
a world of words unspoken, hid’n in lieu
of letting me into your mind. Were these lies
You spoke to me to cleanse my brain, appease
these gnawing thoughts like beetles making home
in tender tissue, insecure in roam-
ing, ever-changing emotions like these?
But why be anxious over your desire?
Such careless, ambling adoration my
still heart protests. I do not need a vow
of love in certainty, but merely hand o’er
a soft embrace in secret spaces. Sigh
in place of words, and we’ll stay here for now.

She'd walked to work at sundown  
When the blue dissolved to evening              
Past the roadside vendors cooking fires,
Not yet bright enough for deepening                
The outline of the factory-house
Where night-time shifts were gathering          
'Round the early evening cooking scents,
Boiled rice, and bread and lentils
Carried on the twilight breezes with  
A light refrain that mentioned
The hunger in her mid-riff
And the mild persistent headache
At the urgent anxious anger that
Her fears and hopes resembled.
And the nagging hopeless worry
That the money wouldn't stretch.

Treading lightly, sandals slapping
In a rhythm never blindly
To be misconstrued as anything
But a walk to work, and quietly.
One hand clutching at her sari,
Coughing mutely through her head-shawl
Barely breathing through the mocking
Of the jeering tuk-tuk drivers
Past the dust cloud covered concrete
With the reek of sun-soaked diesel
And the mouthing finger-thrusting
And humiliating cat-calls
That permeate her modesty
And her sense of self-retrieval
With a fierce determination
That the future must be faced

She'd felt the first forced tremble
In the walls and floors beneath her
And the slowly sliding shifting
Of her sewing, soiled machine
As it cannoned past the T-shirts
Through the carefully folded blouses
And toppled from the table top
To smash against the floorboards
When the building crumpled inwards
And the chaos and the screaming
Chased the panic to the exits
Down the staircase to the ground.
Then the ceiling at the center of the
Wide, high whitened work room
Caved in with crash and cursing
As the lighting dimmed and died

Now, far above she hears the cadence                    
Through the gauze of dimming clarity              
Fire truck sirens moan hysteria
Within the tinnitus of silence                
Tumbled past the dust caked boulders
Of the colorless construction                            
Prostrated down below
In the humid darkened stillness.
Trapped and jammed into the spaces
Where the falling floors had forced her.          
Where the grinding groaning echoes
Of the debris and the torture                        
Close her throat to swells of  panic
For her mother and her daughter              
In the two-roomed cardboard shanty
Miles above and hours away

Barely conscious, breathing lightly
Through the dust and reek of faeces
Thinking of her crowded back-room
Where she'd bathed her infant daughter
In the tin-roofed cardboard shanty
By the stinking standing water
And where her husband’s insobriety
Nightly terminates in snoring
After shouting and the swearing
And occasional forbearance
When her mother’s stifled terror
Terminates in tempers risings
And the all pervading violence
That resolves in resignation
And completes the shaming sequence
By the act of copulation

In the wreckage work continues
Where the rescue teams are scrabbling
In the arms of their dilemma
To keep searching or accepting
That the paradox of seeing and then again
Believing in the hopeless expectations
That some persons can be found
Far below and hours away
The burning thirst has found her
Past the pain of her right shoulder
And the numbness in her legs.
The acrid smoke that holds her  
Transfixed in shallow coughing
While the sari starts to smolder
To the agony of breathing
As she hoarsely tries to scream

In a conference room in London
In the tautly tensioned Aerons
Women smooth their sculpted short skirts
As the slicked-down young supplier
Holds a T-shirt for inspection
To the murmured confirmation
Of the busy buoyant buyers
That the pricing must be right.
Miles above and hours away
Six degree's of separation
Form a loosely joined connection
Out of mind and out of sight.
One by one the vendor cooking fires
Turn to embers and to ashes
While miles below and far away
Comes the dying of the light.

