Zelda knows, Dearest, Most Fashionable Reader, that she must write a few more poems to reach her goal of 30 FaOuLiPoWriMo [Fashionable OuLiPo Writing Month of Fashion] poems. Zelda has been rather tired lately because of lack of nutrients, as she has not gone grocery shopping in a while and is forced to scavenge her pantry for forgotten packets of Raman Noodles and dusty boxes of instant pudding.

So until Zelda goes grocery shopping and restores the nutrients in her body, Zelda must leave you, Most Fashionable Reader, to consider this:

Consider Leonardo DiCaprio's character in The Departed. Consider his perpetually furrowed brow. Consider his propensity toward violence. Consider his height and his scowl. Consider the curve of his shoulders. Consider that he orders cranberry juice at a bar, which suggests an attempt to refrain from drinking alcohol, which suggests a previous unhealthy relationship with alcohol. Consider that he has identity issues. Consider that he has many issues, period, but consider that he is still more mature than any man his age that this speaker has ever met. Consider that, after verbally sparring with his appointed psychiatrist, he asks her if she'd like to join him for a cup of coffee. Consider that she says yes. Consider that this speaker would say yes to a cup of coffee with Leonardo DiCaprio's character in The Departed, too. Consider the slim chance of happiness for this most fashionable speaker since the only man in the whole world she feels she can love is a fictional creation, one who doesn't even make it to the end of the movie. Consider this, Dear Reader. Consider this.

Now, encounters with Ultimate Nemeses are bad enough, especially when said Ultimate Nemesis resembles The Nothing much more than any other human being, animal, plant, rock, or anything composed of electrons, protons, and neutrons known to exist upon the planet. Encounters with Ultimate Nemeses should occur only when one is dressed as fabulously as Bette Davis in her early career and has had enough cocktails to be spontaneously witty. Encounters with Ultimate Nemeses should never, ever, never occur when one has not done one's hair. Encounters with Ultimate Nemeses should never, ever, never, EVER occur when accompanied by Office Machine malfunctions which require one to be viewed in profile (which is really not the way that Vivienne wishes to be viewed, due mostly to her Roman nose, which has, more than once, been cleverly described as "yeah, ROAMIN' AROUND YOUR FACE!"), and when the aforementioned profile view allows the Ultimate Nemesis a clear view of a Very Serious Blemish. I'm talking, the kind of Very Serious Blemish that might appear just before one's prom. I'm talking, the kind of Very Serious Blemish that invariably appeared right on the tip of your nose on the morning of school picture day, that no amount of toothpaste would dry, that no amount of carefully applying your mother's industrial strength under-eye concealer would cover. THAT kind of Very Serious Blemish.

Nonetheless, Vivienne has Sucked It Up, and her encounter with the Ultimate Nemesis has inspired her. See, when Vivienne encounters the Ultimate Nemesis, she tends to think of fire-breathing hell beasts, and all kinds of terrifying mythological monsters whose sole purpose is to suck the souls from well-meaning human beings. Which got her to thinking about the chimera, which got her to writing one. The base text of this chimera comes from I Can Read About Weather, a very informative textbook on just the same subject published by Troll Press in 1975. The nouns come from the aforementioned Two Women, so that the I may receive a mystical visitation from the spitfire fabulousness that is Sophia Loren. The verbs come from Effective Small Group Communication, Second Edition, an instructive text that my Ultimate Nemesis has much need of reading. The adjectives come from Sonya Fitzpatrick's, THE PET PSYCHIC's, master oeuvre, Cat Talk: The Secrets of Communicating with Your Cat, whose gentle words will probably lull me to sleep tonight.

I Emerge, Divide Up the Cloth Wrappings

When you laugh at the face, do you smile
out of the squall to see what kind of road

it's responding to give? Do you tell
the suitcases and pantomime about

the napkins? Some towns watch acutely.
Some sums like calming and daunting.

And on some heads, enlightened, lost
shoes of stockings try out the provisions.

All of these take different kinds
of parcels. The war, all around

you, demonstrates part of the stones,
too. So when you accomplish in

and when you notice out, you are ignoring
a case of the Rome. There continues

some kind of Ciociara in pregnant cloaks
of the grass. Somewhere, distances insult

sunbathing. Somewhere else, a soul is raging.
People groan and the countryside ought

to knock the city. What will be
the dweller? What will expect

the signs? What releases beloved
kinds of frankness?

Then Later --

Man's walking and one --
many - they but are dragged

that people laden -- that
in the weariest --

along which valley
national? -- via mouthed -

say it - filled green. America
brings its power, motorcars

that -- kind soldiers, armored
boughs -- large curving of a pair

noticed -- recovered. With dear
wind distantly -- we too in

would-- fire - come on - mine?
Out. Anti-aircraft is the only

clean. Be jumble -- lawyers
apprehensive. Lieutenant --

uniform stretched --
a yellow alert.

Zelda's Benevolent Yet Somewhat Annoying Friend showed no pity for Our Dearest, Most Fashionable Zelda. "You're not going to die any time soon, Zelda," he said. "And you're not going to die alone."

"Yes I ammmmmmm," Zelda wailed. "I am going to die alooooooooooooone."

"Get it together, Zelda," the Benevolently Annoying Friend said. "You're not fun to be around when you're like this."

"Fun?!" Zelda roared with all the Furious Rage she could, in her pathetic state, muster. "You call this film of tragedy and great sorrow FUN?! ALL I WANTED TO DO WAS WATCH THAT WILL FERRELL COMEDY! THAT ONE ABOUT BASKETBALL! BUT! NO! YOU TALKED ME INTO THE FREAKING BUCKET LIST! HOLY CHRIST I NEED A CIGARETTE!"

So Zelda furiously drove back to her apartment, alone. Whilst driving, she violently smoked cigarette after cigarette, alone. She stomped up her flight of stairs, alone. She brushed her teeth so hard that her gums bled, alone. She furiously plumped her highly fashionable pillow, alone, and Zelda finally drifted off into a Sleep Full of Rage and Fury and Sorrow. Alone.

Sometimes, Dearest, Most Fashionable Reader, only eighties music will suffice. Only eighties music can express the loneliness and the angst one Zelda felt while curled up in a fetal position on a hardwood floor. And this is why, Most Fashionable Reader, Zelda has provided for you the video below, in all its acid washed hair sprayed white sneakered jean jacketed sweetly innocent bubblegum smacking glory. Hearts are good for souvenirs, Dear Reader. Hearts are good for souvenirs.

Oh yeah! The poem!

For this FaOuLiPoWriMoFa [Fashionable OuLiPo Writing Month of Fashion] poem, Zelda has blended the Fashionable OuLiPo methods of curtailing and interference. Zelda's source text was a section of a quiz found in Delivered from Distraction by Edward M. Hallowell and John J. Ratey.

Self Assessment

Are you concerned that you drink too much when you’re alone?

Do you smoke more cigarettes now that you’re single?

When by yourself, do you resent yourself?

Do you enjoy being alone in basements?

Do you waste vast quantities of time roaming around by yourself?

Do you smile when talking to yourself in hopes that it will be a sufficient contribution?

Since you’ve become single, have you made the mistake of dating?

Has the quality of your sex life declined due to internal emotional conflict?

Is what you’re looking forward to doing a solitary act?

Do you find that you have trouble sustaining attention when you make love to yourself?

Do you have trouble lingering when you make love to yourself?

Do you have recurring dreams in which you’re by yourself?

Do you carry anger and frustration within you?

When alone, do you feel a great deal of shame?

When you’re alone, do you yearn to be so much more?

And so she gives you a Fashionable Pet Shops Boys AbFab Mix of Fashion:

And so she lets you in on one of the Most Fashionable Revelations of The Evening, which is that PATSY IS FABULOUS with this Sponge Osmosity created from AbFab clips.  Enjoy, and remember, kids: BE FASHIONABLE AS OTHERS SHALL BE FASHIONABLE UNTO YOU.

Lacroix, darling.  Lacroix.

Sweetie Darling The Stairwell

California lovely the roof off lovely
over it the road the road lovely

there used to be here your language
watch you foul you language I am

thin a bee is it where is it find it
we need more don't leave right well

then a bee a bee is it a small hello
cut it off he's very nice cut it off I have

to get out of here darling Mummy's here
sweetheart I'm going to call the filth

the pigs just drink it sweetie no fabulous
no fantastic no I like this one no this

one is the one this one here what is this
sweetie we tried didn't we we didn't want is this

The following piece was written by applying the constraint of larding, as Warren Motte cleverly called line-extension, or line-stretching, or le tireur a la ligne to the following passage from Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita:

There is nothing, and there never was! There is only a stunted linden tree out there, an iron fence, and the boulevard beyond it. . . . And ice melting in the bowl, and someone's bovine bloodshot eyes at the next table, and fear, fear . . .

In larding, one takes an except, such as the excerpt above, and writes a sentence in the gaps between sentences.  One then writes new sentences in the two new gaps that are created, and so on and so forth, to one's desired length.

This text was also inspired, incidentally, by the Fashionable Law of OuLiPo so Fashionably described by Jacques Roubaud in The Oulipo and Combinatorial Art:

A text written according to a constraint describes the constraint.

