plume.

by shey marque

Flesh shimmers in the powder white
turquoise pours over shoulder lakes
black silk slides where sighs begin
mirage in the night of Toulouse-Lautrec

Turquoise pours over shoulder lakes
trace my contours in slow motion
mirage in the night of Toulouse-Lautrec
sense of me in the boudoir rouge

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chasing ghosts.

by kimberley veart

Woody Allen and I share a malady, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

We both are sufferers of the condition of 'nostalgia' and long for our spiritual homes in our idealised, rose hued visions of past decades. He wishes for the twenties, the 'golden age', when apparently walking in the rain in Paris was common practice.

I long for the sixties. For the time when Mary Quant dresses were in, the Beatles and their bowl cuts reigned and Edie Sedgewick was still Andy Warhol's muse.