Your poetry holds picnics in the places
where some would say that words should never go;
there's strange delight in passing through those spaces
where nouns are tame and verbs are safe to know
to kingdoms where you colour past the lines,
where adjectives and adverbs long to tread—
the other side of “do not enter” signs
where rulers cannot reach the words you said.
    Yet nothing's for the sake of mere transgression:
    your words below, your metaphors above,
    with every part of speech in your possession
    together make a verbal kind of love;
conceiving thought anew, and giving birth
to cast and recreate the very earth.

They turn me inside out again
blank pages flutter to the floor
They have to shake me
in order to free the few pages
that I held dear
they were stuck to my hands and caught on my heart
"Why won't you let these go?"
they ask
"They are just empty pages"
I let the ink fall from my eyes
"You can't fill something up if it isn't first empty"

you come to me unravelling from hiding spaces in moist wood
composting yourself as nature does
your head hanging low like vines
fluid as the streams running through me.

i: always convinced of my place as low hanging fruit,
see your streams and carry buckets for your leaks.
i am a fixer-upper.

I’m less of a woman because I’m fat
I’m treated like one of the guys
No doors were held for me everyday
And most of the time, I’m fine with that

No gentleman was ever gentle to me
No girl was ever a friend to me
All these empty spaces they left me
I decided to put doubt and insecurities in

They say it’s okay
They say love yourself in a way
That itself should be enough for the light of day
But they don’t know how it is for me each day

I just want to feel loved and wanted
I just want to feel important and painted
I’m tired of being black and white
All I need is a little color on my sky

I’m less of a person because I’m scarred
I’m less of a human because I’m “ugly”
That’s what they said to me
I’m less of a woman because I’m fat

As culled from an arts magazine, 13 March 2019

Socialist Realism - The official doctrine in Soviet art and literature after 1932 that evolved from the traditional commitment to social and civic concerns into an all-pervasive general ideological mandate.

            -Yevgeny Yevtushenko, 20th Century Russian Poetry


collective exhibition space vibe community
interactive narrative brown neighborhood
defined commodified Indigenous
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narratives populist intertwined
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culture local artists arts district small galleries
DIY spaces speaking out against
gentrification displacing shelter
studio space elsewhere late stage capitalism
collective mantra underdog art savior
corporate entity partnering insensitive
ignorant collective brown people art
contemporary work that may not fit
into establishment art galleries
media advisory venture collaborate
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many levels collaborate local
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community what that collaboration
looks like ongoing local artists going
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project community buy-in consulted members of the creative community Indigenous artists curators museum
directors professors burgeoning landscape
cultural framework critique talk individuals
entities inclusivity open
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conversations collaboration discuss
your projects share our work with you
common ground work together healthy sustainable
accountable decolonization

the moon is as longing
as I am to be the brightest
in an ocean of darkness
speckled with billions
of smudges of light
but does the moon get tired?
is that why its in love with the ocean, drowning itself
in the water every night?

do you think someone
paints your mirror?
that the color of your reflection
isn't you?
do your conversations seem
one sided?
do you realize the only
person talking
is you?

isn't there something brighter
some type of tranquil light
better than the moon at night
that can wake the dark parts
of the sidewalk to light
so I don't step into them
so I sleep right at night

everyone knows
I have a fear of the dark
It reminds me of tar
It reminds me of my mind
It reminds me of my sinking
It reminds me of your drinking
It reminds me of the *******
It reminds me
of the empty
spaces
in my chest
that are not empty,
they are somehow filled
with nothingness

It reminds me of
the feeling
when I reach out  
to grab you
and my hand
cant grasp you
can't make you understand
can't make you see what's
happening to me
how I am drowning

