Rebellion at the fingertips...
Is every Mao-suited Chinese man a wannabe beatnik?
Even the anti-hero unknowingly conforms to a borrowed script
succoured by allure.
Exhaled ethereal silver circles of thought,
while plotting...
Ritual rhythms at the Café de Flore,
stillness and motion in retro contrast.
A cowboy in cool contemplation
draws deep,
leaving footprints in the dust.
Trees, adorned in Fall styles,
with branches wearing multicolor on their sleeves,
induce smiles.
How the leaves dance!
Patterns fluttering on their weaves,
entrance.
Fall chill -
the crimson leaves
thrill.
Trees adorned in Fall styles,
patterns fluttering on their weaves,
thrill.
A child of six
seeing the mother bird take to wing,
unobserved, took the egg out of its nest.
I did not expect it of this frail thing,
she crushed the egg against her Sunday best.
Family polemics:
Her mother, seeing this abominable act,
beat the child and made it clear
that the reason she was smacked
was because of the egg smear.
Scrambled ethics:
How can this child learn compassion
if discipline is based on material things?
Had her mother placed life above fashion
this tiny egg may have developed wings.
Question any advice from a friend at 1:12 a.m.
— it’s probably unsound—
but better than staring at the ceiling with your thoughts.
The solution to existential dread is just… outfits and vibes.
Last night, as I slept like a baby - or a log - or a baby log -
I dreamt of vintage Gap dresses and 80s ivory pink glam glitter cocktail frocks.
Sometimes the only available response to civilization is
to buy an imaginary vintage Gap dress and call it coping.
And for some reason, I dreamt, briefly, of Trump as Jesus.
If sleep fails to restore the mind, at least it deals vivid
images to decorate our unconscious unease.
Trump thinks of himself as Jesus—but the question is:
Has Trump actually read the Bible?
Maybe Trump doesn’t know what happened to Jesus.
Spoiler: the Romans got cross with him.
Some jokes are so stupid—they have to be true.
.
.
A song for this:
Dreams by The Cranberries
.
note: You don’t have to read the Bible, you could stream the movie:
The Bible (1966) directed by John Huston
craze pops like a popcorn
roasting after every season of a newborn
awaiting what it looks, feels like trying new
zapping the line or cue in askew
ends short within a year or two after brew
fad drops like a snow when you're off guard
anything new, pleasing, soft, gentle or hard
different generations had them all --
some forgotten or dated to discard
fashion in modes move silent or loud over time
accessories, clothes, gadgets, machines, activities that consume your time
shoes worn, strings, sessions, social life people embrace
holidays celebrated, hypes, hope and holograms that may float or vanish without a trace
invitations, parties, gatherings of the unified
on gates, nooks and sites that require ticket, passkey, passcode that divide
new and old craze, fads and fashion
combined in an open, classified space in tide
Cherries are divine like starlight
Heavenly scent satisfies me
Every whiff is a good memory
Roses envy this elegant scent
Rivers of almonds with cherries
Youth surrounds its beauty
Almost only almond
Layers of cherries inside
Mystical scent slides upon my skin
Only name brand lotion is best
Near luxury but not quite luxury
Delicate yet strong together
Who were you
dazzling in sequined dresses
flaunting your hour-glass figure
topside, growing ever bigger
Who were you
red lipstick plastered on thick
earrings and finger rings galore
with a voice like a painted whore
Your smile was eternally frozen
You gave old men a hard-on
behind that bod
that spectacular facade...
Who were you, Dolly Parton
~ Did you ever know
I raised my hands to the sea,
to see how far the waves would carry me
they were coming in swiftly
and moving from shore to shore
but my heart was yearning for more
the road ahead is long
and all I want is to compose my own song
and the sea is the place I would rather be
to see the earth meet with the sun before the day is done.
Follow me to the sea and set a table for you and me
Listen to the roaring waves singing their own praise
take a walk with me along the shore
and observe what is transpiring behind the doors
Immerse yourself in nature
and if you are not comfortable,
just call the doctor.
soak yourself in the saltwater
and take me back to where it all begun.
