Dedicated to stillborn fetuses, 99 cent Malt Liquor and Existentialism
1.
Nymphomaniac tree huggers
And overweight bisexual vegetarians
Swallowing phentermine poison to stay fit.

2.
Funky fresh *******  
throwing pigs at St. Augustine’s pear tree
and frolicking abortions over Moloch’s philoprogenitiveness,

3.
While sipping barbecue sauce dipped in Lipton tea,
dancing around adhesive bonfires
reciting memories of holocaust, the Kristallnacht nights
and beautiful words suffered by ancestors lost.

4.
Inhale chicken noodle soup, with a side of Lithium,
And prance to Literacy class to combat envisionment
With free association conceptual constructions,

5.
Computerized like Prometheus’ fire burning through SmartBoards
In classrooms where the poison of heterosexual history
Is fed to boys in skirts cursed by Adam’s apple,

6.
Baptized by social norms and locked away in hopeless closets
According to the Tautology of Leviticus…
until they cut their breath by the vein of soteriology;

7.
Misunderstanding of God’s words
Covets the innocent to early graves
In biblical paratactic irony…like God betting Satan for a Job.

8.
Rub fried chicken oil on Bartholomaeus Anglicus’ skin
and soil his white pride with ***** flavor,
for revenge  On the Properties of Things

9.
and howl out in glory of victory
over totes of  lickerish piper methysticum blunts
that beg the conundrum,
'What is the origin of this world?'
'Ether,' he replied.
But it is not ether!
Nor Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
It is Dada. Dada. Dada!
  10.
For this is a record of the life stories of the greatest minds and geniuses of your generation,
written in boys and girls
who mimicked Basquiat’s genius and tagged bathroom walls with abstract philosophies like “Love is a prime number” and “ the weight of Duncan McDougall’s soul can only be found on the 15th of October”
who drank vampirish gulps of Vicodin while consoling themselves with aphorisms such as: “don’t rue the misses, you don’t need a Mrs. when you’re elevated by chemical kisses”
11.
Who stood naked in mirrors, weeping, for they were a mystery to themselves, but a great talent and soon to be legend to some.
Who lit cannabis in loneliness and waltzed naked with their ghosts, fantasizing about ****** tomatoes and Corpus Christi Mexican Jazz.
Who composed psychedelic anthems from dreams that were lost in ghettoes where virginities were lost for loaves of bread, for the hunger of bread.
12.
Who wrote suicide notes on a toilet seat, contemplating the texture of Marshall Mathers’ favorite underwear and whether the color green was an invention of **** Germany.
Who used to love their lovers in darkness and colored the streets of Manhattan with rainbows on June 24, 2011 to mark the date lady liberty finally bought a new pair of glasses.
13.
Who lost musical talents to a Wine-house and ended up in a whine-house where lobotomy was subsequently prescribed by the milligram.
Who indulged in pharmaceutical vices and when asked why replied simply, every recursively enumerable set is Diophantine.
Who diagnosed themselves with “start ****-itis” and self medicated by eating Fifinellas at the stroke of each midnight.
Who rubbed paraprosdokians on their skin and occupied Wall Street in search of a new euphemism for being American.
Who poured Alkalizer on a dead moose and kicked it while feasting on the divine question, “why does Rice play Texas?”
14.
who got bored with conventional relationships and bought the Origin of the World on street corners from vixens nicknamed “Jezebel” and climaxed atop of them screaming  “I’m in Babylon, the great Mother of ******!”
Who attempted suicides upon suicides upon suicides, in Oakland, until they were shipped away to private catholic universities in Rhode Island, where the history of Colossus was being taught.
15.
who serenaded love interests with four letter curse words at open bars where Kubla Khan was read and Tartars kings were licked all over like holy communion *****.
Who drove home with the spirits of wine and crashed on telephone poles where their obituaries were written in their prime, leaving their mothers weeping and calling congress to reconsider Prohibition.
16.
Who mixed Redbull with Propofol and drank the juxtaposition galore only to be woken up the next morning dead in their sleep.
Who tattooed rat poison packages with goodwill messages such as “****** divided by Water =6th day of creation” or “Seroquel + Brett Favre = St. Patrick”,
who went speedballing with Basquiat during autoscopy and woke up wondering the cost of Nautilus in Albuquerque.
17.
who took 33 hallelujah 1800 tequila jello shots and daydreamed about laying on Mithras’ grave, yelling, beetlejuice, beetlejuice…beetlejuice.
who found the truths of the Bible invalid by the miscalculation of Pi in 1 Kings 7, verse 3, and mailed death on anthrax letters to Reagan in protest.
18.
who sat empty bellied at breakfast tables wondering the temperature of satellites at Lagrangian points,  only to soon catch fire in their tongues and speak Labyrinth soliloquies that ended in
19.
Zion,
Where Google knows every answer.
In Zion
Where the youth, tomorrow’s future, quote a ***** named Hova better than they can quote Jehovah.
In Zion
Where *******’s art was used as weapon during the Cold war.
20.
In Zion
Where sartorial geniuses where no pants,
In Zion
Where David Kato Kisule is the secret hero of these words, for he was taken at a time
In Zion
Where we were supposed to be our ancestor’s sci-fi.

21.
In Zion,
Where the youth bear the scarlet letter X for they are a problem to tradition and hold no definition for the future, for they have discovered
In Zion
That the origin of this world is in their living eyes, and not in the dictionary of their ancestors who lived
In Zion
when the epitome of the literature of life ended in Revelation of Amen and Shantih shantih shantih;
this is a record of the greatest minds and geniuses there ever was, written
in Zion
where the meaninglessness and nothingness of Dada reigns, and the trinity of life now lives in the Subject, subjective and subjectivity.

Heirlooms

Jun 2017

One day, parkouring through my uncles two story apartment,

I was drawn naturally to his desktop computer

upon which I found his OkCupid Dating profile.

I don't remember his username, Or anything about the site really,

But I remember the head-shot of a beautiful woman

framed above the desk

the sterile grey Rubbermaid totes behind me like caskets, 

How they made even the hardwood floors

look like they were holding in the dead.

For my Grandmothers birthday

my family gathered at Captain Newicks

her favorite seafood restaurant.

My uncle flirted with the waitress.

