A little guilt goes a long way
Even the sturdiest oak can be made to sway
Figments of people duped by atavistic views
Waking up from bouts of fervor
A most sadistic snooze
They repose like overgrown fountains of youth
Their dreams rusted, forgotten and that’s the truth


In a lonely forest, oaks fall with the loudest screams
A somberness aided by clouds and defective sun beams


My soul has finally given in to moralistic cracks
For now it’s about as clean as mud pies and tire tracks
I’m wobbling down my lifetime from crutch to crutch
Wondering when to finally whisper “****, I’ve seen too much”
So please, return me home, send my spirit way down below
To lands of rusted dreams and toss-turned pillows

I am a cold, bleak and weary melody;
Forced out of guitar strings, alone,
a solitary piece made by a starving man.
My low notes bring down the sturdiest ship,
dragging its corpse to lay down on the sea-floor.

I am a low pitch plea of woeful "help me";
a drowning man swallowing water as his
mouth seeks the air.
My voice is wispy smoke of years of no use,
contaminating the very lungs from which it originates
from.
And sleep, she is a blissful siren.
Bringing me to underwater caverns-
chanting and humming melodies as the pressure
takes me down under and my eyes close in surrender.

I am more dead than my corpse will ever be;
just an empty sea-shell-
no pearl, no life.

Getting the fashion industry excited about an event is no plum task. And yet season after season, Anna Sui does it with her thoughtful and fun runway shows. Blame it on her ability to transport her audiences deep into her world full of references that range from Pre-Raphaelites to Diaghilev to disco. (Of course, the retro soundtracks and top models don’t hurt, either.)

Lately, Sui’s been sharing her passion for fashion history with a wider audience by taking on many collabs, the latest of which is with O’Neill, in stores now. Just in time for summer, the designer crafted a selection of swimwear and cover-ups that echo the bohemian mood of her main collection but also target a new kind of customer. We caught up with Sui at her Soho store to reflect on her career, her favorite muses, and texting with Anita Pallenberg.

You’ve been doing more collaborations in general lately—why is it important to you to diversify into these arenas?

Well, there are certain limitations that we have as far as production for what we’re able to do. A great way to overcome that is to work with somebody who has the expertise in that product. So working with Frye, they make the coolest, sturdiest boot that you can imagine, and so I think this is my third time collaborating with them. They’re just dreams to work with. It takes you to another place. And also you learn so much, because we’re so limited as far as resources now that it opens up new avenues. I did the same with the Coach bags and with the luggage with Tumi and now this collection with O’Neill.

How did you get involved with O’Neill?

Our sales manager knew somebody at O’Neill, and she started thinking that it would be such a great pair-up between O’Neill and Anna Sui because O’Neill is very much our girl. They’re very print-oriented and known for their surfer style, but we wanted to incorporate our bohemian style with it. I think that we’ve blended it so well. The clothes are just so dreamy; we were all just oohing and ahhing over these lace pieces.

That perfect white lace dress is a very necessary summer item.

It’s so true. I remember one summer I was looking at Naomi [Campbell] pictures on a yacht on Daily Mail or something, and every day she had the most beautiful, little white baby-doll dress. I thought, Where did she find all those?! But she can just zero in on something, too. That’s always been my dream, to have all those gorgeous white baby-doll dresses.

You have the best references season after season—who was the beachy surfer girl that you looked to for this collab?

We wanted to capture that true bohemian feeling of the ladies of Laurel Canyon: Joni Mitchell, Michelle Phillips, all those girls you put pictures on the wall and are like, “I hope I grow up and look like this.” So what we tried to capture was that dream.

I think fashion in general is really swinging toward the Anna Sui vibe, very bohemian.

It’s exciting. It’s kind of like a new beginning again. We’ve had so much reaction from all the stores and press—it’s like when I first started. It’s got that same feeling. It’s wonderful.

How do you define who your customer is and continue to change and grow with her over the years?

I think that somewhere I never grew up, and it’s still that same dream as when I was looking at the pictures of Michelle Phillips. It’s still always that same thing, and no matter where I go with the collection, Vikings or Pre-Raphaelites, there’s still that bohemian girl there. That was always my ideal. As much as I try to veer away from it, there are always a couple of those Michelle Phillips and Joni Mitchells in the collection. Through every collection you can find them.

