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judy smith Sep 2015
Sep 28, 2015- A cocktail party is a fad in big fat weddings nowadays, and so have elaborate and voluminous cocktail gowns! But before you head to buy such an outfut, it's best to evaluate your body type and choose something that offers comfort, says an expert.

Divya Sisodia, fashion stylist, VioletStreet.com, an online shopping destination, has shared tips on how to choose a cocktail dress that can flatter you:

* Before picking a cocktail dress, evaluate your body type on whether it is pear shaped, rectangle shaped, apple shaped, petite, bony, boxy or full-figured.

* Instead of blindly following the trend spotters, opt for a dress which is comfortable and suits you. For example, apple shaped women, who carry most of the fat around their abdominal region and often have a large bust and waist, but narrow hips, must opt for soft fabrics rather than fabrics that would cling to their body. Cocktail dresses with flowing or A-line cuts are perfect for pear shapes, as they silhouette the hips beautifully.

* Full-figured and plus size women must choose dark coloured dresses that make them look thinner.

* Accessories are a great way to add oomph to an evening look. It can help to add one’s own flair to a dress that might be beautiful on its own. Even a simple black dress becomes a style statement when paired with a pair of edgy earrings and spiked heels. You can also use interesting or chunky neckpieces to divert attention to your upper body than to your lower body.

* Don’t try to fit into ill-fitting cocktail dresses as they will only make you feel and look uncomfortable.

* To create an hourglass delusion, highlight your waistline. Blouson dresses that gather around the waist add a curve to the upper hip and show off your perfect legs. You can further enhance your waistline with a wide belt or corset belt in a contrasting colour to your cocktail dress.

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

www.marieaustralia.com/princess-formal-dresses
MasterPlutonium Nov 2014
A NEW DAY ARRIVES ON THE BLUE SEA,
THE LIGHT TOUCHING THE SAPPHIRE WATER.
THEN, WITH THE RUSH OF WAVES
BREAKING UPON ON THEIR METAL HULLS,
FOUR SHIPS OF GREY-PAINTED IRON & STEEL
CUT THROUGH THE WATER OF GLASS.

THE FIRST IS A NOBLE AND MAGNIFICENT WARSHIP,
A GREAT MONSTER OF IRON, FURY, AND GLORY,
A BATTLESHIP THAT WILL SPARK YOUNG BOYS IMAGINATION WITH COMPLETE FIREPOWER, KNOWN AS THE “GUN CLUB”.

FOLLOWING BEHIND IS AN CARRIER
WITH MANY WARPLANES THROTTLING
FOR LAUNCH, ANXIOUS FOR COMBAT.

NEXT IS A DESTROYER, ITS CREW
TRYING ITS BEST TO RESTRAIN ITSELF
AND STAY WITH ITS BROTHERS IN ARMS.

LAST, BUT CERTAINLY NOT LEAST, IS A CRUISER,
A MERE SMALLER REPLICA OF THE
BATTLESHIP, BUT NOT BE UNDERESTIMATED.

BELOW THESE SURFACE BEHEMOTHS IS A
SILENT STALKER OF THE DARK ABYSS,
A FAST SUBMARINE, MASTER OF THE ART OF ATTACK.
WITH A SIGNAL PASSED BETWEEN THE
WARSHIPS, THE FLEET GOES ITS SEPARATE WAYS
AND PREPARES TO FIGHT A MORNING WAR;
A STORM OF UNPRESCIDENT CHAOS AND DEATH.

AS THE SUN BEGINS TO TOUCH CLOUDS,
A ROAR OF ENGINES ECHOES ACROSS
THE BRIGHTING SKY,
IN TURN JOINED BY THE CACOPHONY
OF MACHINE GUNS FIRING THOUSANDS
INTO SQUADRONS OF ENEMY JETS.

FRIENDLY AIRCRAFT BLAST IN THE AIR
FROM THE DECK OF THE AIRCRAFT CARRIER,
EAGER FOR EPIC DOGFIGHTS AS ONBOARD
SYSTEMS LOCK ONTO ENEMIES.

FROM THE DESTROYER ERUPT STREAKS
OF ANTI-AIRCRAFT MISSILES FROM
HIDDEN SILOS BELOW ITS DECKS.

SUDDENLY, A EXPLOSION ECHOES ACROSS THE OCEAN,
A SECOND LATER, GEYSERS OF WATER
ERUPT INTO THE AIR AMONG THE FLEET.

RADAR AND SPOTTERS CONFIRM THE
ENEMY ON THE HORIZON, JUST OUT OF MISSILE RANGE.