I don't think I've ever gone to a restaurant with my uncle where he

didn't flirt with the waitress.

Captain Newicks went out of business shortly after that dinner

followed shortly by my grandmothers life.

the relationship between my uncle and that waitress expired well

before both my Grandmother or Captain Newicks.

I remember asking my grandmother about my Uncle.

Tarots Fool would have predicted

my grandmothers eyelids

a silent prayer before her words.

He had two children by his first wife,

keeps a portrait of her above his desk.

She was a blessing on the family

Selfless amd loved by every one.

She took her own life

Spread her wings to break free from the cage He kept her locked in.

He buried his heart in her casket,

motorcycles, empty bottles

had a third child by a second wife

who buried her heart in drugs and strangers.

Amanda was 6 years old when her mother died.

my uncles wife. Her brother josh was 3

when she died my uncle wanted to put them both up for adoption

he didn't.

Their mother died on the 20th of September

a week after her 25th birthday.

their mother once bought a bunch of carnations

with a dead rose in the middle

and said "it looks like I'm dead".

she took a bottle of pills before going to a chinese restaurant

went out as a family

and collapsed at the table.

she was rushed to the hospital

she didn't make it.

their mother wasn't happy

her and my uncle were getting divorced at the time

lived in the same house that I grew up in.

when my uncle told the kids mommy wasn't coming home

my mother was 17 

and there to see all of it.

When my mother was 17 

she had to watch her baby cousins be told their mother had died.

When my grandmother passed.

grief bounced off of my uncles callouses

ricocheted to my cousins, robbed 

twice now of a selfless mother.

The tragedies in my family

have always enthralled me.

like shakespeare sonnets

I breath them into my faithless nights

tap an extra dream-catcher on my bedpost

in space of a prayer.

When The hearth-fire of our family dimmed 

a tealight in my grandmothers eyes.

grayed, Glossed.

she could no longer crochet 

one big dysfunctional quilt, 

together from our families yarn.

without her needle, 

I was determined to watch how our life spun forward.

The next time I saw my uncle,

He offered me a job.

Thick mosquito blinded us as we carried our sweat 

with Rubbermaid totes into a blue two story home 

deep in the evergreen thickets of Maine.

a tall white fan rotated slowly back and fourth 

Cooling the wet patches on our T-shirts while my Uncle 

flirted with the landlord

I still remember when my uncle tossed me the truck keys

the look of terror I gave him

How easy it was for him to trust

I guess when your heart is buried in a casket 

you stop worrying who has your keys.

It makes me remember

when my daughter asked for my keys 

I would sit her in the drivers seat

watch her pretend to drive.

I loved imagining her free

living how she wanted.

I still wouldn't give her my keys.

she would turn my car into a casket.

It makes me remember

when that little girls mother asked me to drive

My words spun portcullises

prison bars forged in anxiety

scaffolding out of latex secrets

Glued with siren smiles, pacifier kisses

denying cigarette smoke on her breath

fueling infernos in my head.

when my uncle handed me his keys without hesitation.

my religion was insulted by his tough skin.

I felt his simple kindness 

like a splash of holy water. 

saw in me, the devil 

caging a woman like property

holding her hostage 

out of fear.

And yes 

when She could drive she left me

And yes 

when she left me she took her daughter.

every morning 

cereal bowl of pills, I **** myself

keep a poster of my mothers face 

covered in bruises 

behind the tiny orange bottles 

to remind me why I do it.

wake up twice, 

first as Phoenix, dying

second as a watcher, writer and admirer.

callouses are not to protect us from the outside at all.

Callouses harden our bodies into caskets.

Hold in all our dead.

He keeps the contents of his life in boxes. The clear Rubbermaid totes with the locking lids that keep the contents from spilling out across the floor when they are least needed. The same containers that keep everything within protected against assailing liquid falling from above. Most of his possessions have long since been discarded, but there is an odd assortment of memories that are kept safe.

A model rocket that his grandfather, long since passed, used to take him to open fields to launch towards the heavens. It never quite reached, but in his mind he was chasing down the parachute of a spaceship returning from a long voyage.

Birthday cards received when it was still exciting to count the years. When the cards still had happy monsters devouring birthday cake and the short handwritten messages read "We are so proud of the person you are becoming".

First place medals from sports competitions, spelling bees, and field days. A single second place medal from a martial arts tournament where brute force could not overcome the wisdom of an elder opponent.

The metal plates off of every baseball trophy earned since playing teeball at age four. When the shelves could no longer support the weight of the trophies they were discarded, and the cheaply made nameplates are the only reminder left that they ever existed.

Too many years of school yearbooks with sloppy signatures following words of wisdom reminding him to stay cool, and that he would see you all again after the summer.

A red, sweat-stained Schlitz hat that was stolen from the older, much more cool, cousin. He stopped asking for its return years ago, and has probably forgotten that it even existed.

Certificates that prove he was once a member of Builder club, Beta club, Phi Theta Kappa, National Honor Society, Student Government, and Junior Ambassadors to the Chamber of Commerce. Reminders of times when joining clubs meant you got to miss class to hang out with your friends.

A single blue ribbon knotted three times as a reminder that it should never be untied. Beyond those simple knots are all of the love letters that were written between him and the first girl that was able to open his eyes so that he could see what love, and loss, truly meant.

An old, barely functioning, paintball gun that he bought with the money from his first real job. The same gun that, through some miracle, gave him and his father their first common interest. He picks it up from time to time and pretends that they are still hiding behind bunkers ready to charge the opposing team.

A tiny red Rock 'Em Sock 'Em robot ring used as an excuse to wrestle around in bed with one of his closest friends on a lazy Sunday afternoon. The blue ring moved far away and has long since stopped answering her phone, knowing that the rematch of the century will never occur.

Diplomas from high school and college that will probably never hang framed on a wall. He was never truly proud of accomplishments so easily attained.

Hiding in the shadows of these boxes is each first kiss that is a stone sitting beneath the shattered mirror friendships that could not hold their weight. He is reminded to find either lighter stones or more sturdy mirrors in the future.

Friends that he has met in countless towns huddle together, trying to stay warm amidst the bitter cold they perceive around them. He calls or texts from time to time, but the embers cannot replace the pyre he used to provide.