In something invisible

They call it being the big spoon
The Big Dipper of the bodies
And you insisted on that being your job.
But it was the middle of the night
And you turned over
Letting me press my body against your back.
Fitting myself into all your open spaces
Nothing breathed between us
You reached out your arm
Pulling mine up and over
Hugging my hand to your bare chest.
And I
Listened,
My ear to your back
My hand to your heart
We beat in unison
And I
I couldn't tell who's heart was who's.
Tracing the freckles on your back.
Using the tips of my fingers
And my lips
To connect the constellations
Your skin glowed as if touched by stars
They are imbedded in your skin.
How were we supposed to know
That beneath the surface of your porcelain
That you were burning alive.
For the stars weren't those you wish upon
But those that scorch you from the inside out.
The ones that set you on fire
How were we to know that the constellations imbedded in your back
Were not constellations at all,
But veins filled with poison.
A cancer feeding on you
Destroying what you are
Burning stars,
Poisonous, deathly stars,
That big spoon
Pouring hot acid through your bones
Extinguishing the light that once enveloped you.
You lay here
And your eyelashes
They start to fall to your cheeks
You cry and
I say
Beautiful.
Glowing from the inside out,
I traced the Big Dipper into your back
How was I to know you were burning.

Make a wish, baby
It's not over until you stop fighting.

mold spores sleep
in the blood of a girl
three floors and
a wing away, leaching
poison into her bones.
they will cut them out
in pieces, shine light
through them like
ice cores, and still
she will die. until then,
she is beautiful.

we look more or less
alike, shadows splitting
the spaces where ribs
should be. girls wrapped
in red stripes visit her,
reading poems, leaving
trinkets. I haven’t had
a visitor in weeks, and
probably won’t again.
across the hospital,
they send me ***** looks,

cursing the unfairness of
it all – she is beautiful and
she will die, I am ugly and
they might be able to save me.

wish you were here
in the void between stars
slowly floating in spaces
left between fingers and the night sky
away from hot splashes
of bitter sun

wish you were here
keeping me company on a long winding road
where tree shadows hold each others hands
till the end of nothingness
where birds forget their nests
and are forever lost in blissful amnesia

wish you were here
draped in colours of autumn
fragrances of spring and gusts of rain
in silent chills of winter whiff
hunting like an arctic fox
the no good prey of meekness

wish you were here
on the attic walking on a crazy rainbow
shamelessly fragile
like the love of a baby for a new toy
so pure, honest...  yet so
insubstantial

stuck in a fishbowl
ensnared by smiles of the moon
alluring me with chants of professed freedom
life throws darts on a balloon heart
wish you were here
to rid me of fears and lies i tell myself
and you

in times when diamonds doubt their worth
boundaries of satisfaction orphaned by loneliness
wish you were here
with a wingspan of monsoon clouds
to soar over and flood the parched earth
preceded by rhythms of thunder

but here you are
hiding in pillars of laughter
swaying to music of freshness
meant for my hazy eyes to seek
and I dare not dance on orange flower-beds
left behind in your footprints
etched on my imagination

I dare not lead this dance
I will not change the music
and let delirium echo in air surrounding us
for too much of a dream bewitches the sleep

but somewhere in the spaces
left between my fingers and the night sky
draped in colours of autumn
carrying smile of a baby who found his toy
with footprints on which spring grows
just for tonight...

could you walk my rainbow

I often wonder
How people would react
If they could hear
The thoughts that trickle through
My mind
How often I tell myself
It's my fault
Everything is my fault
You're not pretty enough
Not smart enough
Not talented enough
Not nice enough
Not skinny enough
But I cannot speak
These thoughts
So instead
I could write a novel
Entitle it
Nicotine and broken dreams
And fill it with all my thoughts
It'd be written in blood
And stained with tears
Pages upon pages
Filled with hatred
And self loathing
It will be considered
Tragic and poetic
When in reality
I'm just pathetic
I mean nothing
Not a single thing
I'm unimportant
Worthless
Pointless
Good for nothing
A monster
A monster who gives her love
To everyone else
And saves none
For herself
A monster who leaves
Herself empty
And the empty spaces
Are filled with negative thoughts
That I must write down
To release

we wrote our names on the sand
filled it with hearts
and shells for embellishment
you wrote with the thicker end
of the stick, made deep marks
on the white sand
but you wrote it near the edge
and it was washed away

as water filled up
the spaces we made
we had no choice but to look on
and when it was over
you sighed,
i cried

our love was swallowed
by a whirlpool.