So what’s the secret to staying young forever then?

I think loving what you do. You can’t ask for more. This is what I wanted to do since I was 4 years old, and just the fact that I’m able to do it and do it globally—I work in Japan and I work in Europe and I work in New York—it’s kind of a dream. It’s a lot of hard work and I’m very, very dedicated to it. I do a lot of sacrificing of other things, but it’s what I’ve always wanted.

As someone who’s been in the business for so long, how do you stay inspired and not get worn out or jaded?

One of the things that I love the most is research—learning new things and exploring new things. That’s what I do when I work on a collection: I find something that sparks my interest and then I’m obsessed with and I just go into it. It’s like going into the rabbit hole. Then all of a sudden you find out all these other things because one thing leads to another. Like when I did the Ballets Russes collection [Fall 2011], I saw that beautiful Diaghilev exhibit at the V&A; and I thought, OK, now I can be inspired by those Léon Bakst drawings. I remember one of the Ormsby Gore sisters was telling me that the way they started wearing vintage was because of a sale of the Ballets Russes costumes in, like, 1968. They couldn’t afford the principal costumes, but they could afford the costumes of the Sugar Plum Fairies, all these crushed velvets. So they started wearing them on the street, and all of a sudden the Beatles and the Stones and everybody else started following what they were doing. Well, don’t you know, in the Diaghilev exhibit, there was a film of that auction. I was just like, “Oh, my God.” That’s what sparked that whole thing where everyone was looking romantic and medieval. I love finding that connection. That makes my day—that makes my season when I find that out.

Do you feel like it’s harder or easier today to communicate that to your customer? I feel like with the pressures to make Instagrammable moments, it’s become very hard to get people excited about the history of fashion.

There are so many levels in what I do. Somebody like Tim [Blanks] will get the really intricate things, but then the obvious things will be the things that people talk about the most. I always try to bring it all back, make it current, and tie it in to something that’s happening in our pop culture, like the Viking thing. It’s really true—I was watching [the History channel TV series] and I got that idea. It wasn’t an intellectual idea, but that’s really how it happened. I think that you have to put it on different levels.

Is there one specific era or muse you feel like is the most Anna Sui?

My biggest idols are Anita Pallenberg and Keith Richards. So at the end of the day, it’s always like: Is there something that Anita would wear? Is there something that Keith would wear? Is it cool enough for them? And then I usually send Anita an image and say, “This is the outfit that I did for you.”Read more here:marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses

Vanilla. The bitter scent of a coffeehouse
mixed with sweet beautiful intelligence;
perfection; spontaneity.

Words run on the pages, joy can be found
in even the smallest of things.
Grounded; confident.

The white of innocence, not a single stain,
multicolored beige brings professionalism
in all its forms.

Life is a game of who knows who.
It’s impossible not to know her.

Abstract strings are pulled and tugged
until even the sturdiest of structures fall,
leaving the remnants on the ground to be
picked up one by one.

A sole painting filled with the reds of anger,
of love. The black and white stark
against the murkiness. Even the gold,
highlighting what went missing.

One. They’re still one. A little girl,
the blond bundles pulled into two
on the top of her head, seeing the world
from her father’s eyes.

Childish; just like he was,
once upon a time.

Just like he was, when those eyes focused
on the tough blue of denim, when
a fight was never an argument,
it was a game.

Who is right, who is wrong,
none of that matters if one never
backs down. She would never
back down.

She was never spontaneous.
She was a planner. Always one
to hold a grudge, always one
to win.

She was first. First
kiss, first love,
first date.

Her hair fell down on her shoulders
in curls, down in spirals
bringing him down as he fell.

He fell hard, looping back around
to the other side. Choosing jeans
over a painting. Choosing the chaos
over the calm. Choosing the calm
of a fight over nothing at all.

It was with her
that he’d find his love story.

For those who are in love,
Love is a force of nature
Unstoppable and powerful
Pure and perfect.

But for the brokenhearted,
Love creates the illusion
That everything is good
Love is not blind but it does blind
It blinds you into believing
That the rose has no thorns
And that you can cross any ocean
Or survive any storm.
It creates another version of you
That is vulnerable, accepting,
And forgiving
No matter how many times you've been hurt.
It's a diversion, a dead end.
Love is jumping in a cliff, blindfolded,
And expecting for someone to catch you.
An intricately constructed algorithm-
A subtle lie,
For the brokenhearted.

Yet love is unfathomable
It's a powerful force that changes people
Moves even the biggest mountains
Breaks the sturdiest rocks
And melts the coldest glaciers.
Love is both monochrome and
A kaleidoscope of colors.

Just like ceaseless
Drops of water, that
Over time, wear down the sturdiest of rocks,

So can little lies,
Those clever evasions and half-truths,
Erode the most stalwart of hearts.

You are weary, I think

Of endless puzzles and games

And short romantic flames



You have grown disenchanted

With everything

Every stupid girl and foolish fling



You are bored

Of things built upon passing waves

Of all these conformists, these slaves



You have grown spiteful

Against people whining and nagging

And keeping secrets and bragging



And you are exasperated, maybe,

With all your toys breaking

As soon as you take them out of their boxes



It may be you are sick

Of instability and castles of crumbling sand

Of things reeling and getting out of hand



You have grown impatient

With cheaters and capricious ******

Who claim they are forever yours



You are tired, perhaps

Of feeling alone

And things aching through no fault of your own



I may not be

The sturdiest thing you've ever laid eyes on

I am little, and frail

And weak and pale

And I stumble when it's windy out

But I know, without a doubt

That for you I will be strong

That I will never do you wrong

I'll keep you from going off the brink

Because you are weary, I think

Even the sturdiest trees in my backyard quiver like mad in the breath of a strong breeze. I am like them, as I panic over the thought of watching you brush effortlessly past my shoulders, the way hurricane wind has the power to sweep a grown man off his feet. I am cautious, tiptoeing around the idea of your absence like fallen power lines in the rain, trembling as I carry the precious moments I have spent with you in the safety of my own coat pockets so they will never feel the agony of electrocution. I am electrified, as I seek shelter from the storm within the comforting warmth of your arms. There are places where the sun flutters her fiery eyelids against waves that kiss shorelines like familiar relatives. There are places where park benches call us by name and ones that long day and night for our feet to grace their unexplored streets. There are words that hang in the atmosphere like hot air balloons waiting to carry us to newborn horizons. It is strange, how there are places where the skies do not bleed threats or cry in languages we cannot understand. How I know that we are metal statues standing embraced in a field during a lightning storm, and yet I would rather get struck with the energy of a thousand prayers if it meant that I could stay, frozen in time, for an eternity we are not guaranteed.

Once upon a time in a land faraway
Was a little bird who wished to fly.
Decked on the branch of the sturdiest tree,
He wished to someday soar so high.
He watched the blazing September sun,
and felt the chilly mountain breeze--
But the beauty he wished to the mountain god
Was to finally have his own pair of wings.
The seasons changed and leaves have fallen,
But the little bird has never forgotten.
Someday he'd join his father soar,
in the beauty of the lovely September morn.
The seasons changed and the leaves have grown,
Yet the little bird still wished to fly;
And little has the little bird known,
that the mountain god has already tried.
The god has given the wings he wanted,
and gave it to his father dearest.
But the mighty father with the greatest feather,
has hidden the wings the little bird wanted.
The seasons changed and the flowers mourned,
And the little bird still wished to fly,
and when the mighty sun has finally adjourned,
the little bird was left to cry.
But one strange December night,
the little bird saw his father come,
and up in flames his father light,
the wings that was supposedly his.
The little bird did not understand,
and his father said he did it for love
and the little bird has nothing left
But a memory of the wings long gone.
The little bird did not understand,
for he knew he was born for the sky,
and never again would he feel the land,
And never again would he hope to fly.
The father thought his son was fine,
and showered him with everything:
But then his son, with his piercing eyes,
told his father to remind:

"What's a sun without its fire,
to bring its light to everything?
I'm meant to soar, I'm meant to fly,
But what's a bird without his wings?"

if
love

is
subject

to
too much
friction

will it
wear
out

as
even
the sturdiest
of
fabrics
do?

you curse yourself
for not staying strong
but you don't take the time
to remember how long you've been standing
because even the strongest of walls have their weak points
and the toughest of superheroes
have their kryptonite
the sturdiest of foundations have their cracks
it's just a matter of time
before you crumble down
after staying strong
for so long

So I've missed this,
And you've given me the light.
I write this with your pen in hopes of writing something worthwhile.
You are the reason I smile.
You are the last branch on this tree.
I've been falling for quite some time,
hitting every branch on the way down.
Snagging a few to find out they would snap, break, and bend.
You are the sturdiest of the millions.
With you I am closer to the stars than ever before.
And when the sun shines tomorrow,
I know it's going to be a good day.
Just promise me you won't break,
and I promise I'll never let go because you know,
it takes two to make this tree grow.

Had I not waltzed out into that fair night
And faded off into the autumn air,
As such would be the loss I dared endure
If ever such a life I failed to spare.

If I had been aware of such a place
Where blissful contemplation often floats
About in clouds of radiating light,
Perhaps I would find her there.

But even though the sturdiest of walls
Could stand in front of her, or deepest moats
Rest along her path in peaceful currents,
A barrier is yet a broken limit.

Or had she stood atop the tallest peak
Of ever treacherous vertical slate,
Could I simply stare blindly to that spire
As though she held the sun within her arms?

Or could I put my life to such a test;
Perhaps within a split-second decision,
That light which draws me in may never die
But even so, I still aspire to fire.

Or could my own propulsion bring me up
Along those horrifying mountainsides?
If not the danger, then the fear itself
Would lend itself to me and take its toll.

But had I ever reached that daunting spire
And gazed upon her ever lovely hair,
She’d simply spread her wings and fly away,
And leave me in the howling autumn air.

The verdency has long been bleached from the grass.
It is now hollow straw and chaff.
It soughs and rattles it's
sorrow in whispering distress.

The livestock, ***** smudges
of skin and bone.
Stand listless, under the stick
bare branches, of the ghost gum .
Waiting for the rumble
of the feed truck to come.

The dust swirls, red fine
and irritating to skin and eyes.
The only creature to thrive
are the buzzing horde of
flies.

The bore pump clanks to life
and the water allotment
flows.
The sheep arise and drink
the trough, bone dry.
Before resettling into hungry
repose,
under the white ghost gum west of Gundagia.

This is drought, this is the
wait for rain, this is the daily
struggle, the farmers lonesome refrain.

All but the sturdiest stock
sold, shot or long gone dust,
to the unforgiving heat. Nuturing the best,
saved from starvations
questing hold.
To rebuild the farm
and complete Job's test.

After the rains have come,
all will be good again.
And if they don't come.
Doesn't matter, soon we'll
all be dead.

she's got shadows in her hair
and scorpions hide in there.

her eyes drip venom,
incapacitating
all she glances upon,
turning a summer sunrise
into decay.

she's got shadows in her hair
and scorpions move beneath the surface.

her lips skitter,
chasing down
and breaking apart
even the sturdiest of mountains.

she's got shadows in her hair
and scorpions crawl under skin.

her teeth gnaw,
eroding
all she touches,
turning a broken promise
into gossamer strands.

she's got shadows in her hair
and scorpions dance within her skull.

her chest heaves,
filling up
and emptying out
the horizon.

she's got shadows in her hair
and scorpions bleeding throughout.

her heart roars,
shaking
all she treads on,
turning a lifetime
into dust.

she's got shadows in her hair
and I no longer care about the scorpions.

her hands shake,
holding my
immortal coil
in a death grip.

she's got scorpions in her hair.

I destroyed us
To salvage me.

Before accusations fling
About that being a selfish thing…
I had to get out with a shred of sanity.

         Remember when storm struck
         The sturdiest of ships
         Refuse to anchor lifeboats.

Let’s let it go
Let’s let us breathe.

        It’s time to d r i f  t   a   p    a    r    t .   .  .  .

I’d taken my friends way off the shore
In my small, glass-bottomed boat,
The weather was clear, the sea was calm
For the sturdiest boat afloat,
I wanted to scan the hidden depths
Watch all that lived on the reef,
But Peter my friend, just wanted to fish,
And so did his brother, Keith.

They busied themselves with their fishing rods,
Were bent on baiting their hooks,
When suddenly something beneath the boat
Made me take a second look,
It only appeared a shadow at first
Came on with a sinuous glide,
It wasn’t a fish I had seen before,
‘Hey, just look at this,’ I cried.

They both turned around and peered below
But then the shadow had gone,
‘What did you see,’ said Peter P.
‘It must have been twenty feet long!’
‘Oh *******,’ said Keith, ‘beyond belief,
There isn’t a fish of that size,
Not even the great White Pointer Shark,
You must have mud in your eyes.’

‘I know what I saw,’ I said again,
‘It had the most horrible teeth,
It seemed to be looking for prey down there
Across the top of the reef.’
‘I’ve fished these waters for twenty years,
I think I’d have seen it by now,’
Said Peter P. with a smirk at me,
‘Watch us, and we’ll show you how.’

They knew I wasn’t a fisherman,
I wouldn’t know Cod from a shark,
I just liked to watch the fishes swim
Through the glass-bottomed boat in the dark,
I’d rigged up floodlights to light below
That eerie, mysterious deep,
Where seaweed swayed in the land they played
With the rest of the world asleep.

The guys continued and cast their lines,
While I sat reading a book,
We’d be there hours, and that was fine
I took the occasional look,
We drifted over a patch of blue
The sand was clear below,
When back there came that sinuous shape
I said to the guys, ‘HeLLO!’

This time it headed up for the boat,
Less like a fish than a snake,
A massive head with reptilian teeth
And suddenly I was awake.
It shot straight up, right over the boat
Snapping its massive jaw,
And took Keith’s arm from his shoulder blades
Right into its mighty maw.

We just couldn’t stop the flow of blood
It filled the boat as he died,
And Peter P. was distraught as he
Sat helplessly, and he cried.
‘That must be some prehistoric beast
That lived on the ocean floor,
I’ll never go fishing again,’ said he
As we headed back to the shore.

David Lewis Paget

the clouds were
troubling
her again.
but like a
roof over
her head, he
makes the clouds
disappear.
but caves and
roofs and struct-
ures and build-
kings collapse
even the
sturdiest
structures will
break. even
you will break.
but breaking,
at times, is
positive.
because when
you break, you
find those who
truly care
about you.
I care abo-
ut you dear.
darling, you
seem so strong.
but when will
the pressure
get to be
too heavy
for you? when
you break, I
wanna be
there. I wish
to see your
fragile bones
snap under
the pressure
that has been
accumu-
lating for
years. almost
as an "i-
told-you-so."
you will break.
I wanna
watch you snap
and break and
crumble. you
will, I know
you will. ev-
entual-
ly. and I
will be there
to watch and
to help. even
though I want
to see you
break, I don't
want you to
break. I just
need to know
you feel in-
side. do you
have a heart?
do you feel
things? I need
to see you
break; I need
to have proof.

For Lori*

          I

Especially in days of youth and vigor
I rose, a tower struck of stone or oak
When challenge grew, I found myself the bigger
My enemies would tremble when I spoke

I trod the land afire and oceans parted
None alive could sway me from my course
I roared my song and mountain ranges started
And bowed their heads to this unbidden force.

Swift and bold and heartless, cruel and clever
I needed none to carry me to war
But nothing young still blossoms young for ever
And thus far shall ye travel, and no more.

Horizons yet expand beyond perception
The Universe will e’er exceed my pace
My greatness spawned from my own preconception
Was always but a speck on Nature’s face.

I could not carve a dent on History’s pages
But I could scrawl a message on this stone
The brilliance of the scientists and sages
Shows how flickering and faint the light I’ve shown.
But when you
Continue
To coil ‘round
My sinew
I understand my strength is not my own
Standing straight, I play the Tiger’s part
And I will find my solace in your heart.


          II

I know that I have nothing to regret here
I cannot rue my selfishness and pomp
It’s obvious, though, now, that those I’ve met here
Have made me more than all my snort and stomp

My purpose once to trump my own existence
Now to carry those who’ve shown me grace
Who, through their kindness and their great persistence
Have taught me brand new wonders in this place.

The earth is hard and sometimes unforgiving
Terrors will beset us, every one
The warmth of life is only for the living
And live we must until the day is done.

Time wears down the sturdiest of towers
And dying now (but dying in my boots)
Hate not the relentlessness of hours
That shake the sturdy oak unto its roots.

Immune to howls of ‘but’ and ‘oh if only’s
Hardening, inordinately brave
But how these days have grinded up my bonesies
My hands reach feebly as if from the grave
But often
I’ll soften
And breathe through
The coffin
I’ll live on nought but everything I gave
And ever shall I own the Tiger’s part;
And you will find my wreckage in your heart.


          III

The castles I have stormed and forts I’ve taken
Which fly my flag for now and all their days
Hail me, but in title are mistaken
To say mine is to hallow yours in praise.

Each of us has private ghosts to grapple
Secret depths that everybody delves
But in the quiet of our private chapel
We are made of sterner stuff than just our selves.

A thousand men I’ve known and loved have made me
Your stone is that which sharpened up my spear
On a bed of soft green grass I’ve laid me
That you’ve watered and you’ve weeded for me here.

Together we construct our sacred stories
Hand in hand we shore up each new song
We revel now together in our glories
And a thousand men I can now help make strong.

Each of us, a thousand rush to battle,
Defeated still at times, and yet we try;
And cower not at that unholy rattle
As lightning tears its strip across the sky.
But under
The thunder
We still weep
And wonder
At the storms that we can weather, you and I,
And together play the Tiger’s part,
And I will find my refuge in your heart.

The finest of intricacies,
Clung firmly upon thy wrist,

Harmonious,

Motion drives that beating heart,
It's man who stirs that rotor,

A skeleton of the sturdiest of bones,
Amongst, that movement lay,

Gear's spun all so elegantly,
The very composition of your complexities,

A fluent waltz between man and mechanism,
Interdependence,

Oh what admirable craft of a God.

They buried a small seed
In a dry parched land
The driest autumn they'd seen
Their aim being to destroy

Winter came, stripped every tree
Of its leaves,
Iced the land
Completely covering the ground

They thought that spring
Would be the thing
That would bury her deeper
Outshine her beauty
As it put blossoms on every tree

But summer's rain fell
She chose to heed
To nature's call to grow
And broke the land
Reached out her hands
And poked her head
Looking for the sun

To their surprise
A number of springs later
She stood among the sturdiest
With blooming flowers
Ready to bear fruit
And once again scatter more of her kind on earth

Miss Fit ⚓

You care about cars
And you care about bras and bars and breaking girl's hearts
But mostly you care about cars

Maybe it's the 4 wheels
Because the 4 wheels are the most you've ever had in your life
And they're the sturdiest thing you got isn't that right
And those 4 wheels don't stop at traffic lights
I think those 4 wheels will take you to heights that
Your legs couldn't

Maybe it's the engine
Because that engine is the only resource you've got for warmth
That engine will carry you through the toughest terrain
That engine will never let you down again
Because you know the cranks more than you know anything
That engine is what's keeping you going

And so you care about cars
And you care about bras and bars and breaking girl's hearts
But now I can understand why you care about cars

Birds grow up quickly and fly away. They can leave the nest at any time or day. To go make families of there own, when they are up and finally grown. I'm sorry to say it, I'm so sad it's true, I figured out for myself that birds always leave you. There are bigger nests and stronger birds and they soar so vast and quickly. Birds always leave you, atleast they do me. Birds always go to a bigger stronger tree. Even if that tree isn't the sturdiest one. That tree gets the birds I so desperately love. These trees have no leaves, just twigs and branches. But the birds do not mind, in fact they like it. Birds always seem to nest in trees with no leaves. Why? I'm not sure, but nature takes its course, when the winter returns, all trees will be stripped, and then these birds will decide, what matters the most.

I like to call you
when I'm not really awake.
I only leave you messages, of course.
For I only let myself call
(I only allow myself
that poisonous release)
when I'm alone on the subway,
which happens very rarely.
So whatever I say gets lost
between forty-three thousand tonnes
of the strongest, sturdiest concrete
and the sky.