Lovers that never expected the love they received in return bask in the solace of the fact that they are rarely seen or disturbed. He smiles when he comes across them, but knows better than to retrieve them from the storage where they are kept.

He still keeps all of the contents of his life in boxes. The same clear Rubbermaid totes with the locking lids, whose transparency allows him to view the contents from afar without disturbing them. He says he uses them so all of the contents don't spill out when he doesn't want them to, but his blurred vision reminds him that he chose the waterproof variety for a reason.

It would only take an hour or two to unpack everything at each new location he moved to, but he knows that the next time he unpacks he will not be doing it alone. It becomes more difficult for him each time he has to condense everyone and everything of import into totes light enough to carry to the next location.

Sorting boxes, packing clothes
Assaulted by the past
When you stood and said forever
You both thought it would last
A jewellery box, a trinket here
A gift they never used
A present from five years ago
You smile, a bit bemused
The boxes fill, the tears arrive
You know it must be done
It's the one part of a person's life
That surely isn't fun
Textures and scents surround you
They take you back in time
To a place before computers
When a phone call cost a dime
You fill one box, put it aside
"Donations" on the side
You can picture every item
That you piled up inside
You put them in there lovingly
You didn't want to let them go
By releasing them into the box
It forced you to....you know
Accept that you're alone now
That your partner is not here
That the life you built together
Is now remembered by a tear
You gave things out to family
Though you do not know just why
They will stick them in a drop box
And that just makes you cry
You picture them inside the clothes
And you hear their laugh as you
Put magazines and tolietries
Inside Box number two
You put aside some things you like
To remember better days
Though you know that in the future
You'll remember through a haze
Time will mar your memories
Keep the good times, wipe the bad
You'll forget about the smile
And this really is quite sad
It takes days to sort the boxes
Fill the others, pack them all
By the time that you are finished
They will almost fill the hall
When complete you think on
What is in the totes
There's clothing, jewellery, memories
And magazines and notes
You don't know where to take them
You balance on a knife
The question here before you
How do you give away a life?

This was last Saturday night. We were at a rooftop party in downtown New Haven thrown by ‘DocHouse.’ Doc-House is kind of a frat-house, owned by Dr. Melon, where he and seven doctoral students live. My BF Peter lived there once - before he graduated and took a job in Geneva - that’s how I met Dr. Melon. I think Peter asked Melon to ‘keep an eye’ on me - because he texts me an invitation every week and people with multiple doctorates and doctoral students don’t usually hang with lowly undergraduates.

The invitation said ‘rooftop’ but we’re mostly on the third floor - not on the actual roof - because it’s about 39°f and windy out there tonight. The floor space was about seventy by a hundred feet, there were pillars but no walls. The space was lit by a million strings of white Christmas lights.

The party was packed and loud - so loud I was wearing ear plugs. Beach chairs and card tables were the furniture. There were foosball, pool and two ping-pong tables (one of those being used for "Beer Pong"). A karaoke machine patched into two Marshall amps and speakers acted as a DJ.

Of course, there was a bar. Everyone was supposed to bring something. We brought two bags of ice, two magnums of Gordon's gin, two fifths of Cinzano vermouth, a jar of large green olives and a box of toothpicks, because there’s always room for the proper anesthetic. Martinis aren’t a shiny, new hobby with me - they’re a lifelong passion that I only indulge in on weekends and in psychologically safe environments.

There were 7 in our party - Sunny, Lisa, Leong (three of my suitemates), Lisa’s BF David (a Wall Street M&A man), Andy (a carrot-topped chain-smoking divinity-school undergraduate friend of Sunny’s), Charles (our escort, and driver) and me.

We’d been there about 30 minutes when Jordie, a guy I’ve been sort of crushing on for several months, showed up - alone. Lisa turned to me and yelled, “Uuu, lookie lookie,” when she saw him - I barely heard her - but I read her lips. I’d never really talked to Jordie, but when I looked at him, through the warm, martini mist, my tummy felt like Jello-excitement.

As the night wore on, Jordie and I started hanging out. We lost at foosball, 8-ball and ping-pong before we went up on the roof to get some air. The silvery ½-moon crescent was obscured, off and on by clouds, like a shell game where the moon was a jewel on blue velvet. You could almost hear the operator’s smooth, practiced patter, “now you see it, now you don’t, place your bets.”

It was quiet up there, so we actually talked. Somehow, the vast night seemed intimate. As we talked, the conversation was delicate and careful, like the words were made of crystal.

A while later, Jordie and I were back downstairs dancing. The entire floor was coated with that gray-speckled covering - so you could dance anywhere - but a rectangle of police tape in that flooring defined the official ‘dance floor’.

Two hours later, we were watching Sunny sing karaoke while holding a fuchsia martini (just add raspberry liqueur) in one hand. When Sunny goes, she totes commits and belting out an angry, screamo version of ‘Ain’t it fun’ by Paramore, she tried for a Beyonce-like head-spin (don’t try this at home), and slung half of her drink on the crowd - but it didn’t slow her, or them, down. After finishing, to huge applause, she took several bows and coming back to our table, she asked Andy, “How was I?”
Andy held out his hand and lampooned her by waffling it, in a so-so gesture.
As Lisa handed Sunny a replacement cocktail, she told Andy “You don’t get it - it’s supposed to be awful.”
“Then it’s the best version of the song I’ve ever heard.” he replied, holding up his hands like she had a gun.

Jodie and I danced some more and after a while, someone played a slow song. As we moved close together, his subtle, boy musk was torturous and intoxicating. How come guys smell better when they’re all sweaty and I smell like a horse? Eight weeks of lonely boredom and three martinis (4?) were almost enough to churn the sweat of desire into the intoxicating liquor of consent. In my secret heart I wanted him. Badly. I wanted to take him home and smash against him for hours. Alas, I have a (missing) boyfriend and I don’t believe in oopsies.

At that very moment I saw Charles, standing silhouetted in one of the dance floor lights - he had our coats in hand. I swear, that man can read my mind. I glanced at my watch, 2:30am. I stopped close dancing with Jordie and stepped back. “I gotta go,” I told him.
“It was fun,” he said, shrugging and smiling.
“It WAS fun,” I agreed, taking my coat from Charles who’d come over. “(I’ll) See you next week,” I added, as everyone in our little caravan started to move.