Daybreak with earthly shadows coverings my face
And I knew that I had to confront reality that is staring at me
and everything that was coming out of the sea was a part of me
and in one split second I knew that it was done
for the truth in me is no fun.
hunting the Rue Saint-Honoré
leaves me no breath
when women brawl for fashion
with warrants of gold
we become lions
every eye looks
taking hunter's aim
in piteous chase
the hares we hunt
are the new, the hot, the exclusive
not the lower marked
cry havoc
for animals heave fewer groans
only wars, revolt and poisons
attend more frightful chaos
one could come to hurt
but fault no villains
that is not our hunting language
we are confederates in chase
seeking the swaggers of success
.
.
A song for this:
Baby You're a Superstar by Mark Roberts, Paul Fletcher, Patrick Sturrock, Emily Taylor & Dan Whitfield
It is the lairiest of epochs
Ignore slop do a pop vox
Chock a block with shocks
But the scariest of tik toks
Snapping like hungry crocs
Another spate of hate docks
Photos that everyone clocks
Those ones who girls mocks
Are as deadly as small pox
Aren't all as strong as an ox
Shaking from online knocks
Drowning in instasham lochs
Stinks like young men's socks
Mistaking that a cure’s botox
Crowning a theory I defrocks
That faking makes you a fox
Solution sells comes out a box
Lies stir fries in corporate woks
Smells fishy like out of date lox
Why jog cheat the elite flocks
Fatty injections vanity smocks
As the poor everything hocks
Pharma firm flogs all its stocks
Not just peahens also peacocks
Androids on steroids rippled jocks
Muscle bound like the Springboks
Why are so many blokes.. cocks?
How about all go on a long detox
Take note your boat you’re the cox
Winner is the inner you which rocks
Fashion rations compassion is bollox!
glitter
ornamental, scintillent
glistening, embellishing, exciting
disco ball, costume, paint, beige
calming, quieting, blending
mature, understated
matte
From out of this hill's wide girth
Have shaped, and stately
Though old, and at rest
A grand dame's posture.
In folds of its lower slopes
Traced, spread out, before
With bluebell threaded
Gown's timeless allure.
Plutocrat or oligarch
What matter the label
When his wife flaunts her
Mink ermine or sable
Is he evil
Is she cruel
Whatever they are
They’re nobody’s fools
I wore my longing like a coat.
Kept the sharpest words in my throat.
I leaned in close; the blues just knew,
I would let them bent notes come through.
Bare boards beckoned worn-out shoes.
Slow feet shuffled with the dues.
One heel circled, one stood still,
As the lights turned round like a windmill.
While the dye brush waited by the wall,
I heard the blank canvas start to call.
I held back each splash just enough,
To leave a white whisper, in the rough.
I let my feelings rise up halfway,
Enough to ache; then to fade away.
My heart was folded, tied up with care,
To glow with all that is left hidden there.
The blue kept curling into the white,
Like the Milky Way deep in a velvet night.
The spiral nebulae all slowly grew—
To tie-dye the sky, with an ancient hue.
The tighter the bind, the brighter the bloom.
Stars need darkness, to brighten their room.
Hold back the colour—let just enough take flight.
Raindrops can teach sunlight to shape its light.
When the last slow glow chorus ends,
Twilight mends what that daylight bends.
One lone blue spark escapes the seam,
Just far enough to light the dream.
Curved white, feathered neck, poised just right;
Half bird, half body, unfolds into bright light.
The face stays frozen, choosing not to show;
For the feathers alone, decide where eyes must go.
She glides and struts, poised with such fanfare,
Her garments become feathers to float on the air.
Her fine body vanquished, to shun any stare,
For she is merely the elegance, her garments wear.
She pauses, pivots, swings round, so debonair.
Her shoulder tilts, her wrist juts with flair.
Each measured turn commands its own grand grace.
As feathers swirl outward, to claim more space.
The white swans depart the catwalk in style,
Their black beaks can't even fashion a smile.
For that's the game— be serene, silent and proud—
Leaving only feathers to flit in the crowd.
Fashion Categories
Definition | What is Fashion in Poetry?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.
Related Poetry Forms
appearance, bandwagon, chic, clothes, clothing, craze, fad, form, hairdo, latest, mode, model, pattern, shape, thing, trend, vogue