Fashion and Geometry


a poem woven of pattern and texture

Don't hold me close, I sense your spikey attitude.

But do welcome me to the opening of your show.

Fragile ascerbic resonance, not open for business.

 In the random tilings of the combat zone, camouflage fails to be seen as desire.

Spread textures, pierced and fanned as paper cuts.

Though echoes of Abigail's party might swing the mood tonight.

Until the laden sofas are not for sitting, unless one casts comfort aside. 

Spiralling inwards, in a twisted pattern, laced with low density piercings.

Arising and falling, as Alpine peaks of geological impressions.

Whereupon the abrasive features might tempt death to collide with the dark star.

Adapted through polarity, as mimic to the original origami.

Until the candy stripes bend to form the gay designs of summer.

Pastels, we are safe now, as these are woven into the hearts of all sweet souls.

Until the past's swash and buckle serves a reminder, dressed in monochrome.

Dripping with the light fantastic, suspended with aplomb.

Shedding the cubic descent of variable impressions.

Whilst off-shoulder, off-piste dynamics reach into the auric void.

Tied to the past, through metaphysical patterns of control.

And knitted into the culture of retrospect.

Though at times the yoke is a both a pleasure to wear, and to be seen.

Cutting a line, with formal decision.

As we recall, TV is King, though the satellite might simply Sputnik.

Gumball Goofball Geometry

Razored, Sliced and Diced.

The comfort zone = No magic.

But siglistic mechanisms can excite those occult sensibilities.

As the harmonic of time pulses with the datastream of cause and effect.

Cross referencing, describing the patterns of an interfaith potential.

Until the cross-eyes blur the event horizon, calling forth.

These sweet flowers, so delicate.

As the horde arrives, closely patterned in unity.

We are gonna crease it this way

And that way.

Though I doubt you will rest easy in this sculpture of 007 heritage.

And there it is, calling a stone a stone.

Until trodden into the gound, underfoot and ignored.

Back to cuteness, as familiarity of grandma's home.

Chevronic Dynamic

Woven beneath our feet, only to be

Down Trodden