Pacing the floor in the middle of this
watching the kettle 'til steam starts to hiss
A strange fascination we have with the bliss
with nothing behind us but one heated kiss.

Underneath an umbrella I stand in the rain
and wait on the platform for the six o'clock train
well you never quite hold me and I rarely complain
and soaked with frustration I walk home again.

We bid for each other in some Chinese auction
and you got the ***** one mixed up concoction
we checked out our prizes at a much closer range
What were we thinking and can we exchange?

And without any memories to dry up the tears
we long for the fire and the comfort of years
but it's just one more lesson, a good one we learned.
the slow-cooker is better and we're less often burned.

And then as I ponder you come in the door
I smile at your tired eyes and looking for more
I stir up the *** as you take off your Totes
and you ask me to make you some Five-Minute Oats.

"I made 'em already to warm up your cockles
the seat of your heart and without the debacles
I sensed that the cold rain would stir the desire
so I whipped up a batch and rekindled the fire".

And inspite of my rambling it seems rather clear
that Five-Minute Oats can mean something more dear
it's that person who waits in your kitchen above
stirring Five Minute oats into passionate love.

-Gina Morrone

Pacing the floor in the middle of this
watching the kettle 'til steam starts to hiss
A strange fascination we have with the bliss
with nothing behind us but one heated kiss.

Underneath an umbrella I stand in the rain
and wait on the platform for the six o'clock train
well you never quite hold me and I rarely complain
and soaked with frustration I walk home again.

We bid for each other in some Chinese auction
and you got the ***** one mixed up concoction
we checked out our prizes at a much closer range
What were we thinking and can we exchange?

And without any memories to dry up the tears
we long for the fire and the comfort of years
but it's just one more lesson, a good one we learned.
the slow-cooker is better and we're less often burned.

And then as I ponder you come in the door
I smile at your tired eyes and looking for more
I stir up the *** as you take off your Totes
and you ask me to make you some Five-Minute Oats.

"I made 'em already to warm up your cockles
the seat of your heart and without the debacles
I sensed that the cold rain would stir the desire
so I whipped up a batch and rekindled the fire".

And inspite of my rambling it seems rather clear
that Five-Minute Oats can mean something more dear
it's that person who waits in your kitchen above
stirring Five Minute oats into passionate love.

TO DO LIST:
-Paint nails black and silver
-Finish reading that novel I started
-Finish writing that novel I started
-Offer my bus seat to an elderly lady… unless I’m driving the bus.
-Make tea
-Practice piano
-Clean out closet
TO ****** LIST:
-People who have hurt those I love
-Depression
-Suicide
-Unrequited love
-Rejection
-Inadequacy
-ppl who lyk legit totes talk lyk this lol as if they are lyk, texting or whatevz cuz they think its lyk totes adorbz and stuff *** lyk ***** rofl
-People who respond to my paragraph text with: K. or Lol.
-Slow walkers in front of me
-people who sing Xmas carols in June.
TO DATE LIST:
-That guy I’ve liked since the first day I saw him
-Chocolate
-Chocolate’s cousin: Caramel
-Tea
-CHOCOLATE BROWNIES
-Every fictional character I am in love with... there's alot

If there was an award for the oddest pairing in fashion, it would go to Jonathan Anderson and Spanish house Loewe. More than a few eyebrows were raised when the designer, who is better known for his conceptual unisex collections and dressing men in cropped tops, was handed the reins to the heritage brand that is all about "luxe" (in other words: conservative) leather goods.

In person, Anderson looks more like an extra from a Saint Laurent runway show than creative director of one of Spain's most treasured possessions. He's dressed in a typical model uniform of white tee and jeans, complete with dark sunglasses and a cigarette dangling from his fingers. A mop of tousled, highlighted blond hair adds to his boyish charm, although he is quick to assert that looks can be deceiving.

"Fashion ultimately imitates life and in life things don't always look good together from the outset," he says. "I know a certain style is good when I feel uncomfortable with it - those looks turn out to be the best. You have to challenge yourself with things you don't like or don't know."

Taking on a brand reinvention is probably one of the biggest challenges the 30-year-old Irish designer has faced in his short but successful career. A former Prada window dresser, he studied menswear at London College of Fashion and launched his eponymous line in 2008 to critical acclaim. He's been nominated for many awards and even collaborated with the likes of Versus.

In 2013 everything changed when LVMH took a minority stake in his label and offered him the role of creative director at Loewe in the hope that he could transform the dormant house into a modern success story along the lines of Givenchy and Céline. The Loewe gig wasn't originally part of the deal but that changed quickly following a covert visit to the Loewe factory.

"Truth is I just fell in love with the people," he says. "I met the master modeller and leather developer, and I thought this brand can be huge. Loewe was never on my radar, but when I went there I could not understand why it had never been articulated in a way that it wasn't global. I questioned if I wanted to do this, but once I started creating a book of ideas, I couldn't stop."

Although Loewe has a network of stores around the world, it was not a brand that many people took notice of (a fact not helped by its unpronounceable name, which for the record is pronounced Lo-Wev-Eh).

So Anderson decided to adopt a more controversial approach to the rebranding. Much like Hedi Slimane at Saint Laurent, he unveiled a fresh new identity, including a sleek new logo designed by graphic duo M/M (Paris) and an eye-catching campaign featuring a selection of vintage Steven Meisel images.

"I did a year of research before I started and realised we had to remove the date and city location from the logo. One of my skills is that I am very marketing directed," he says.

While many creative directors use runway shows as a platform to showcase their vision, Anderson focused first on the fundamentals of the brand and what it does best: leather goods. Soon Loewe's iconic buttery soft leather was transformed into covetable designs such as the best-selling Puzzle Bag, the Colourblock Flamenco Crossbody and a range of minimalist clutches and totes embossed with the discreet new logo.

"There are not many brands in the world that are built up in that way. We have such incredible leather knowledge in hand at Loewe and I had to use that," he says.

Next on his list was adding a more personal element to the brand in the form of culture. Along came various projects, including working with renowned Japanese ceramicist Tomoo Hamada on two exclusive pieces for the Tokyo store, inspired by the brand's DNA. His most recent project, which was unveiled in Hong Kong last week, features prints by British textile artist John Allen, which have appeared on a range of summer essentials, from bags to towels.

"When I was looking at what other brands were offering, none of them really dealt with this culture idea," Anderson says.

That's not to say that ready-to-wear takes a back seat at Loewe. This is an area where Anderson has been most prolific, producing both ready-to-wear and pre-collections for men and women which are shown in Paris.

"Marc Jacobs fundamentally opened up the idea that clothing was needed to articulate leather goods. It came from a moment in the 1990s where he changed our thinking on old houses. I've learned through my lifetime that you need a character to tell a story - a bag cannot be isolated. People need something tangible to hold onto and ready-to-wear creates newness," he says.

There's no doubt that his clothing brings a fresh perspective to the brand. His menswear collections feature everything from slouchy raw-silk tunic and turned-up jeans to knitted palazzo pants, each imbued with his signature androgynous touches. His woman is powerful and dressed boldly in blouson blouses made from patchwork leather and wide-legged trousers.

While many critics have embraced the new Loewe look wholeheartedly, others have not been complimentary, saying that Anderson's work is derivative. Not that Anderson is letting it get to him.

"I had to stop reading what people write. I have to be me. I want the brand to be big, and will do everything to make it happen, but I don't want to change who I fundamentally am. You either like what I say or don't," he says.

"I am bored of the days where we are obsessed with the idea that certain designers owned things. You own nothing. Fashion is not about that. It's about reappropriating things, it's how you edit it."

Like most 21st century designers, Anderson is obsessed with the future and creating a brand that is truly of the moment: he has lofty goals to bring Loewe to the next generation of consumers.

"The idea of relevance is the idea that you can be rejected tomorrow. We live in a culture that moves very fast, so that relevance is short-lived. My biggest goal in the next five years is to get to the point where we will do a show and, the day after, the collection is in store. It means we are designing for the moment that it is going out. That's my dream."Read more here:marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

Look onward out towards the crashing waves of the sea.
It's there I dare to compare the rock holding form upon the crystal reef.
Compare to whom for there is no capable being upon this Earth holds claim to equal such
I know only one strong enough to withstand those  violently crashing waves , my hero , my daddy, his back totes the weight of the world every day , this rock standing firm in the heart of the crystal reef, holds little force to compare
Journey with me for your eyes won't believe
Young but recalling the blizzard one winter my hero, my daddy that returned from the mountain
Eyes of sky blue shining through crystals of icicle hanging from his lashes, his face purple from the wicked freeze of sleet.
I peered with pain while my mother laid warmth over my hero's frozen face, it was the rock in the reef that cold winter's day far across the fierce mountain snow he tracked to provide a meal a for his family
A wife and four girls , a back that had been broken not one but three times , I couldn't hold the tears in my eyes as my bus passed him walking as it drove me to school  there was no money for a vehicle, my hero, my daddy, five miles to and five miles home, every  single day for over six months and never missed a day , walked with his *******  back to provide for us
His hands were covered with hard labor of his life as the mines collapsed sparing his life as it ripped his finger away
His job led him underground just miles from hell for to long
Turning his lungs to it's likeness of the coal
Three days went by what seemed forever as the rubble they lifted from that mine was like holding a gun to the head of the men trapped in below
For the chance of that bullet one wrong move would send the mine and it's beings far beneath the earth to never be found.
We glared at the pile of rubble they said time was running out
Wait what does that mean as the families begin to weep
When all of the sudden the minor let out the words that sounded angelic to my ears, Men I see a light shining in the hole and it's coming towards me.
I could see as what looked in the form of a man but was covered with black from the coal the light from his hard hat turning side and up and down as he had one man on his shoulder he lifted him out and disappeared to retrieve the other men still down in that deep dark hole. One by one my hero my daddy brought them to their safety , this my friend is the rock from the reef that can withstand the crashing waves,  the man that tracked through a freezing blizzard to make sure his family ate, and the man that returned the husband's home safe to their family's from the depths of hell that day Always and forever this man will be , My Hero , My Daddy!
©kimmied1105

I am so sick of being that girl
The one who sits awkwardly
Tries not to show too much on my face
But here I am
I watch all around as people
Stare
Judge each other
And it isn’t even me that I am tearing the roots out of my faith in humanity over

I watch
And I listen
And all I perceive is laughter
“Oh my gosh that was totes hilarious”
No.
It wasn’t.
Those people you laugh at…
People of Wal-Mart
That crazy chick
The person at the end of all of your jokes
Harmless as they seem
Those people are people too
They have people who love them
Loved ones losing them to the horrors of the person that you force them to see in the mirror each day
Each breath
Rigid and Choked
Trying to be the person on the inside
“Only inner beauty matters…”

Then why won’t you let them be more than
The punch line.

I know
It’s harmless
Everyone laughs
It’s funny

And everybody laughing
And joking
And smiling
As they look past your soul
Just searching for a witty response
Instead of a human being

It isn’t harmless.


If I fall
And I can’t even breathe
I can’t even tell who I am
And no one is around to hear my cries for help
No one hears…

Do I still exist?

People stop wanting to exist when they feel like their life doesn’t exist.
I’ve been there before

So

Just stop.
Stop.
Stop.
Just stop.
Think for a second.

What if that was you?
What if it was your best friend?
Your everything?
And their existence is laughed off.

Until it shrivels and dies.
No more growth.
Not ever.

We are walking uphill through a snowstorm of meaningless arrows
Poison soaking the tips
And I can’t fight them forever.
So please.
Somebody help.

And even though you may finally hear my cries
And cry with me
You keep on shooting
Not even thinking
Because it is only natural now.

Please.
Think.
Stop.
Think.
Let me go.
Let everyone try to figure out who they are
What they want to be
Without pushing waves of stereotypes
And laughing at their dreams
Scoffing their entire existence away

Yes, I am totes going to turn this assignment in when it's do you think you could give me just like three more days?

Mirthful sunlit chimes spoke of fondness
Ever they'd enmesh in love's binding tress  
Streams of joy did gurgle with much delight  
Their hearts according in rapture's notes
Bright news resounded through these totes
They'd professed to each other love's tie
Twas a pairing which would ne'er fade or die
Heavens arrayed in spangling starlight
The twosome combined so divinely
A sweet syrup bliss ringing sublimely
Love's declaration pleasantly pealing
Throughout the continents both near and wide
The turtle doves love ever to reside
These gladdest tidings truly appealing

Poem 1
A LESSON THAT I TAUGHT

I Teach!!
I taught...
Here's a lesson that I taught...
I had this lesson. It were ace in my mind!
The planning was tight, concise, well timed

Going into the room - my stage
Put on the teacher face, the act
(My phone is buzzing but I don't react)

Lights, camera, action! You're on!

"Hi guys! Come in, unpack your things!"
But I'm just thinking about why it rings

"Hi guys! Come in, take off your coats!"
For some reason now I'm thinking about goats

(Why ******* goats?
Why now?!)
I thought
(I need to teach a lesson on...
Oh crap! The whiteboards not working!) "****!!"

Right, try again...

"Excuse me Chelsea, that skirts too tight,
And too short and you aren't wearing tights.
Go down to student point and get yourself a note"

And now I'll get back to the lesson that I taught

"I ******' 'ATE SIR! HE'S ALWAYS TIGHT!!"

Class - "Totes! Hahahahaha!!!"

I think ... Look you little tots, all you're thinking about is **** ... and your tots and your shots and your tokes in her tote!
You think you're ******* clever but you're not!!

I say... "This is an amazing lesson that I've got!
Does anyone remember the last lesson that I taught?"

"No sir, we do not"
"You're boring sir"
"Are you gay sir?"

On a parallel universe, where I don't care about my career and my home and my children...

I think in my head for a bit, then I say...

"Look you little spaz, you think I'm tight?!? I've been sleeping in a mates spare room at night
because me and the mother of my kids had a fight
and everything in my life is turning *****
Because all I do is stay up all night to plan a ******* lesson for a bunch of little scrotes! Who can't even take off their coats, And sit and ******* listen to the lesson that I taught! I'm marking so much that my body's not taut and my mind spins round and round in thought (a word which you spell ******* tawt!)
Progress and differentiation!
The future of your education!
And I just hope that in some way, I might actually TEACH you something today!
But all you think about is **** and tats and texts and sexts and COD and Christiano Ronaldo and Justin '*******' Beiber AND YOU CALL ME GAY?!?
You spell thought ... T.A.W.T!! You're 18 for gods sake!!
How you gonna make a living eh?!
Totesport?!

A couple of them titter

And the rest go silent...

And I think I've won!

'Til one of them says "sir... I'm gonna get you done!"

"And you're gay"

"And you're a **** teacher"

The end

Hey there girlfriend,
I love those big brown eyes.
Not much like mine, big and blue.

You have the hair to match,  brown and long,
While mine is long and blonde.

You are totes gonna blow those girls of the board today.
Just don't think to much about Elliot and you'll be fine.

If you're mother of the team,
Then I'd be your baby freshman.

If you looked in the stands,
Popstar is directly to my left.

I hope you like big butts and you cannot lie,
Cause I have a big **** when I fly.

Love,
Your secret swimmer.

Tom said that my name sounds like an exotic flower meets medicine.
Tom said the love he witnessed in me gave him hope.
Tom said he'd make it to my wedding, because I promised he would be the flower boy.
Tom said he had a dream that I was kidnapped and he was trying to save me.
That was the last thing Tom said to me.

And I'm writing about him because I don't know what else to do to remember him;
to give him some sort of tribute of my emotion outside of clutching my chest;
to even allow myself to think about him at all.
But writing is how we met, so this is where I will keep him alive.

Tom had a full name that sounded like an old-fashioned fancy inventor.
He spoke with quick Irish wit, and every time we messaged I would imagine the day
that I could ask him to get on the phone with me so I could hear that accent for myself,
and I tried to picture his face from the two pictures I ever saw of it,
and I daydreamed about seeing a kooky smile while he held out his arms yelling,
"Duckie!!!"
He never called me anything else,
and I never came up with a nickname for him quite as splendid.

Tom told me to find him a Russian man.
He told me he had a dream that he had an unreciprocated crush on me.
(I told him I would never be so rude about it, though.)
It was apparently meant to be, however, when he "accidentally flirted" from autocorrect once.
One time he messaged me at 2am just to ask what "totes" meant.
He sent me terribly-drawn doodles of me, him, and ducks (of course)
that made him laugh so hard at himself he could hardly type,
and those times were my favorite.
I'm thinking about putting one of them on my wall, but it makes me sad to think I couldn't tell him about it.

I never did tell you what I do in the mornings, about the things I hate the most, or about all my tiny ticks.
If I wasn't so ill, I might have remembered to message you more -
then again, I figured we had the rest of our lives for our friendship.
That phrase feels sickeningly familiar in my mouth.
Colorado is where my friends go to die, it seems.

"How's your lade?"
"You are the dotiest together."
"You two are my sunshines."
"Your love gives me hope in the world."

Late nights filled with panic and unease, the kind only love can instill in you,
and calm messages back from him that told me to keep doing what I'm doing -
she's going to be alright.
And I'm trying to believe that, Tom, I'm trying to believe that with all my heart
but you're six feet under from the same thing that threatens to take my beloved from me
so I'm not sure how to believe you now.
You don't know what I would give to hear from you tonight,
to hear, "she's going to be alright, you're doing all the right things"
to hear, "I'm going to be alright, you're doing all the right things."
I told you I would fight for you with all I have, but I knew what I have isn't a lot right now.
I couldn't do much for you.
I hope with all my might it's enough for her.
(and finally, since the night I was told they pulled the plug, I can cry.)

I didn't get to say goodbye. two weeks before you took yourself from me,
I sent you "goodnight" and "I miss you" and "sleep good" and "we'll talk soon"
…I suppose all but the last is close enough.
(I'll probably always carry a pocket of regret that six days before that,
I never received a notification to your reply.)

you once wrote to me about love and small fonts
and I will never forget the first time i read it and my heart stopped
because you Knew, you understood when I have never even told you.
I'm chasing so many tails of uncertainty now, my dear,
but I will try to remember I can find that I am Loved.

