rise of the silver surfer

at the company's year end party. suit by Juni Boyoboy

The Traveler (to Monsieur Louis Vuitton)

 (courtesy of google images)

People travel to places

to unravel the unknown

to entertain and be entertained

to see new faces

and see their own self.

They walk the streets

with paper tickets clasped in their hands

and rainwater penetrating

the insoles of their oxfords;

board vehicles breathing

at every stop; devouring

every inch of the terrains

as each curve, each turbulence,

each steam foretell their story.

They pack and unpack

hoping to find meaning

out of the leather stitching

enclosing most of their sobrieties

and aspirations.

(at home, where it all began,

is a new journey

waiting to start, waiting to happen.)

Epater Les Bourgeois

(courtesy of google images)

There are things, Mademoiselle Coco,

That you cannot foretell.

The camellia on your tweed jacket rests humbly

As the world’s patriarchal gestures

Soil the hems of skirts

And the tulle beneath them.

The pearls around your neck

Look like rocks crumbling at every

Debauchery men of your

Time write on history.

There are things, Mademoiselle Coco,

That you cannot foretell—

Women learned, after you,

How to tailor their lives

On their own

(not rely on their fathers,

Husbands, sons and the world.)

blaque.

The Monarch (For Alexander McQueen)

Alexander,
From the pits of my grave I write to you.
These moist, dark walls of dirt remind me of
Your intricate beadwork, how they fall in line
like ants skulking through my thighs.
Your suits draped in tailored tulle
form the satin walls of my coffin,
Pouf skirts run about as if to bring volume to
this crumbling carcass of mine.
This glass encasing are
molten adornments of your muses,
I envy them bejeweled
Of your craft, your art.

You rely on art for sanity,
I rely on my sanity for my art.

Fold (after Dior S/S 07 Haute Couture)

(photo from google images)

there is an inimitable nature of a folded paper—

the origami—which spells not of the idea of structure

but fluidity; the manner by which creases fall in

line against each other, forming pleats,

holding up shapes, react against the very idea of

structure, as it renders the litheness of paper

to move in places unfamiliar, unchartered.

(unfold me in places where I am folded.)