Poetry and Suchlike Things.

Well good evening, readership.

I've been excruciatingly bored lately. Currently, yes, I've something to do - I'm proofreading my flatmate's Master's thesis. However, the rest of the time, I've been as bored as a foie gras goose. It's a bit annoying, really. So here's a poem about boredom, somewhat about fashion, and mainly about casual recreational drug-use. I wrote it ages ago.

Drugs, Fashion and Lies:

Severe exposure to reality

Is how I prefer to refer

To my clinical depression.

It's quite the ploy,

as it means it's society's fault, not mine,

and if it's society's fault,

I'm fine.

To shift the blame, change the name

But you can't eliminate the pain.

Oh, you can self-medicate

Cocaine for pains, strains and excessive weight gains,

But all it gave me was acne.

Cocaine is a pain for the vain.

Speed, made my nose bleed

All over my new Yves.

I went up, I came down, I came out

The stains didn't.

Marijuana, oh dear...

Not worth the paper it's burnt in.

I could design such clothes,

if only I could get up.

Drugs, fashion and lies.

Drugs fashion your lies.

Severe exposure to reality

I lie to myself every morning, of course.

It's kinda fun, as a poem, y'know. Sadly, people tell me I'm not bad at poetry. Therefore, I have to write a poem for a girl - just because she wants me to! I lament.

Clearly, I'm quite bored. Now to fashion. It seems that the latest argument in fashion circles is (still) whether or not to like Tavi Gevinson. Strange. Even stranger, the dominant attitude is that, because people still like her, it is no longer acceptable to like her.

Seriously? That just makes me more bored. No wonder I'm such a basket case.

Bye.

Developments in my personal fashion sphere!

Ladies and Gentlemen (although judging by my current readership I really ought refine that statement, it's simply wishful thinking), I have been commissioned by a dear chap of a friend to design for him a bit of an outfit for a bit of an occasion! I am, well, to put it mildly, a little excited! He likes pink a great deal, but that's alright, it works well on him. Presently I'm working on a charcoal and shocking pink highlit outfit for him. I'll keep you (if there are any of you) posted!

In other developments, I need new jeans. My favourite pair are beginning to wear thin. Luckily, I'll be in Auckland next weekend to go get some - anyone keen to come for a shopping expedition?

Right. Down to the real fashion. How about ten men's shows in ten lines? Summaries are fun, and sometimes people actually read them, unlike the essays I'd usually write. So:

Givenchy: Jesus is Lord, as are blue and white, and topless men with shorts. Too Ann D. for me.

Ann D.: Yes, it's Winter. Now cover up in baggy layers of shapeless everything. Lovely scarves!

Burberry: Burberry brings out a trenchcoat? Seen it. Gold, shiny trenchcoat? Love it.

CDG: Blah, blah, blah, SHINY PINK AND GREEN SHOES! Wow. Wow. Wow. Wow. Wow.

Cerruti: Grey sweater, blotches of ink? Sounds terrible, looks great in grey!

MMM: I have just awoken, arisen, and donned the most amazing thing you will ever see.

YSL: Wow. Y'know, I'm beginning to consider the army as a vocation, cause military is in!

Junya: I am a businessman, but I may rob you, just to increase my street cred... What? Man.

Paul Smith: Finally! We get to have a bright Winter! Who poured food colouring on the snow?

Alexander Mc.: ...Wow... Where are the models? This takes camouflage to a new level...

There's your ten. Alright, you all disagree. I knew you would anyway. Enjoy your lives.

Musings of Mourning and Celebration

It'll seem clichéd, it'll seem overused, it's been said, but it's true. And it's sad.

Monsieur McQueen, vous êtes mort.

C'est triste, non? It's not the fact that he was so great - though he was. It's not the fact that it was such a shock - yet, again, it was. The fact, you see, is that we have in front of us the death of a man in his prime, at his peak, and with so much potential. It's not just a sad tiding for fashion - it's sad for art, for society, for the world, because a wellspring - yes, a veritable font - of inspiration has been taken from us.

I heard the news while cooking dinner the other night - it's when it broke on the other side of the world. Today, I'm pulling out all the clichés, but a hole opened in my mind, and his runway shows, his collections, and his genius flowed in.

It begs the question of the fashion world - why? Did he commit suicide, as it is rumoured? If so, why should such a great, exuberant, vibrant man be driven to this length? Yes, we know of the tragic demise of his mother, but is this the only cause? Or is fashion fast becoming such a hard and fast lifestyle that it was his only escape? Rhetorical questions will bring no solace to those devastated by his loss, and can never bring back his creativity and attitude.

All that we can hope is that those who are touched by this man's passing can motivate theirselves, in his spirit, to create unique and inspirational works of their own. That, though it may be a difficult dream to realise, is our greatest hope for the wake of Mr. Mcqueen.

The rest of us - we can but mourn. And we do.