Want to get a mortgage?
A loan to buy a car?
Tickets to a Aruba?
You need not go too far

You want to take a photo?
Check to see if it will snow?
Do a search and you will find
All you need to know

Oh...buddy, there's an app out there
For all you want to do
Even things you do not like
There's apps for those things too

You're in to online gaming?
You need groceries, maybe beer?
Don't worry, bud, it's out there
Thousands more show up each year

Lyrics for a song you like
You can find them in three notes
You want to lay a bet in Vegas
You need to buy some extra totes

Oh...buddy, there's an app out there
For all you want to do
Even things you do not like
There's apps for those things too

You want to find a certain app
There's an app that does that too
There's an app that knows just what you want
Before you know you do

If you want to write a novel
Who cares that you can't spell?
I'm sure that you have figured
There's an app for that as well

Oh...buddy, there's an app out there
For all you want to do
Even things you do not like
There's apps for those things too

So, now, in summation
Listen close to me
There's an app out in the ether
You can download it for free

If you want to buy your groceries
Get a girlfriend, buy a cat
You can always know that somewhere
That there's an app for that.

1- Totes inaprope dope smoker swisher toker blunt wrap roper you be like my ole aunt groper
2- She be grabbin ***** on all ya’ll in the Fall by the ball court short shorts and written reports
3- ******* dorks and eatin pork like nanu nanu Mork with a stork baby drop on the porch
4- Carry the torch to the couch jump up ta bounce see a fool to trounce and slap in the head
5- Make him brain dead said I see red in bedrooms full a un-wed mothers slack jaw brothers
6- Druther act like one another than smother muthafuckers with rubber maid garbage cans
7- Hand feeding planned partenthood in the hood acting no good wit mad wood ya shoulda
8- Put those down came round and found a pound for slingin, bringing back the Ringling elephants
9- And cellophane wrapper sandwiches ******* snitching on rich kids for gambling small wagers
10- Drunken rage-ers deranged rangers feeding bears strangers and rearranging body parts
11- Carded farters impart special gasses on mass media fascists  allowing brash

Fanwisdom gedachting a hearth-billow in my Herz
Ich hab' gedacht it fairer still to know
Than amongst dein Welt it predisposes is perplexed aloof
Extraños kann nicht go where I must go

And von und an die spinniest of Hund
In peril and with Angsty tougher Hands
Will not crepuscular desecration sofort ensue
Für nichts ist wichtiger nur ein Liebling mood

Versucht wir probs and totes adorbs
But still zu schieße tired and hasst to sein
Während wir sollen in the proper sense
Man oh yeah das Man sagt en vino absorb'd

Was wicked waste and After it schmeckt schleck
Über ist nicht was es ich verpassen now
Most mehr mit Menchen kommt wieso I ask?
Wenn wo I know it is so very untoward to cow

Kuh oder a coo cannot redeem from drain
Zeit and Mal scent rempeln us all or push
Klar we cannot stop the starkest Zug
Nor yodel holler up the lane for ****

And just wenn denkst du, dass eyes is mad
Know that for Worten the harshest Lebens macht
To get you just to see and versehe sum
Unwertens none of us will ever be ich gedacht

You said goodbye before even saying hello
You haven’t even given me a chance to scare you away yet
How can you have rejected me before that?
You don’t know me yet
I promise you, I’m broken
I promise you, you would end up leaving in the end
Once I introduced you to a close friend called My Past
Once I let you see my cracks and scars
But I the thing is
I didn’t even get the chance to scare you off
You never even gave me a shot with you
And let me tell you
I might be unlovable
Maybe I’m not pretty
Maybe I’m unpopular
But if anything
I could make you happy
If only for a month
It would be a beautiful month
You would smile everyday
I would let you know you are wonderful
You never looked past my cover
And I don’t understand why you didn’t open me up to peek inside
Because baby I’m a novel in progress
And so far, the later parts are pretty scary
But you would have liked the beginning, I bet
Because I could have made you feel special
Compliments are one of the few things I can do
I can do them well, too
I am anything but ordinary
Which can be a bad thing
And it is
But it can have a good side too
A silver lining
I’d listen to you
I’m a poet
And I don’t know if any of my poems are any good, really, lots of them are crap
But I do know words
They were my friends when no one else was
I can use them, to dress you up in wonderful
I can use them to paint a smile on your face
I can sculpt them into lovely flattery
I can make you feel magnificent in a way no other girl could
Because my vocabulary consists of more words than: *** you are like, totes hot lol
Because even if I can’t be pretty enough for you
My words can be pretty
Like no one else’s
I love to fish
I will sit and wait in silence for ages
To catch one
Just like I will sit and wait for you
Without getting distracted
Like many would if you left them alone too long
But you can count on me to be faithful
I am a singer
I don’t know if I am any good
But I can sing you a song
And if you don’t want me to
I won’t
But at least that means I like music
I’m made out of lyrics and notes
I know you play violin
I’d listen to you play for hours
And I would want to
The way most other girls wouldn’t really want to
I read more than I breathe
Which means I can focus on one thing for hours
I could shift that focus to you in a second
I could pay you more attention than any other girl would
And I am an over-thinker
Which means you can be sure you would be on my mind
At all hours even when you’re sure no one else could possibly be awake at this hour
I have a dark side
And you might not like it
But that means I can handle yours
No matter how dark it is
I can deal with shadows
And I’ll do anything I can to silence your demons
Because I have experience dealing with those
I’ve had many of my own
I am passionate
Which means I will mean what I say
And you can’t scare me
You can trust me
I’ve locked in several secrets thornier than any of yours, I’m sure
You never found out who I am
Did you know I taught myself guitar?
Electric and Acoustic
I don’t know if I’m any good
But you might like to know that
Also ukulele and drums
I play violin, ukulele, bass guitar, recorder, the spoons, harmonica, pin-whistle, piano,
I’m not saying I’m a prodigy at any of them
But I only took lessons for piano and violin
Everything else is self-taught
I’m just saying that I can be patient
Learn to know and understand things that take a long time without getting frustrated
I could learn to know and understand you
I speak french fluently
That has to say something for my patience
And willingness to learn new things… like you
I could whisper all my pretty words to you
In a foreign tongue
I have 97 different sides of me that I let people see
And an infinite amount of other sides that I don’t
I could be the girl you wanted
I could learn to be her
Whoever you want “her” to be
Whatever you want “her” to be
I have traveled to over 56 cities
All around the world
Asia to Europe to America
I have seen so many beautiful priceless things
But I still think
In all my travel experience
You are one of the most beautiful priceless things I have ever seen
And that is saying something
Because I have seen Paris at Night
I have seen Amsterdam at sunset
And I have seen Japan at sunrise
Ireland at 5:00
Spain in the evening
I’ve seen oceans at midnight
And yet
I would sacrifice all those experiences
For a chance with you
You never got to know me
You never learned that I know constellations
I could have shown you stars far more breathtaking
Than any Hollywood movie actress
You never learned that I write fiction stories
I could have written you a fairy-tale
But you never gave me a chance to show you myself
You will never know the little things about me
Like the fact that I like the scent of rain
I’m obsessed with Earl Grey tea
I like to watch rainstorms and lightning storms better than anyone
I’m into old movies
And I like thorns to be left on roses
I wear metaphors
I love skating, and I actually am capable of doing it well enough, I suppose
I like medieval towns and cuckoo clocks
My favorite color is purple
And I love skipping stones across lakes
And I like twilight better than sunset and dawn, though I adore all three
I doubt you could ever actually like me though
Because I am anything but lovely
Anything but wonderful
Anything but amazing
But you would have liked how I made you feel
If you would let me in
You would have enjoyed dating me, at the beginning at least
I promise you that
But you never gave me a chance
You never got to learn to know me
You said goodbye before even saying hello