At some point
I got really into
this radical
pretend revolutionary
mocking revolutions
trash pop art
where it was about
not writing
beautiful or
compelling things anymore
but just regurgitating raw
thoughts and avante garde musings
onto the page
like careless splashes of paint
red and black -
- black and read
- read in blackest humor
sense in the senseless
nonsensical. -
No hallowed grounds -
no safe spaces -
no trigger warnings -
or safety switches -
No structure
no reason
trash trash trash trash
with maybe
just a hint
that buried beneath
this landfill dissection lab
of grotesque disregard
a muted glint of
grace and hope
yearns to be shared
once more

Love is not peace
or happiness
love is the passion
of poppies that bleed
profusely
love is the emptiness
of a poisonous thorn
that ****** the heart
love is the kiss of a rose
that doesn't know what to do
love is a dangerous game
people either die without regret
or live with pain in their necks
love is the white spaces of the years
left to our imagination
sometimes it's like sand in our hands
the tighter we hold it
the faster it fades
fortunately when it does
our soul can regain some peace.

Receding back to my usual corner
only passing time til I'm introduced to my coroner
attempting to inject fine knowledge into semantic memory
when a sudden wave of parinoier washes over the scenery

Unfortunately having drank all this coffee
with enough caffeine to **** the energizer bunny
my parched throat compels a leathery thirst
so I take another sip and act as the hearse
but as I'm throwing the soiled cup away
the coffee didn't quite go the way
...I had planed

As I begin coughing out loud in quiet public spaces
a disastrous look comes from their squinted little faces
as if they've been trapped and caged liked vermin
too long is some building deemed antiquarian

attempting assertion over upcoming coercions
I must admit I'm rather enjoying this
disrupting there gathering of information
with my uncontrolled vocal insertions

but enough with my cynical social actions
I must return to my work with which I have no passion
and because I've become bored with rereading these lines
I must retire to my higher cognitive confines

I closed my eyes,
I blew out seventeen candles,
All thinking of the same wish,
I know I shouldn't jinxes this,
But even as foolish as I am,
I know all dreams don't come true.
I thought back to just a year prior,
The places I had been,
All while staying in the same neighborhood,
And in those new spaces,
Filled with dark and black,
I found a cold little being in the corner amidst all of that terror,
I remember the floor felt a little harder then before,
The room was a little bit larger,
And inside my soul had grown violent,
But you always did that to me,
My mind was empty,
I wasn't thinking about you,
I was feeling you though,
I was rabid,
The raw hatred in my body made it impossible to speak,
You didn't just upset me that night,
You created a new being,
Someone cold,
Someone heartless,
Someone who couldn't love,
You made me this way,
My bones still ache,
My body still pulsates,
The blood through my veins is rushing,
Now my wish is simple,
It's just to do as you wanted,
Just a year prior this time,
I pray you get your wish,
Maybe you should take another bottle of pills this time.

i once read that
there are names for the spaces
in between
body parts,
architectural structures,
musical notes.

names for spaces
as if they are

real
concrete
solid

and not just
gaps
voids
silences

like
buccal vestibule of the maxilla
is a space between the cheek and lateral face

or piscina
is a space in a wall near an altar

and
F A C E are the spaces
in between
the lines of a staff.

spaces with names
because they are part of something.
even if technically they are
"spaces" and not just

hollow
empty
blank

so i think their names suits them well.
because at least you know
what to call them.

but there is also a space
between you and me
it bears no name
and i think

this suits us
just as well.

sat by that window
at last
with a draft
and the spaces
I needed
to pass the people
I met
and voices heard
quick to forget
going by
in zombie fashion
waiting vacantly
lacking passion
looking for something
or someone
to happen.

