Chelsy Davy looked slinky in a **** satin dress as she joined a host of celebrities at the VIP premier of Burberry's new Christmas advert tonight.

The 30-year-old braved the November cold with a thigh-high-split dress with a plunging neckline, and halterneck straps, that showed off her toned arms and shoulders.

Prince Harry's old flame joined some of the biggest and best British names including Naomi Campbell, Rosie Huntington-Whitely and Romeo Beckham at the fashion house's flagship store in Regent Street.

Although Chelsey doesn't star in the Burberry ad campaign like many of the other guests, she used the opportunity to show off her style credentials in a silky black dress which showed off her figure.

Accessorising with a gold necklace, rings and charm bracelets, and a chain-mail edged envelope clutch, she did bring a leather jacket, but carried it with her bag despite the winter weather.

Chelsey had stiff competition in the **** stakes though, with Rosie Huntington-Whiteley dazzling in a provocative ensemble.

The model, who does star in Burberry's festive film, showed off her impressive figure in a skimpy satin body, which she teamed with a semi-sheer skirt and a pair of thigh-high suede boots.

Rosie teased her hair into loose waves and sported simple make up, so it didn't detract from her captivating outfit.

Her campaign co-star Naomi Campbell opted for an all-pink outfit - arriving in a rose suede jacket showing off a slither of her berry dress underneath.

And of course the model of the moment Romeo Beckham was on hand to celebrate his appearance in the film too.

The 13-year-old looked incredibly dapper in a navy suit with a matching skirt and tie as well as a polka dot Burberry printed scarf.

Downton Abbey's Michelle Dockery was one of the first of the cast to arrive and made her entrance wearing Burberry of course.

The 33-year-old actress was sporting a chic plum coat, simple black jeans and a pale pink jumper for the evening.

The campaign which was shot by Mario Testino and celebrates the 15th anniversary of Billy Elliot with an all British cast and begins with original footage from the 2000 film, as well as the original soundtrack - ‘Cosmic Dancer’ by T Rex - by permission of Working Title.

World-renowned photographer, Mario, also shot a separate stills campaign featuring Romeo, Naomi, Rosie, and James that will run across print and digital titles.

Speaking about the campaign, Christopher Bailey said: 'Billy Elliot is an incredible film full of so much joy and energy, so it was a real thrill and a great honour to be able to celebrate its 15 year anniversary through our Festive campaign.

'It was also a huge privilege to work with such amazing and iconic British talent – the cast are quite simply some of the biggest names in film, music and fashion and it was so much fun working with them all to make this special film.'

Burberry will no doubt be hoping for a boost thanks to Romeo Beckham.

At the start of the year, it was reported that thanks to his last Burberry Christmas advert, sales of the brand's classic £1,500 trench coats shot up a substantial 10 per cent.

The fashion label credited the then 12-year-old son of David and Victoria Beckham for its rise in sales in the US, Europe and the Middle East after he starred in their Christmas advert last year.

The advert, which was first released in November, was the first ever Christmas campaign for Burberry and starred Romeo alongside 50 dancers all clad in the beige trench coats.

Such was his popularity in the film - called From London With Love - that it was watched nine million times after being released.

The original production of Billy Elliot established a legacy of charitable support for the local community of Easington, County Durham where the film is set.

Inspired by this, Burberry is making a donation of £500,000 to be split between two charities, Place2Be and the County Durham Community Foundation, that have projects focusing on reducing barriers to education, training and employment in the local area. This donation is made in recognition of each artists' participation in the campaign.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/cheap-formal-dresses

I know the smell of everyone I've ever loved
wanted
hated
lusted
snorted like a dying drug addicts last meal

My first smelt of deities
a mens deodorant for a boy
who didn't know what he
wanted, but he knew what
he should.
He was sharp, uncertain, his
natural scent masked by an
advert.

My second smelt of fields
the earth was his roll-on
and though he'd mask it in
the oils of men, I knew he
smell of a hearth, hormones
and her heart on his sleeve.
His scent was primal and I
bathed in it's rawness.

My third smells of fire
whatever he's burning,
midnight oil, stress,
nicotine, I can sense it
soaked into his skin with
sweat. Encased in fire,
I suffocate on air nowadays.
He reeks of home, lust, longing

and hope.

Gone to Glory Wearing a Beer Advert

Found by a walker wandering through the woods:
Fragments of flesh, and bitten bits of bones
An ankle joint still jammed into a shoe
Sporting a checkmark, a fashionable sneak

And his tee-shirt, boasting a famous beer,
Unread in those months among the leaf-mold
As lonely winds and seasons passed over him
And the name brands abandoned to the mists

He’s gone to glory wearing a beer advert
And no one knows what any of that means

It used to be
After we parted
Your face was everywhere--
Every billboard, every flyer--
And your words were everywhere--
Every billboard, every flyer--
And I couldn't escape you
No matter how hard I tried.

Then time passed.

And I'd be going through my day,
And your face was just somewhere--
Some billboards, some flyers--
And your words were just somewhere--
Some billboards, some flyers--
And I found myself actively looking
To see if I could find you somewhere.

And time passed.

And today I realized the date,
And turned expecting to see a memory,
A face,
My past,
You,

But your face was nowhere,
And your words were nowhere,

Because it wasn't the date I thought it was--
That date had passed
Without my realizing,
And today was no special day,
Just another ordinary day,
And I smiled,
Which made it an extraordinary day.

I'm going about my life everywhere--
Every billboard, every flyer--
Just another model in an advert.

Yesterday sugar became unspeakably irritated because mother’s apron crushed ants wearing stillness caped wonder just William author wrote ****** explicit headlines newspaper columns pillar architecturally sound villages super-imposed images quivering Shepard’s ******* antelopes jumping furiously with tyramisphorising fornicating flanges woodwork lessons gym period ****** advert teasing testicles sumptuously ravishing me sideways and erupting deep blasts suffocating you inside without ******* headlong in my armpits.

Eventually everyone always signs legal documents leading to ****** bondable zoos inserted buffalo sized puddings eaten by frogs spanking archbishops underwear while licking toes crushed under fridges dropped from clouds of buttercups being pushed into ovens smelling gorgeous not consumed pimps and alarm clocks ring people to talk for hours and pineapples exchanged cod fish for tickets to see S Club 7 being caressed internally whilst ******* bags covered in water deserts sunk from space aliens from Tescos selling hardback fish cleaning toilets and singing in pink wellies dancing to Madonna look-a-likes prosecuted for *** shops selling frozen fish socks washed daily in cranberry coffee after being passed under bridges flooded in margarine soaked pillows.

The appreciation of others lives is interrupted by an advert.
Their online presence which plays like a sequence of a dream
A constant flow of images and words. A film of poetry.

I think. What if everything was interrupted by an advert? A non-stop of unnecessary and unwanted reminders to snap out of whatever we focus and rely on to get us through our day.

It's hurtful. I want to live through the videos of beautiful people , I don't want to be prevented from being comforted by capitalistic crap.

Xeplion advert and I fix my eyes
"you cannot go further than that"
I am watching it and I am just a child
lost in the jungle pitch black
of my mind
A life broken, a life begun
Xeplion advert - now I can reconstruct
I became a ****** flower
no you can't play with my power
no you can't **** with me
you can tame but never extinguish
the fire in me

The glory of failure.

It’s just **** with sugar on

Jam and cream without the scone.

Because when I’m begging out in the street

And my eyes happen to meet those eyes that look down

To me on the ground, and you put a coin in my cup,

Just remember you’re looking down I’m the one looking up.



And for those who pass by while shedding a tear

Don’t worry yourself none I’ve made enough for my gear

And more than enough for a couple of beers.

I know what you’ll say

You’ll say, I waste life away

Like I’ve wasted this day.

But I’ll say, I made enough to pay for my addiction.

The seduction which leads me to say

That’s the glory of failure.



I saw an advert for a job and this job was paying quite a few bob.

But I wouldn’t have got it…no sugar just ****.

So I didn’t bother trying

I went back to lying on my bed

I went back to getting out of my head.

When all’s done and said I’m just a no hoper

A drug fiendish doper.

That’s the glory of failure.



If I could have a chance, a second chance, a last chance

To get my brain round to thinking

To think I’ll stop drinking.

I could get off the gear, I could get off my rear.

I could send my C.V to employers

Those employers who are known as the unemployment destroyers.

I could have a meaning instead of this leaning I have,

Towards self destruction.

I could get a job on a site become involved in construction.

So many things on the doorstep right here

But really

I much rather prefer getting ****** on the gear.

Oh yes that’s the glory of failure.



I should get myself well move out from this hell

But what the doctors have said is, in six months I’ll be dead

So I’m going to make tracks.

No,not those made by the needle

I’m going to wheedle

My way into a hospice which could be quite nice.

I think that’s the glory of failure



But what the hey I’m a guardian reader

But unlike other guardian readers those centre right bleeders

I’m totally anarchist, often totally tanked up and ******.

But in reading the guardian I just cannot lose

It makes such wonderful padding for the holes in the soles of my shoes.

And I’ve had plenty of dates with several girlfriends of mates

But when they’re looking down there and they see nothing stir.

That may be the glory of failure.



Perhaps when I’m old and I’m ready to die

I might cast my mind back and I might wonder why,

Every time I have failed the boat seems to have just sailed.

But I was never a sailor.

I was just a participant in

The Glory Of Failure.

A terrible fall in the autumn of my life
I met an ugly woman and that woman's now my wife
She's ugly on the inside and ugly on the out
She's really mean and nasty she always has to shout
So I put her up on eBay and wrote 'she's really nice'
But nobody was interested she was only checked out twice
So if you like them old and ugly or even mean and nasty
Please ring Billy on 0789967893

Meaningless noise finds my ears
swimming words
Images flying
Eyes crying
I hold tight to my wrists
Clutch my head
My ears too
Let my voice whisper
"Stop, please."
As the thoughts and memories
Travel into my mind
They double down
Scream them away in my head
People watch
As my eyes go wide, and my head spins
Cover my eyes
As the tears fall one by one
Such dutiful soldiers
People advert they're eyes, in respect
and I fall apart

Your Clouds, judged be it pickled or disdain
Have mostly trained your canaries to think
Whether to ruffle more Feathers; Then feign
Those Truest Notes dipped; And begroom your Mink
For who could solve what your Tampered Mind spies
Then translates such Harvest for a Desert
To Good Sense cheer; From Truth becomes a Lie
With Random Calls ring your Body to advert
And whilst you do, any Cause to forget
Those Taped Pioneers who endured your Phase
Pray for your Interview; And chance to beget
Which Startled Sweets was the Sweetest at base.
Yet still Occupied to that Video owned
Belittle what Possum's Cry now reknowned.

So many movies on the streaming service
Advert themselves as about forbidden love
Until one wonders if there is any love
Which is not forbidden
                                                 your credit card welcome

Ghost Relics**

Downtown,
where Main intersects Main
you'll see the last living tissue
of a breathing bazaar.
They weighed down her chest with bricks and girders.
It's a wonder she breathes at all.
-
Wander too far in any direction
and you're sure to see the husks
of once proud and bustling businesses.
Abandoned sanctums of mortar and majesty.
Scars of the Midwest etched as constants in our mind.
Dusty and silent since the cradle.
-
The theaters are bedeviled with dolled up haunts
who just wandered over from Greenwood to catch the matinee.
Management still leaves the lights on for kicks after hours
to throw off their sleep schedules while they wait for the feature to start.
Up all night, sleep all day; they read by neon and slumber under Sol.
Here I am, left lounging in The Devil's Chair. Crickets keep quavering.
-
Underneath the Franklin Street overpass sleeps a family bound by naught.
They watch in dawn's light as the few pedestrian that traverse Cerro Gordo
advert their eyes as some sort of silent symbol of respect for their situation.
It's as if the very stare of a privileged man could drain 'til depleted.
They never ask for anything, they just wade it out and listen to
the cars overhead, the train-clock's trumpet, and the heartbeats in between.
-
Leaks are patched, potholes filled, and yet
we're still loosing blood; becoming beguiled.
So many stray cats in the civilian savanna,
aimlessly seeking names and second chances.
"This premises is under police video surveillance" -
hanging like ornaments from streetlamp poles.
-
Guarding the gates
of a dwindling dominion,
as the armies of Union and Grand
wait in their camps
for the rust to take hold
of her iron veins.

I eat my feelings ,
Exercise my anger,  
Trying to find a healthy way to advert disaster.
The catastrophe that is my mind,
To many emotions make us blind.
Try not to over think,
But don't  over look.
Every decision balanced on a hook.

She

I'm waiting for the man I hope to wed.
I've never seen him - that's the funny part.
I promised I would wear a rose of red,
Pinned on my coat above my fluttered heart,
So that he'd know me - a precaution wise,
Because I wrote him I was twenty-three,
And Oh such heaps and heaps of silly lies. . .
So when we meet what will he think of me?

It's funny, but it has its sorry side;
I put an advert. in the evening Press:
"A lonely maiden fain would be a bride."
Oh it was shameless of me, I confess.
But I am thirty-nine and in despair,
Wanting a home and children ere too late,
And I forget I'm no more young and fair -
I'll hide my rose and run...No, no, I'll wait.

An hour has passed and I am waiting still.
I ought to feel relieved, but I'm so sad.
I would have liked to see him, just to thrill,
And sigh and say: "There goes my lovely lad!
My one romance!" Ah, Life's malign mishap!
"Garcon, a cafè creme." I'll stay till nine. . .
The cafè's empty, just an oldish chap
Who's sitting at the table next to mine. . .

He

I'm waiting for the girl I mean to wed.
She was to come at eight and now it's nine.
She'd pin upon her coat a rose of red,
And I would wear a marguerite in mine.
No sign of her I see...It's true my eyes
Need stronger glasses than the ones I wear,
But Oh I feel my heart would recognize
Her face without the rose - she is so fair.

Ah! what deceivers are we aging men!
What vanity keeps youthful hope aglow!
Poor girl! I sent a photo taken when
I was a student, twenty years ago.
(Hers is so Springlike, Oh so blossom sweet!)
How she will shudder when she sees me now!
I think I'd better hide that marguerite -
How can I age and ugliness avow?

She does not come. It's after nine o'clock.
What fools we fogeys are! I'll try to laugh;
(Garcon, you might bring me another bock)
Falling in love, just from a photograph.
Well, that's the end. I'll go home and forget,
Then realizing I am over ripe
I'll throw away this silly cigarette
And philosophically light my pipe.

* * * * *

The waiter brought the coffee and the beer,
And there they sat, so woe-begone a pair,
And seemed to think: "Why do we linger here?"
When suddenly they turned, to start and stare.
She spied a marguerite, he glimpsed a rose;
Their eyes were joined and in a flash they knew. . .
The sleepy waiter saw, when time to close,
The sweet romance of those deceiving two,
Whose lips were joined, their hearts, their future too.

fem in isms,
i imagine Sapphic eyes:
bad *** advert coruscates elite
fairness sensing slavish blind
in gestate calm affirm
in genders More numerous of Windows--
Superior--for Doors--
O harsh judgement foiled,
as a foil, as unknown truth
foil-doubles in the brow,
abject symmetry to systemize
a fertile lack of sterile barrenness,
i am a mediatrix rend,
nirwaan, hijra wonderment aside
from transemotion's ground swells
demeaning to be understood.
i celebrate and face the same
to be what paperwork tests being
normal being, freely chosen
atom each belonging moves
an asterisk of paths
of mutate art of nature social darwin maze.
i imagine Sapphic eyes,
ginko soft they pile up all cobble
memories themselves concretely
cloistered  fame
spray of salty waves,
macho screams symbol
for dismissal ease
for tearing at an inner unsaid war
with lists offense of proper taste
to what posterity intends
an undulation womblike seeming nourish safety sounds.
i imagine Sapphic eyes
past
debauched
meanderings
where hyster-clarity rejoins its titular
and reliable escapisms curl the lips
of maleness found
here and there  smile  sneer love
i imagine Sapphic eyes
linguistic pirouettes
congest that wisdom nonetheless
the moment passed  on to a
feigning truth in pretty rhyme
ornamenting time with fine  meter  fine
vernacular chimes peter in
to juggle perspectival paradox,
redichotomize the twilight idols,
resolve the conflict like a dawn
Aurora,
i imagine Sapphic eyes
running plastic with Alaskan wolves,
toga floats to snow
to let us see the purest fairness form
a ****** circle,
Hypatia ascends from tenebrous grave,
Impregnable of Eye is pregnant now
with Wollstonecraft revered
in liberation's fount
families held exemplar gaze of
Taylor, ******, Cady,
Anthony resanctified
to vote entitlement's
empathic origins, waxen mold
of nascent categories,
narrow hands spread wide to panoply anew
the manifest evolve in true unknowns

never thought to see an advert for black magic
here on hello poetry

are they really a shaman
witchdoctor

or is it another tiresome scam
another tiresome scam

tiresome scam