Repost if someone rejected you before getting to know you.
PLEASE COMMENT I LOVE TO READ COMMENTS ON MY POETRY!! :)

While working my routine at Amazon
picking the same items I always have before
I was trans shipped to trans ship
filling me with anxiety
understanding unfamiliarity
nerve racked novice
sweat trickles down my face
soaking into my PPE.

Two man crew I'm meant to join
black guys wearing reflective vests
"I'm here to help, can you help me?"
blank stare foreground
empty workload background
perplexed aesthetic
French accented walls muffle communication
I form a reluctant alliance with repetition
yet my counterpart understands everything I say.

Their patience eases my troubled mind
when my capability falls short of my enthusiasm
hand gestures guide me free of frustration
I stay silent, only saying
"I'd talk more but I figure it'd be a hassle"
my learning ambassador understands
but his extra steps start a conversation
creating comforting small-talk acclimating aliens.

Sydna and Josue from Ivory Coast and Congo respectively
and respectful was all I wanted to be
yet I got the impression Josue was uncomfortable
after I had brought up gold, diamonds, and oil
but Sydna had taken control of the conversation
telling me all about the lottery he won to be here
I wondered what lottery's prize was living in Cincinnati
to work a factory job in Hebron.

We work bundling totes together
printing confusing and mysterious tags
reading ACY, CMH, SDF, JFK, or CSG
these bundles will be leaving CVG eventually
carried away on skids
to their indifferent destination
of the same capitalist company
just at another fulfillment center.

I guess I should be more grateful
to be in the poor nation of transportation
but I'm not—I'd rather be picking
where I can communicate with compatriots freely
but I'm far away from the south mod now
near the north side red tag area talking to strangers
it's just a shame
because there's plenty of material where I came from
but transitory shipment is where the work is.

every waking thought
fueled by
juicy   strawberries
not from distant lands
stalked by native asparagus
signs on empty spots
indicate to our dismay
the farmer’s market  
Gone away
for this week
dejected  we head home
desires  unmet
with crumpled  canvas totes
in  unhappy hands.

Packed up boxes
A couple totes
Leather books
Mostly clothes
Angry memories
Tears and woes
Broken hearts
Broken homes
Leave the ring
Take a shot
Sobs of anguish
Left to rot
I ****** up
And all for naught
She packed and left
I'm all I've got


I can't keep going after this.
Sorry guys.

I'd totes write to you
the sweetest poem to grace your ears
but my diction and lack of rhythm
leave something to be desired

I do admire the words,
their cadence and flow
and wish I could piece them together
to tell you how much I love you

but I have this rule of thumb see,
press the enter key and move on.
it will sound kind of poetic.
Even though I just kind of drone
on and on and on.

A blink and you missed it
A moment so specific
A dip in the deep end
Didn’t just get our feet wet
Wanted it…
Regretted it?
Loved it!
But let’s not forget...
You make the bed you sleep in

Remembering a forgotten past, fast.

Memories flowing over each other in riveting technicolor.

Gushing forward, a flood of things not seen, not heard.

Populating a seamless void, yet a question has one cloyed.

How have these riveting delights burst into life?

Alleviating strife, dulling the sharp knife.

Pressure of an incongruous blade, striving to extort, to be paid.

Cutting deep, but wait, behold! A gate, and through it a luminous river of gold!

Flowing and changing an effervescent river, so avid a giver.

Presents presented in the present, limited to subjective perception, how pleasant.

But what isn't. These days brain makes the big plays, stifling the mythos, the old ways.

Some hold on to the secrets, some stay behind rather than get hit, or so they say.

Recollections running rampant, scant happiness ******* clad in an orange sun dress.

What a mess, this cluttered web of needlessly intricate excess.

Social pariahs claim possession of tired desires sired in the filthy minds of professional liars.

Majority vote totes a certain permanence broken only by explosions of unyielding opulence.

What springs from lips holds power untouchable to fingertips. Though remnants trickle through, as if taking sips from the trough of knowledge...perhaps once we knew.

Full exposure is supremely reprimanding, as to leave one no longer standing.

Not in the sense of senses deemed supreme, not in this bizarre dream, the way we place ourselves into these pseudo-sensical roles all day striving to derive meaning from the needle, not the hay teeming with nutrients to sustain life as we know it, pleasure and pain.

Vanity must run through our veins to think us able to ordain a solid truth from any plain, or that linear reality reigns.

Comfort is a salve and a vice, when offered one doesn't think twice, but blind acceptance won't negate price.

Contrary to popular belief, popular belief is a contrary beast that consumes the strong and exhumes the weak.

A contrite appetite, a gaping maw with teeth like pikes and satirical satyrs playing in the inimical reeds in which it breeds.

So goes an old saying, early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy wealthy and wise, but does sage not grow as sage unless it is left out both day and night until old age?

What makes a thing sagacious, wisdom, growth? Spacious tracks are needed to cultivate both.

As to the memories of trees, what hides within our lives and within the breeze? Sometimes little is less and best. Lessons learned to our behest are not ignored, we just can't seem to find the door.

Within the confines of life's insistence, all beings act in accordance to their existence.