I swim in my prison
Of shallow water this
Prison a bowl, all I do
Is go in circles, getting
Dizzy as its the only way
To go.

I spend my days in this
Watery cell, three meals
A day, locked up but I did
Nothing wrong. I see you
Smug as you have open
Space. I just swim around
For the 10552 time.

I wish to swim in the open
Sea, but I was taken with
No wish to be in this cage,
Tiny thing which you  have
Brought for me.

I will dream of open spaces
Water further than the eye
Can see, but then I hit the
Glass wall of my cage an it
Is now my limited existence
In this bowl and me...

there’s something about the gentleness of reality
that makes falling for you
infuriating to the point  of mass extinction
of my greatest type of fear
calling contemplation
seeing stars align through the
spaceship’s giant hull of glass
are you my han solo counterpart
and I, princess leia, bound to
work and toil closely
in tight spaces
our vicinity getting narrower
not spacious in its
unresolved awkwardness
clenched hands and thighs
heart beats ******
pumping and secreting
a pressure sort of steam
while fixing mechanical parts
our bodies framed so close
and every minute to the hour
we somehow work together
I wonder if and when
you’ll kiss me
letting our paths converge
into some sort of cosmic wonderland
beyond every galaxy of
acute comprehension
distinctly aware of
this ****** tension.

Leading fashion stylists and casting directors have been directed by clients to avoid doing business with Trump Models, a company that promotes itself as “the brainstorm and vision of owner, Donald Trump”, several sources have told the Guardian.

Trump Models refused to comment, but according to its Twitter feed several models had made it on to the catwalk. News of such directives comes during New York fashion week, days after the president used Twitter to condemn the retailer Nordstrom for dropping his daughter Ivanka’s clothing brand, claiming poor sales.

According to one leading casting director who spoke to the Guardian on condition of anonymity, directives to avoid using models represented by Trump Modelsbegan last fall, before the presidential election. They then spread by “word of mouth”, the casting director said.

The effectiveness of any de facto boycott is hard to gauge. Trump Models, founded in 1999, is not considered a big player in the fashion business.

“It’s not a great agency, so it’s not such a big loss,” said the casting director, who was not authorised to speak on behalf of their client.

A French fashion stylist, who also requested anonymity, said she was reluctant to engage with a business that would put money in the pocket of the Trump family. When asked if they would use Trump models during fashion week, she replied simply: “Nooo!”

“People certainly look twice if a Trump model comes for a casting,” said another leading American stylist. “But a boycott wouldn’t necessarily be a big loss to the business.”

A third stylist, a prolific veteran in the industry, said he hoped there was a boycott on the Trump agency but added that “if there was a girl I wanted, I wouldn’t mind if she was represented by Attila the ***”.

On Thursday, the fashion website Refinery 29 reported that hairstylist Tim Aylward had vowed to stop working on jobs that involved “talent” from Trump Models.

Trump Models once represented first lady Melania Trump, and currently represents dozens of models from all over the world. It also runs a division for “legends”, including Paris Hilton and Carol Alt.

The agency, which claims to be at “the forefront of cultivating a wide range of innovative and vibrant talent which personify the trends of the fashion industry”, has faced claims of mismanagement.

Last year, Canadian model Rachel Blais told CNN some managers at the agency had encouraged her to skirt US visa laws. “As a model, one of the things you learn quite quickly is that … you shouldn’t ask too many questions,” Blais said. “If you want to work, you have to do as you’re told. Yet you’re kind of aware that it’s not legal.”

Last year, Canadian model Rachel Blais told CNN some managers at the agency had encouraged her to skirt US visa laws. “As a model, one of the things you learn quite quickly is that … you shouldn’t ask too many questions,” Blais said. “If you want to work, you have to do as you’re told. Yet you’re kind of aware that it’s not legal.”

Blais was also one of four women who described their experience with Trump Models to Mother Jones. The women said they were forced to live in squalor in a crowded apartment in the East Village of New York City.