ON THE COMMAND OF THE ADMIRAL,
THE CRUISER JOINS THE SUBMARINE
AND LAUNCHES TORPEDOES
FROM THEIR DECKS AND TUBES.

WHITE COLUMNS OF WATER AND
STEEL ERUPT LIKE TOWERS AS
TORPEDOES HIT THEIR MARK.

BUT A SOUNDS LIKE SRIENS SCREAMING
ALL THEIR MIGHT ECHOES ACROSS
THE BATTLEFIELD AND LOOKOUTS POINT
OUT TWO ARCHING PILLARS OF FLAME
CURVE DOWN TOWARDS THEIR TARGET.

DOOMED TO ONLY WATCH, CREW
MEMBERS FIRE BULLETS TO STOP THE
MISSILES FROM THE SUB.

BUT THE EXPLOSIONS THAT FOLLOW AND
THE SHOCKWAVES THAT CAUSE GROWN
MEN TO BE SLAMMED AGAINST BULKHEADS
CONFIRM IT; ALL HANDS LOST.

THE CRUISER, NOW FAR FROM FRIENDLY
SUPPORT, WAGES A WAR OF IT OWNS AS
IT BECOMES SURROUNDED BY THE ENEMY.

BUT AFTER MISSILE, SHELL, AND TORPEDO,
THE OCEAN CLAIMS HER QUARRY WITH
WAVES OF RAGING BLUE FLOODING THE DECKS.

THE DESTROYER, FURIOUS OF THE
LOSS OF HER BROTHERS IN ARMS,
EXPELLS ALL OF HER WEAPONS IN HOPES
OF HITTING AT LEAST ONE OF THE ENEMY.

IN LUCK, THE FOE'S SUBAMRINE AND DESTROYER
BURN OIL AS THEY SINK, BUT FOR A PRICE:
THE DESTROYER BEGINS ITS SLUMBER
TOWARDS THE DARK ABYSS.

ALL SHIPS REMAINING ARE THE
CARRIERS AND THE MIGHTY DREADNOUGHTS
KNOWN AS BATTLESHIPS.

THE CARRIERS CONTINUE THEIR AREIAL DUALS,
LAUNCHING AIRCRAFT BARELY CAPABLE
OF FLIGHT OR FIGHT.

THEN, WITH THE SOUND OF DRAGONS,
THE BATTLESHIPS BEGIN THE FINAL PHASE
OF THE OCEAN BATTLE.

CLOUDS OF FIRE, SMOKE, AND STEEL ARE
BELCHED WITH ANGER INTO THE AIR
AS BOTH SHIPS FIGHT AROUND THE
STILL-BURNING HULLS.

SURVIVORS, DESPERATELY HOLDING ONTO
SCRAP TO STAY AFLOAT, CHEER THEIR FELLOW
BATTLESHIPS ON AS THE GREAT IRON GIANTS
DUKE IT OUT FOR THE HONOR OF THEIR NATION.

FINALLY, THE “GUN CLUB” BATTLESHIP,
EXACTLY AS SOON AS THE GREAT ORB
OF THE SUN BEGINS TO SINK, DESTROYED
THE ENEMY WITH ALL SIXTEEN INCH GUNS
LAND SHELL AFTER SHELL INTO THE ARMOR.


INTERNAL FIRES FINALLY CAUSE THE
STEEL BEHEMOTH TO SINK FOR ITS
CHANCE AT GLORY, VANQUISHED.

“HIT!! YOU SANK MY BATTLESHIP!”
I RAISE MY ARMS IN VICTORY AS MY
FRIEND AND MYSELF PLACE THE
FINAL PIN INTO THE FINAL RESTING
PLACE OF THE MISSING BATTLESHIP.
THUS MARKS THE END OF A BATTLESHIP GAME,
BUT IMAGINATION DRIVES THE BATTLE ON.
This poem was one of my best poems ever. Despite the name, this was originally named "A Game of Battleship." Pardon me for the confusion.
Chris Jan 2010
Regular as clockwork
the spotters gather there
binoculars and notebooks
as up the track they stare

assembled on the platform
with all the day to spare
they put the world to rights
and wait without a care

clad in finest anorak
tweed caps are in this year
their fleecy inners covering
heads once thick with hair

Every day I see them
sometimes just a pair
shuffling on the concrete
sometimes with a chair

Pensions less than peanuts
Blame young Tony Blair
But everything forgotten
at sight of one thats rare

Life is breathed to tired legs
nostrils start to flare
sweaty palms note hastily
with eager thank you prayer

