We used to think that what we wore in public really mattered. No one wanted to appear in clothing ripped and tattered. But now it seems the custom is to vintage-up our fashion like it has been ripped apart in the throes of passion.
Everywhere we go, bare skin is brashly popping out as though we can’t afford new jeans and it’s a thing to flout. When we gain weight we do not have to buy a bigger jean, we simply use our scissors to augment the space between!
Old men shake their heads in shock and nearly lose their dentures,
and yet these wanton ladies draw their looks as well as censures,
for when they rouge their cheeks, they do not deal with only two. Now they have to prep four cheeks for the world to view.
I worked on this poem for over an hour and when I tried to add an illustration, I lost it all! Nowhere to be found. Nowhere in drafts. Yes, a bit of cussing. I don’t know about you, but after I’ve written something, I forget it completely, so I had to start out again from scratch. This time it went more quickly, though, and although it is generally the same idea, you know what they say about the one that got away!
This time I’m copying it into my sticky notes before I try to save and illustrate it. This is the first time I haven’t done so in a long time and now I remember why I always did so! Image found on the internet. No credits given.
Her mania for haute couture came a little premature when she first crawled across the floor, wanting to see Grandma’s Dior. When she took her first steps and fell, it was reaching for Auntie’s Chanel. The words she learned at Mama’s knee were Calvin Klein and Givenchy.
Her alphabet from A to V (from Armani up to Versace) she learned in closets of her kin dreaming of how she’d look in Louis Vitton, Laurent, Bill Blass. She’d be the best-dressed in her class of other girls in cut-off jeans and dresses made by mere machines.
Thus are fashionistas made. As other children sell lemonade or waste their days in hide-and-seek, they are fingering La Fabrique and looking at the fold and drape of a model’s evening cape. To each their own, we’re given to say, and yet I’m prone to saying “Nay, childhood might be better spent in pastimes of another bent.”
I’d hope that kids from zero to twelve might be more encouraged to delve into comics or games or nature with no stylish nomenclature. Let kids be freakish, free and nerdy. Let their clothes get torn and dirty. Time enough for fashion cults later, when they’re grown adults.
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I do not like to fall in line with any style that isn’t mine. I am the one bent to upend each cookie-cutter styling trend. Flaunting current fads is boring. Predictable sets me to snoring. The style that I most like to see reflects one’s personality. There’s magic in diversity.
To dress passé? A fashion sin,
yet everything old is new again.
So if your dress length’s out of date,
all you have to do is wait.
In twenty years, you’ll be in vogue,
in what last year marked you a rogue.
Who dictates fashion is beyond me,
as are those who wait to see
whether ankle, thigh or knee
is where a garment’s end should be
and whether cowl or boat or vee
is the right neckline for a tee
they tuck into their faded jeans—
now ripped and shredded like dumpster queens.
Following fashion’s every word?
I fear I find it most absurd.
I want the knees left in my jeans,
my butt well-covered, by all means.
What clothes you wear should be your passion,
not merely what’s okayed by fashion.
There should be no laws or rules
regarding clothes or hats or jewels
except what shows us who you are.
Each woman her own runway star.
Living up to its title, this poem is a rewrite of an earlier post. The prompt today was fashionable.
Youth today want to abolish all the elegance and polish that has received such veneration from their parents’ generation. Jeans with rips and shirts with holes seem to be their fashion goals. What is ironic is the tags. They spend a fortune for these rags!
The prompt today is polish. Image taken from the internet.
To dress passé? A fashion sin, yet everything old is new again. So if your dress length’s out of date all you have to do is wait. In twenty years, you’ll be in vogue, in what last year marked you a rogue.
Who dictates fashion is beyond me. As are those who wait to see whether ankle, thigh or knee is where a garment’s end should be and whether cowl or boat or vee is the right neckline for the tee
they tuck into their faded jeans—
now ripped and shredded like a dumpster queen’s. Following fashion’s every word? I fear I find it most absurd. I want the knees left in my jeans, my butt well-covered, by all means.
What clothes you wear should be your passion, not merely what’s okayed by fashion. There should be no laws or rules regarding clothes or hats or jewels except what shows us who you are. Each woman her own runway star.
Style has no age, gender or size. Its best ingredient? Surprise. A tilt of hat or colors bolder, T-shirt with suit, scarf over shoulder. Unpredictable, zany, wild or understated, classy, mild. Sophisticated, silly or funny, style cannot be bought with money.
Mexico has it, and Paree. It can be costly, but looking’s free. These stylistas perk up our world— hair up in caps or amply curled. Vampish, zany or high couturier, Life is made brighter by their display. If our world lasts only awhile, we might as well spend it in style!
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