Musings
To Be a Stylist:
I think about a great many things.
A great many I say!
For example:
I think about the color heels that would go best with my luncheon dress with my Mother, or my night going to Chateau – which still has its cache wouldn’t we all say? -
Within a nude,
many options exist.
Almost like the overwhelming expanse of content to stream. ‘Or stars in the sky’ -says the young man fumbley trying to distract you as he grabs your waist.
It must have been the nudes.
Pick your metaphor.
I could sit here on my floor,
Bare feet and raged toenails wiggling,
To condemn the footling of it all.
Or I could expound on the nuance,
That every woman who picks a pair of nude shoes perfectly
Would have, could have, is,
An architect, sculptor, playwright or director.
Or not. Perhaps they just like clothes!
They just like clothes.
The one artform women were allowed
Spoilt, indulgent, nonsensical, women.
The privilege of it all – a nude is a nude! As a blue is a blue! A Renoir a Manet!
Those damn bastards with all of their paint.
Les Flores @nauseam du Mal.
-by ME! Charlotte Bowles.
Nothing is worse than the stench of rotting flowers!
Other than bodies,
Left in a room alone.
Read of that what you may! Quarantine? Darker. Should I walk you through it? Perhaps start a youtube channel. YOU LITTLE FUCK. Okay don’t worry. This will be softer.
Flowers that sit,
Beautiful and fresh,
Hubristic in their naiveté.
They waft up
All around, while I’m fondling my black coffee
Augury of womb bearing womEn everywhere.
Abberant
I want to breathe it again to know what it is.
Tenderly aware of an odd scent.
Light, yet everywhere I sniff. – women are solipsistic. Right?
I learned that word in the New Yorker. Which makes my poetry better than yours. :) just fyi
Les Flores!
I really must throw those out.
Roses, chrysanthemums, carnations, sunflowers.
Yonic forms, strewn about my apartment.
I’ve bought a lot of lingerie, in this quarantine.
Enough to put me in the ground.
Sit pax in morte.
Deep, dark, wet; it sounds nice.
I think I could sell it to Andreessen.
Concupiscence overruns. I call it a day,
And throw out the flowers.
What a shame.
What a waste.
What a woman.