The women said the apartment contained multiple bunks, for which models paid $1,600 each, and housed up to 11 people at a time. “We’re herded into these small spaces,” one former model said, saying the apartment “was like a sweatshop”.

The then vice presidential candidate Mike Pence told CNN he was “very confident that this business, like the other Trump businesses, has conformed to the laws of this country”.

In court papers filed in 2014, Trump model Alexia Palmer said she was promised full-time work and $75,000 a year. She sued after earning just $3,880 and some modest cash advances for 21 days of work over three years.

“That’s what slavery people do,” Palmer told ABC News in March 2016. “You work and don’t get no money.”

Trump attorney Alan Garten said allegations of being treated like a slave were “completely untrue” and said Palmer had simply not been in demand. The suit was dismissed. Laurence Rosen, a lawyer who represented Trump Models in the case, told the Guardian his firm “is not handling any other lawsuits or claims concerning model representation, nor am I aware that any such lawsuits or claims have been asserted” against Trump Models.

Shannon Coulter, of the Trump boycott movement #grabyourwallet, said Trump Models had not been added to its list of Trump-owned or affiliated businesses because it was not a consumer-facing business.

“What we’re seeing is that the Trump name is becoming truly toxic,” she said. “It seems that people can’t get away from the Trumps fast enough now. I think those casting directors and stylists are making the right call not doing business with them.”

Coulter rejected the suggestion that a boycott of Trump Models might end up hurting the working models it represents, rather than the owners of the business.

“When you chose not to do business with a company,” she said, “you chose to do business with other companies that do have employees, too, so I don’t put stock in that.”

Amid continued questions about Trump’s relationship with his business empire and how it fits with federal ethics regulations, Trump-owned fashion interests have suffered adverse publicity.

On Saturday, retailers Sears and Kmart removed 31 Trump Home items from their online product offerings to focus on more profitable items, a spokesman said. The collection includes furniture, lighting, bedding, mirrors and chandeliers.

Last week, retailer Nordstrom followed Macy’s and Neiman Marcus in dropping Ivanka Trump products. That prompted a furious response from Trump, whotweeted: “My daughter Ivanka has been treated so unfairly by @Nordstrom.”

Nordstrom justified its decision, reporting that online sales of Ivanka Trump products fell 26% in January year on year.

Within the fashion industry, there is speculation that while the performance of Ivanka Trump’s line was disappointing, it was not enough to merit being abruptly dropped.

At least part of the reasoning, they speculate, was pressure from other brands and labels carried by Nordstrom.

“We would not base a decision on that. Our decision was based on the performance of her brand which had been steadily declining over the year. We had discussions with Ivanka and her team and shared our decision with Ivanka personally in early January.”

However, Coulter said it was likely Nordstrom had faced pressure from other suppliers. “The Ivanka Trump sales were down but it’s possibly not the whole truth. There are studies that say boycotts work at the brand level, not the sales level, so probably both forces were at play.”

White House counselor Kellyanne Conway later urged the public to buy the Ivanka Trump brand – and faced widespread criticism that she had overstepped ethics regulations. The White House press secretary, Sean Spicer, said Conway had been “counseled”.

On Saturday, Trump said on Twitter that the media had “abused” his daughter.

In New York, protests against the Trump presidency have rippled through the fashion industry’s market week. Calvin Klein played David Bowie’s This is Not America and a Mexican immigrant designer for LRS Studio showed underwear that carried the message: “**** your wall”. Public School’s Dao-Yi Chow and Maxwell Osborne sent out red Trump-esque baseball hats spelling out: “Make America New York.”

Senior industry figures, including Vogue’s Anna Wintour and LVMH chief executive Bernard Arnault, have, however, held meetings with the president. Vogue plans to feature Melania Trump on its cover.

Designers including Dior and Ralph Lauren have dressed the first lady. Others, including Marc Jacobs, have said they will not.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses