This morning we jogged early
I was back in my flat by six-thirty
From my tenth floor view of the Charles River basin,
The morning was incandescently flushed by the peach-colored sun.
The transparent clouds seemed stylistically stained, artfully workshopped, which offered a softened, Tiffany glass effect wholly worthy of worship.

I can’t stop to admire it. I’m jamming things into suitcases.
Cramming things into boxes, giving things away.

I had a second interview Monday afternoon, for Johns Hopkins med school. They put the question to me:
“The semester starts in 18 days - can you do that?”
“Yes,” I replied, and just like that, I'm a Blue Jay.
Of course, I had to withdraw from the masters program but Harvard gave me a full (95K) refund - I think they’re more excited about my med school admission than I am.

I’m not afraid of discordant notes.
They change the landscape.
Take us to new emotional places.
Any major work is going to have them.
.
.
A song for this:
Hang on Little Tomato by Pink Martini
It's Amazing by Jem

Days drift away, mind ease the pain
The rains wash away, passion still remains
I think of her smile and the lips as they purse
How I want to feel her skin between my tips
It gets worse
Because there's no privacy in life
No place we can go
The desire for romanticism, blown away by my ego
So my mind runs wild
Does she compare me to others
or do I not have her desire
Does she mean when she says 'I love you'
Or am I simply hallucinating
Whens she dreams, is it of me
because it's her when I do

In fact it's her when I don't
and it's here where I confess
that every waking moment I am thinking of her ***
I know that she might see this
and that it's too personal to be public
But I take leafs from her book
Stylistically, confessional release
Removed from zones of comfort
but I can't rhyme
I tried a few times

I try too to be a feminist, and to respect every boundary
But truth is, I want to let loose sometimes
Take her, make her mine
Show her that her body is perfect in my eyes
Use my body, pin her down
Make her head spin around
Learn every spot of pleasure
On her body, in her mind

Wishful thinking maybe
She'll never call me baby
That's a good thing maybe
Pet names are lame and lazy

She has more important things to worry about
Not my over stimulated testosterone fantasies
Of how I want to tear away her-
That would be crass, so I won't say it
Instead I'll load up her favourite song and play it
or open up her pictures, touch myself and-
Again I can't help myself
I hope she never reads this ****
Because it's truly my most personal composite
Every word I write, I'm hating it
So for that reason I'll end this bit

'ello little ones with spinning tantrums
join us for roundabout logic with spattering snare drum hits
little is known but all else is shown
greed is implied when famine runs itself dry
feathered hat is also worn quite stylistically

when a painter has it down
when the motions are riveting and somewhat gruesome
the painter laughs heartily with bottom line basics
these basics aren't whatever
they are whenever, correction! excuse me

so don't jump down from your tree yet
so don't tarnish jupiter's rings beforehand
that is saturn in disguise
a method of consumption that is a bit better from time to tick tack

jelly is on my bread tonight
is it off of yours then?
I would count on it if it wasn't my best answer
I would forget without you if I could
but I never do

spinach and sausage mix well
query them further for a hot dog roll with seeds
of the sesame variety
what do you find but bitter taste?
a dessert
inklings of sweetness
and edges of filth

The down of the gown of the dawn of some gone day,
A ray day that has downed and dawned at sunset,
They have diabolically colonized our divine state,
Belligerently gang ****** our stupendous democracy at will,
The demonic bloodthirsty ******* barbarians,
Declaring a violent war which no one wants to fight,
A losing warring war of one against all.


Impetuously slaughtering our defenseless defenders at will,
Turning the blue-clad fierce hunters to the fierce hunted,
The hunted that are being haunted,
Hounded and hunted by the hunted,
Converting every corner into the hunters’ hunted ground,
The church and the charge office,
The home and the street,
The here and the there.


Who will protect our “toy gun” wielding protectors,
Protect our trigger-shy protectors from the cunning detractors,
As one by one they are won one by one,
One by one by the one that is supposed to be won,
The defenders of our slate state,
The defenders of our democratic democracy,
The defenseless defenders of the defenseless.


