517 Social commentaries poems

London crossfigured creeping with trams and the artists on sundays in the summer all ‘tracking Nature’ in the suburbs It could have been anyplace but it wasn’t It was London and when someone shouted over that they had got a model I ran out across the court but then when the model started taking off her clothes there was nothing underneath I mean to say she took off her shoes and found no feet took off her top and found no tit under it and I must say she did look a bit ASTOUNDED just standing there looking down at where her legs were not But so very carefully then she put her clothes back on and as soon as she was dressed again completely she was completely all right Do it again! cried someone rushing for his easel But she was afraid to and gave up modelling and forever after slept in her clothes

I have utmost respect for you but in that moment if I were to get out of your way instead of walking up the stairs to my home I would have no respect for myself. I didn’t know why you couldn’t understand this when I told you. Instead you screamed at me and told me I was rude. And then you said someone of my age should know meaning that you were adding to my crime the fact that I am older than you. What am I to do. How many days have passed and I have no reason to think that your ancestors were stolen from their home in A- frica and because of my not knowing that this is true but thinking that it is possible it makes me certain that respect next time would be for me to step around. Maybe I could say quietly joining you for a moment in your vast and ancient sorrow that was my home

They have watered the street, It shines in the glare of lamps, Cold, white lamps, And lies Like a slow-moving river, Barred with silver and black. Cabs go down it, One, And then another. Between them I hear the shuffling of feet. Tramps doze on the window-ledges, Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks. The city is squalid and sinister, With the silver-barred street in the midst, Slow-moving, A river leading nowhere. Opposite my window, The moon cuts, Clear and round, Through the plum-coloured night. She cannot light the city; It is too bright. It has white lamps, And glitters coldly. I stand in the window and watch the moon. She is thin and lustreless, But I love her. I know the moon, And this is an alien city.

What got done to me stains through my hopes of passing as fully human — though my “bad blood” won’t gloss that; to canter around its crimson rosette would tart up a harm more my postwar bad luck than a told shame’s mother. Still, the pose:Say yellow rose go hard & plain to Amarillo

Like any subscription member of the Metropolitan Opera fashion bloggers believe they're at the center of perception. I want to go where men go. Is a high school crush on an alien surf girl the same as the need to fatally possess the other and the self? My friends were in a band called Second Life ® . Let's get high talk about '90s nostalgia Scientology drink Diet Coke. The Real is a teenager drunk in a turn. A blue dot pulsing down Santa Monica Blvd. Hackers are the unacknowledged legislators of the world. For something to be timeless it must be outside mortality and if humans exist outside of death they're no longer subject to the violence of sexual reproduction or the fragility of life itself. In these conditions music will have no cultural efficacy. Hope life now won't need. A forever sadness, though possible, now obsolete, What did I do this weekend? Listened to this song "Tropical Winter" on repeat while POV jogging through Runyon Canyon. Totally desperate boys following cute boys making out under Tumblr skies reblogged as gossip sent from my iPhone. Kenneth Anger fatigued and decadent in silk post-fantasy. Negation is part of the positive identity of an object. There is no snow in Hollywood. Celebrities constitutive of a scene that draw the populations restaurant owners want as their clientele. In a single day three stars photographed in the same gray hoodie. I want to create a product too unstable to be marketed. Not to say lacking maybe messy discursive and sort of pushing oscillating among the various dimensions of influence. I could write here randy details of my consumer choices banal and otherwise it would not amount to much. Mallarmé on fashion, Benjamin on fashion. A monograph retrospective of Guess's photo editorials next to the bed. So maybe alien visitations directly influenced human history over the millennia. What does it take to start a new life? You take lonely trips to the city you are interested in moving to. Saturate the market with your resume. During interviews order both coffee and juice. Masterfully handle the acceptance of your ontological incompleteness by affecting the persona of the applicant they want to hire a winning assurance that you never intend to realize obvious to all parties six months into the job as if persona or voice was something laid stable over the truth of a tectonic subjectivity Jean Paul Gaultier staged his Chic Rabbi collection at Paris Fashion Week FW '93 Very beautiful, very elegant, the orthodox religious clothing and the gender bending fits with his interest in tradition and iconic imagery as well as the fact that he's treating somewhat impertinently something that most people wouldn't dare play with in couture design. When Gaultier talks about himself though he sounds so dumb.

Two of them with chests like blond silk cornsilk hair stalled in traffic in the awful heat they smiled were they messengers delivering through the open window promises or lies or invitations? Boys are everywhere at noon they glide between parched cars bare broad shoulders color of chestnut colts

The wooden scent of wagons, the sweat of animals—these places keep everything—breath of the cotton gin, black damp floors of the icehouse. Shadows the color of a mirror’s back break across faces.  The luck is always bad.  This light is brittle, old pale hair kept in a letter. The wheeze of porch swings and lopped gates seeps from new mortar. Wind from an axe that struck wood a hundred years ago lifts the thin flags of the town.

Stiff stilts of   herself. Silver bag of   herself with turquoise gilt midriff. (Shake it but no more will fit.) Red lipstick line between the folds — precise — opposite baby’s soft gurgling. Have you lost your passes? Greeks pictured the afterlife as an insipid version of  the world they knew. But they couldn’t see this. Two women, with red mesh crests atop white hair, enter the lounge area; one laughs, “I feel like we should say something.”

According to a report from the University of San Diego’s Justice in Mexico project, 138,000 people have been murdered in Mexico since 2006. They call it the corner of heaven: a laboratory, a foot at the throat of an empire. Before the holy dirt, the woman with the feline gait waits with tangled hair, mouth agape — the letter X marked on what’s left of her breasts and face.Nuestra Belleza Mexicana

Highlight Actions Enable or disable annotations We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan, Grayed in, and gray. “Dream” makes a giddy sound, not strong Like “rent,” “feeding a wife,” “satisfying a man.” But could a dream send up through onion fumes Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes And yesterday’s garbage ripening in the hall, Flutter, or sing an aria aria an elaborate song for one voice with orchestral accompaniment, appearing most often in opera (“aria” means “air” in Italian). down these rooms Even if we were willing to let it in, Had time to warm it, keep it very clean, Anticipate a message, let it begin? We wonder. But not well! not for a minute! Since Number Five is out of the bathroom now, We think of lukewarm water, hope to get in it.