And oh the day the Queen came
They stood in open air
and cheered to see that engine
sweep in with royal flare

I'll not be hear to watch you
From comfy office chair
From now on I'll be missing
But I know you'll still be there
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Still Thin Canvas Walls
What good thing could come from such humble surroundings it’s nothing like the original tabernacle
Made from badger skins but the battle rages in modern life the wounded lie in great tragic sprawls just
Add your city’s name that will suffice wounds of alcohol, ***, drugs, bitter was the fight but the
Conclusion was already cast men and women are highly susceptible to these diseases there isn’t a
Natural antidote quickly wariness robs all strength the fallen lie strewn in the most pitiful scenes to even
Raise their head takes great effort what about the great mortared churches that stand in grandness on
So many blocks in America the already saved and righteous go there effortlessly but a war takes mobility
You have to go to the front lines be abreast of the battle line conditions one day the battle rages fiercely
Then the next clear across town the enemy strikes if transfusions are the single most necessary act in
Natural battles then so is it in the spiritual battles only the blood can clean and doctor the wounds and
Bring complete healing prayerful condemnation of that life and refusing to participate any more then
Going down in pure cleansing baptismal waters will usher you to the birthing place of the final solution
As a creation born of the spirit you will never again be over run you can feel and know temptation but
Always a way of escape arrives in the nick of time you now are the spiritual medical team assigned to
Walk among the wounded comfort and show them the way out of the most extreme circumstances
Tell them from knowing personal experience defeat no longer will rule them with a most cruel tyranny
Now they stand at the portal of freedom where richest life ever flows outward until the bright eternal
Day is revealed. Talk if you will at times and speak with a tinge of pride that causes you to practice a
Little Disdain for brush arbors tents and those humbler days but out of them mighty revival flames
Consumed entrenched strong holds of sin that resisted all other efforts to eradicate them Look upon the
Empty field a lone tent stands seemingly so thin and fragile if you could see what the devils see. They
See those they have enslaved walking bent and bowed all that registers on their faces is bitter
Disappointment they had such dreams the highest ideals they walked with their heads in the cloud but
During these tremendous high times something very base was setting traps to remove you far from
Those Cherished dreams lust for drink lust of *** that has nothing to do with love and tenderness that is
To be shared between a man and women or lust for things can bring people to spiritual wastelands
And when your power ebbs away you hear what you hope is the sound of a helping hand but the lowest
And cruelest enemies use this time and place a their choice hunting grounds these bonds are secured
By human default they have no escape fighting is the same as quick sand the harder you fight the
Deeper and quicker you sink but as in natural war the artillery has spotters with powerful glass they
Pinpoint weakness and the targets that best will serve your side it is so in the spirit but here it is the
Searcher that goes forth he looks deeply and with the most knowing sight he sees those that truly want
And will change he calls to those who are free and they rush in with the weapons that are credited with
Tearing down strongholds of the enemy there is no greater joy found than they who have been set free
To walk without guilt and shame and the dread of future judgment is gone you now eagerly await your
Change that will bring to your eternal home and all longing will be forever satisfied.
Paul Hardwick Jun 2014
If you have read my last three poems
and blame it on my surreal head
you just might realise
that if you add the titles together
they read>---.

* Just thinking of doing Exercise.**

At the Gym
thinking of doing some weights
maybe some squats
the spotters and me
put on some weights
I send them off for beers
lift the bar off
tears and pain
I push back up
my **** hits the ground
and will not come back off
the ground.
TRUE Story maybe    P@ul
Pays to exercise in your head first.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2022

       /    /
     _
    
     /     /               |4| |x| |4|

by x...
               + with
- without
                                obelus, i.e. among
or: in between...

as you get older it's so refreshing to have so little
male sensibility of not getting any:
i.e. "any" from the opposite ***...
i'm currently working about 10 females...
there's me at the brothel: that's about 5...
and 5 outside of the brothel...
i like them as PROSPECTS...
oh sure... i'd date them... go to the cinema with them:
although: what the **** is worth
watching at the cinema these days...
big girls... like Emmie just my type...
a proportionate "hassle"... 5ft11 and chunky...
she has kept changing her WhatsApp profile
picture like 3 to 4 times ever since she gave
me her number... she blew out today...
oh! i was so looking to be working with her today...
instead... i had some random Mo... and Frankie...
Frankie's alright... a butch-lesbian...
which is sort of fun when talking about a nice
piece of ***... she talks about women like
men might talk when not overheard by
HYENA FEMINISTS...
it's very, very refreshing...
me and Frankie... ****'s sake: FRANKLINE...
talk about women like we're about to start
running a marathon....

i had one of these strange in-body experiences
today at the Romford Ice Rink...
my head was thumping: but i felt no pain...
my brain was trying to escape and leave
me without a spinal chord and two legs to stand on...
no pain...
it's an ancient fear... a pseudo-epilepsy once
gripped me... it would grip me
when i bit down on my jaw...
it would send a shockwave from my head
into my stomach... and curl into a ball of
excruciating pain... a stomach cramp bundled together
with a pseudo-epileptic seizure...
the old ancient fear arrived...
i sometimes arrive at it from either constipation
or from low sugar levels...
today? it was neither...

***** TO THE HEAD...
i need to **** someone...
i seriously need to **** someone...
i don't collect stamps... although i inherited
a decent stamp collection from my grandfather...
if i'm desperate... those Soviet stamps will
sell like nothing before them...
i don't collect money / coinage: but i inherited
a decent gallery from the two Jewish women
my mother cared for...
i collect books... one decent first edition of
a Peter Pan variation set underwater...
with illustrations...
if... i'm desperate...
but i don't mind working: i like working...
Erasmus' Colloquia from 1829...
the Beauties of Sterne... 1811...

well then... i'm rich... i just pretend to not know it...
and i don't want to be rich...
i like my current company...
if not a thief... then a *******...
it's all the same for me...
but today... mein gott! ***** TO THE HEAD!

samen zu der kopf!
it wasn't constipation, it wasn't low sugar levels in
the blood... this should be made illegal!
seriously! how can this example of a well rounded
GINGER ****-BEAUTY walk around with
such so much flesh exposed... and with those tight jeans...
hair that ginger that's perfectly burnt auburn...
no freckles... a complexion very much like
vanilla ice-cream... it's not fair!

how can she just walk around like that!
i got a headache that wasn't a headache but
a bedding-ache... some things should be made illegal...
i had to figure myself out...
what the hell is wrong with you?!
you're not constipated... sure... your blood sugar levels
are low... but...
ugh... i need to correct myself...
i literally had to ******* while pretending
to take a **** when i got home...
i masturbated with the sheath of ******* on...
i then ****** off with the sheath off...
why do gingers infuriate my *** drive so much? why?!
i equalised the blood pressure to the brain
and without climaxing gave "it" a rest...

i'm lucky... my paternal grandmother doesn't know
of my existence: well, she "knows": but she hasn't
the least bit bothered about me existing to begin with...
while my maternal grandmother: sort of ****** me
over pretending my best friend,
i.e. my grandfather wasn't dying: when he was...
only informing me of his death the day he died...
sure... i have plenty of animosity for women...
which is disguise as love
for prostitutes.... oh... you don't require killing
prostitutes to enact "revenge": you just juice them up
in the right sort of places and in the right sort of way...

old granny conflicts disappear
like a spoon in a bowl of custard!
mind you: oh, that, four day agony of scribbles...
i sort of wish i would have forgotten by now...
what / who helped?!
Freddy... thus freckled curiosity of a 13 year old boyo...
minding my own business... walked out with a bottle of cider...
we started talking about bicycles...

how much did it cost?
oh... £500...
can you whistle while shoving *******
into your mouth... hey presto! the boy whistled!
how do you do the wheelie?
i can cycle not using the handlebars...
wow! a perfect circus bear!
he did a wheelie while whistling real loud...
while asking me: can i have a take on your bicycle?!
sure thing Freddie... go ahead...
thank **** and all that the gods needs:
local people interacting with the locals...
perhaps if this was me in Cumbria i would be a priest...
i'm clarifying my position...
it feels good... being so localised...
centralised... it takes so little!
i literally have to put in the minimum amount
of effort to get the maximum response...
great hunting ground for experience dealing with crowds
if i'm to take the route of teaching seriously...

Poland is no longer a viable option...
even though i speak the ZUNGE it's... BOT-LAND...
***** to the head...
i was going to wait for getting payment to the past month
until the 1st... but after today's ginger...
NOPE! i need, to, ****!
i'm going to ****! i don't care about ****-wit ****-less men...
i'm going to ****!
i don't care about train-spotters and the likes...
no! i'm not waiting!

i'd look ******* GREAT in a WAFFEN-SS uniform...
i would: and i know i would...
i need to think about my garden of ****...
i'll wake up tomorrow... clean the house...
iron my shirt...
******* to Wembley... and on my way back:
perform the ritual of being tired... *****... tired...
*****... drink a cider... drink some whiskey...
scout around the brothel... and ooh!
too many masculine interests...
all i need is a juicy ****...
  and i know that women are... depends on the "geography":
timid: tiny... creatures....
but they are...