They have been plunged under siege,
As every one of them personifies some certain demise,
Every one of them is just some subterfuge death in waiting,
Some truculent death just waiting to happen,
Bust, rust and dust in the waiting,
Stylistically stylistic starving yawning mobile graves,
Prey of their own prey,
The ultimate fray prey.

As day in day out they live the life of a cigarette,
On one side they are smoking,
On the other, they are being smoked,
Any attempt to fight back is regarded criminal of the worst order,
Police brutality,
We forsake them, they forsake them, the law forsakes them,
Who will defend the mighty defenders?

Metamorphose me
into stylistically arranged
harmonies,
leaping off
the paper plane musical scores,
soaring away
like a child's imagination.

Women on the march was the story of the weekend. And so it was with perfect timing that 23 years after he diversified into designing for women, Sir Paul Smith included clothes for women on his Paris catwalk during menswear fashion week for the first time. The designer has scrapped his slot showing womenswear during London fashion week in favour of a blockbuster Paris show in which clothes for both genders are shown together.

There is an industry-wide trend toward unisex catwalks, but the move felt organic for Paul Smith, whose womenswear has its roots in men’s tailoring. First on the catwalk was a woman in a trousersuit in the black-and-green check of Black Watch tartan, alongside a man wearing a tailored coat in the same fabric over beige trousers.

Backstage, the designer said putting the show together has reminded him why he started designing for women in the first place. “Grace Coddington and Liz Tilberis, all these incredible women, were dressing supermodels like Linda Evangelista in my clothes for men,” he recalled.

But one of the secrets of Paul Smith’s cheery, straight-talking brand is that it is more sophisticated than it lets on. The womenswear on the catwalk was not simply borrowed-from-the-boys, but fine-tuned for the female body. The attitude and fabrics are taken from menswear, but the tailoring – a higher and more defined waist, a longer jacket, a strong shoulder – is calibrated to flatter the female form.

A dandy aesthetic running through the men’s velvet suits and fitted waistcoats was adapted for women with colourful Fair Isle-knit sweater dresses, and silk blouses with a painterly feather print.

The show was staged under the glass roof of the grand École Des Beaux-Arts, just a few streets from where Sir Paul Smith staged his very first fashion show in a friend’s apartment on the rue de Vaugirard, that time to an audience of 35 people, with friends as models and a soundtrack he had compiled on a cassette.

But it was very British, not just stylistically but in the emphasis on British-made fabrics – in many cases modern, lightweight versions of fabrics Smith first used in the 1970s. The brightly coloured feathers, which appeared on men’s suit linings as well as silk womenswear, were inspired by an illustrated 18th-century book of British birds.

In the face of the unstoppable rise of a sports aesthetic in menswear, Smith remains a staunch defender of the suit. “People think that suits are stuffy, or that you can’t move in them,” he said backstage. “But it’s not true.” Soft, narrow suits were styled for life outside the office, worn with trainers and with poloneck knits.

The Paul Smith show was followed by Kenzo, also showing men’s and women’s collections together for the first time. In London, Burberry and Vivienne Westwood have both recently merged their collections for men and women. The trend for unisex catwalks, which is driven both by the rise of a genderless, sports-influenced aesthetic and a social media appetite for catwalks that are newsworthy moments, appears unstoppable.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

Stylistically stagnant  
Repetitive lines
Heavy ****
Hollow minds

Broken hearts
Hard times
Growing up
Never fine

****** Wrists
Empty bottles
Night stand
Open Bibles

Pray hard
No answer
**** religion
God's cancer

Born alone
Die alone
Heaven calls
Coming home

I take it that a spray of Sun occults your face,
like watching in a squalid cinema, something a slapstick would
conjure a stylistically dumb image, or the prattle of
bunkum hubbub drowning loudspeakers in plazas.
You know there is a part of you that goes missing
  every time you hear me pass carefully under the care
  of toppled light, and there is a part of me that engages
the dark in this straining mutiny. This is such a troubled time
on the hardline; a martinet on the other cheapened end
of a totaled horizon hollering at gentrified space, eyes sternly
fixed on the mattress, conspicuous in urbane manner, something
shadows bade with hands, lifts up all the ragamuffin days:
   to capture you in such moment, such oneness, of no complication,
like a clean Yamazaki on the house, or a metropolitan district
   augured with rubicund crisscrosses, streets sidereal in measures,
an aggressive ******* at the end of the curb, the spanked curve
   of the mordant asphalt, and the rise of body heat from yesterday’s swelter;
  something only I could have thought of in white thighs of little ladies
    and peering birds for collarbones: look at this, maddened, retaining
    nothing but age.

HOW TO WRITE A LOVE POEM

You can do it, anyone can write a love poem. First, decide you want to do it, then get something to write on, pencil or computer, and begin. Do it anytime, anywhere, whenever you have a few minutes to contemplate. View the ability to do so as a treat, for it will be fun to navigate emotion via words, akin perhaps to working a crossword puzzle as you fish for just that word or turn of phrase that gives meaning. It is challenging and exciting to find that rhyme that works.  It helps to have a strong vocabulary, but just knowing the language is all you really need. Some of the greatest poems ever created are utterly simple in the language used.
Metaphors and similes are always welcome additions to poems and utilize onomatopoeia, alliteration and assonance whenever possible. Using these tools delights the eyes and ears.
Put your mind at ease and enjoy and appreciate having the time and ability to create and think about life’s most precious gift. Start with a phrase or thought that has come to mind upon which you’d like to expand. (I have a collection of these I call upon when I’m looking for inspiration.) Focus on the what, why and how of love and its meaning to you. You can write about your feelings for someone you know or with whom you are in a relationship. Or, perhaps, you will be writing in a fictional context drawing from your own experience or from hopes and dreams. Is there someone you miss, or to whom you wish to be closer?  It helps to have someone to think about, but it’s not necessary.
There is no formula for a love poem, it can be free verse, a sonnet, or one of a myriad of rhyme schemes. When I write, I just start writing and words and rhymes just flow. It’s somewhat like riding a bicycle. It’s not that hard to learn, you can go faster and faster in any direction you want. The more you write, the easier it becomes stylistically,  
There are many kinds of romantic love:  those of longing for or missing someone special, and the contented, satisfying type when it’s really going well, among other variations. You’ll never be at a loss for inspiration. I get ideas from the newspaper, comments in conversation, and much of the time, out of thin air. So many times I’ll write a first line, not knowing where the poem will go, and lines come, one after the another, as if on a scavenger hunt. Then, voila, I have a perfectly formed little verse that is just right, at least to my eyes.
Writing has a salutary, therapeutic effect. Grappling with words and emotions in the context of love is invigorating contemplation which can assist in resolving thorny, important issues facing the poet. The problem may not be solved, but perhaps it may be defined. This is your opportunity to get back at a someone who hurt you in a failed romance. You’ll feel better after doing so and no one will ever have to know you really feel or how you were so hurt. When you do share your poems with others and loved ones, you’ll be gratified at the reaction and the recipient will be thrilled to have been the object of such affection.
Write for yourself, satisfy yourself first.  Poems are personal and can remain private forever, so don’t worry about being embarrassed about what you write. Get it down.  You don’t have to show it to anybody. However, once created, maybe you will want to. Love is about sharing, devotion, friendship. Writing poetry has gotten me through much sadness, given me goals, and been endlessly pleasing to my psyche over the years.
Be spare in your writing, don’t use any unnecessary words. There is elegance in simplicity.  It is in the editing that the poem truly comes alive. Doing a good polish is to eat the icing on the cake.
Once you start writing poetry, you will never stop. It’s addicting and just a great way to use time wisely. You will amaze yourself with what comes out of your mind and heart. It’s a process, writing, and will exercise your mind and bring much pleasure.  
Start today.

a sentient being
hyperaware of his emotions
with flawless discernment

a heart so strikingly alluring
seemingly comprised of
gorgeous sleek sparkling ice

...but once melted
underneath, it is revealed:
a gorgeous fire blazes
radiating such warmth
and pure intentions
you would be a fool to think him cold

his exterior:
so breathtaking
seemingly unreal

rare stylistically
unapolegetically
himself

basically
bexey.