tiny, timid, creatures!
                        they taste better with some tongue in 'em...
but... BEGGARS CAN'T BE CHOOSERS...
ergo? well! ha ha! ergo!
Wk kortas Mar 2020
It was late April, or perhaps early May
At the Home for Blind Children
(This was all some time ago,
When one's infirmities were spelled out quite bluntly)
And the children, being set loose
In the resolute glow of the maybe-Spring-is-here sunshine,
Were playing baseball on a diamond-ish field
Wrestled from the goldenrod and crownvetch
Through eminent domain.
Oh, the ball was large, and beeped away like Sputnik,
But it was clearly the game of Cobb and Ruth and Mantle
Just the same, the proceedings ambling on as per usual,
The kids at the plate fixing on the wobbly, blaring orb
Just in time to nick it with their bats
And, with proper and judicious direction,
Traipse around the bases in accordance with the law
As laid down by Abner Doubleday himself.
One of the children, however, inexplicably locked onto the ball
From the moment it left the pitcher's hand,
Driving it in a high arc past the fielders
And over the chain-link boundary
Which had been put up for the Little League teams
A couple of years ago.
Strangely enough, both sighted spotters
Had picked that exact moment to be miles away
From the action taking place on the field,
Perhaps distracted by an unusual bird song,
Possibly formulating plans for their day off,
Maybe even contemplating love yet to be
(It was Spring, after all)
And thus never saw the flight of the ball
As it took flight toward its unlikely landing place.
They spent the remainder of the afternoon,
The sightless and those with varying degrees of vision,
In a fruitless search in the high grass at the edge of the field
And just outside of the foul lines,
Never imagining to look outside of the fence,
As all the while a small herd of cows in an adjacent field
Stared at them impassively,
Occasionally pausing to nibble on the patchy grass and clover
In the exact spots they had grazed the day before
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
69 contra...
a ******* crab...
side what copernican?
the tide-spotters
of the Thames,
the ugliest river in Europe...
grey murk just as, lovely,
as the matrix anti
solar energy pale Siberian
tea skies...
  which is why, apparently,
only pregnant Siberian
women drink tea with milk...
Thames... tide coming
in, tide coming out...
watered down bog of mud...
just enough for a party
at Camden and a Clash song...
moves in, moves out,
wriggles like a ******* jellyfish
on asteroid steroids...
pumps the mommy's worth,
came the needle,
the bloated chinese protein
fake's worth of muscle...
sooner an anorexic,
   and the eye of the needle
while we watched the deflating
forearm muscle,
     thet was supposed to be
the waist,
     and the helium,
always with these the ******* helium...
and squeezed testicles
wishing for a reminder
prior to the castrated meat hurdle
at the slaughterhouse....
   the most lucid memory
of my childhood,
   when the slaughterhouse
was still in the urban vicinity...
watching a cow being
towed into the slaughterhouse,
premeditating the end
she could scent in her nostrils...
once upon a time a prized milking
golden goose...
               now: recycling...
but still of use,
not contaminated by animal
testosterone,
notably in lamb meat...
    but that agonising moaning...
see... and that's authentic...
           a true lamb of God
would not have had his little...
ahem... Gethsemane moment
of crisis...
           like that cow, being towed
into the slaughterhouse...
      he was no more a son of God,
than he was the dumb silent
lamb of God...
                    the grandchildren
of the current Sheikhs will burp
for the current extravagance...
just as the Saudis turned their backs
on the Syrians...
                      i too await a worthy
hand, to spell out his name...
Saladin... ah, the romance...
ah the disillusionment with the modern,
ah, ah, ah...
      laila shukri...
               the cow towed into
the slaughterhouse...
     the razor sharp cutting shrill...
a memory, intact, worth over 20+ years...
          and no...
last time I met a vegan...
    she was a struggling anorexic...
           point in question...
why counter the adaptive genetic consistency  
of being lactose tolerant?
sure, there's not water in the desert,
which is why, you don't need
to drink alcohol...
                     start forging for
berries in an icy tundra,
and you'll soon find out that
only modern people, deem alcohol
as a recreational "drunk"...
god forbid that drinking woman,
who turned the ritual bound to Bacchus,
into a cry-into-pillow.
Maniacal Escape Nov 2020
Sunless dawn.
Shaded hope mast.
Windless sun. Green.
Spotters joy. Seeing the dawn.
Slits the day shy
Cry for the weak.

— The End —