Meaning that the resulting text should have some relationship to the constraint which was applied: i.e., with larding, ending up with a text which describes something that was extended longer than it should have been.  Predictably, Vivienne is therefore writing about a relationship.  Who would've guessed!

The Nothing

There is nothing, and there never was! There never was something but nothing. There is nothing even sealed within the silks of something. There is the dress lurking behind coats in the closet, its fragrance of eau de toilette and ash, the memory of his thumbs still held in its folds. There is no something but something to be feared. There is the telephone's shrill call, the Lucky Strike smoking itself in an emptied snifter. There is fear zipping herself in a crumpled silk dress, smoothing the wrinkles with steam which stains her thighs hot. There is the front yard's tree, letting loose of its leaves in the drought. There is only a stunted linden tree out there, an iron fence, and the boulevard behind it. There is only the oil slick, shimmering private beneath his car's foreign undercarriage. There is only a man with manicured nails, lotioned fingers slick and slipped against an iced glass of bourbon. There is only the boulevard behind the fence, its electric lights, their crystalline gleam, the rain unexpected or early. There is only the truck with fender rusted, gently sighing its smoke against the evening's gray blouse. There is the cigarette extinguished, his head's gesture towards bedroom, towards bed. There is only a throwing back of sheets, a resigned lie against linens. And the green silk wrinkled, and the hooks unhooked, and the slip's lace slipped beneath bedskirts. And ice melting in the bowl, and someone's bovine bloodshot eyes at the next table, and fear, fear.

One might be able to tell from the title of this post that Viv is back to her old self.  Well, though, not quite.  Not quite.  Viv is not quite back to her old self.  The Angst Mines are not completely back in operation, but the Angst Miners have realized now that their holiday was short-lived, as a definite possibility for the discovery of new underground stores of Angst has emerged, and though they are still whistling, it is a different tune -- a happy tune with a hint of sadness, a hint of regret, a hint of the sense that happiness is really, after all, just the absence of the Complete and Utter Bone Chomping Despair that causes one to bum cigarettes from undergraduates and lie in the floor with an ash tray (which looks suspiciously like a bust of Joan Crawford) balanced on your chest while listening to Eliot Smith's "Condor Avenue" over and over on repeat.  The Angst Miners are not yet whistling "Condor Avenue," though, or even "Waltz XO," but "Happy Days Are Here Again" by the luminous vocal virtuoso Barbara Streisand.  And there is hope, here, as Barbara Streisand herself would later become the kind and benevolent Dr. Lowenstein, who would teach us to embrace our grief, to cry, to love, goddamn it, to love.

But before we learn to love, this: cognitive dissonance (though sometimes Vivienne wonders if learning to love is not, in fact, learning to accept -- or, in her Moments of Angst, ignore -- cognitive dissonance).  An explanation of this rambling: so, we all think we know who we are, right?  Or, at least, we all see ourselves as a certain person.  What causes a problem -- what causes the cognitive dissonance -- is when we're forced to realize that other people do not see us as the people we think we are.  To wit: Vivienne has, upon occasion, been dragged, after multiple shots of tequila, to a Dance Club.  After multiple shots of tequila, Vivienne has taken it upon herself to dance.  And, under the influence of said tequila, Vivienne has thought she was a damn good dancer.  A solid gold dancer.  A pure solid gold wonder of dancing technology.  Vivienne has, through her tequila-blurred eyes, seen people staring at her, and assumed they are admiring her solid freaking gold dancing skills.  And then Vivienne has realized that they are laughing, because they do not see her as a solid freaking gold dancer, but instead as an octopus pulled from the water and left to thrash its ungainly limbs upon the dance floor.  To wit the second: Vivienne has, in conversation with those dear to her, sometimes realized that they do not see her as she sees herself.  Vivienne has, in fact, realized that she is very definitely playing A Role in their lives, and that who she is, actually, really, makes very little difference at all.  Dissonance.  Which leads me to this point, where I get all meta on you: you are a text constantly re-envisioned through the eyes of other authors.  The world is OuLiPo, and OuLiPo is the world.  We are trapped in a labyrinth of our own making, and we will never escape because we will never be able to see others as they see themselves, and vice versa.

Vivienne is now amazed at how quickly that crashed down into hopeless desperation, and would like to make up for that with this:

And with this!  My OuLiPoPoem for the evening.  The restriction I used was homoconsonantism, in which the sequence of consonants is kept and all of the vowels replaced.  I have provided 8 variations on the line "Foul is fair and fair is foul."  Because if nothing else is true, that is.  And, of course, lollipops.  Gum drops.  Kittens with sweaters on.  Kittens with sweaters on.  Kittens with sweaters on.

The Murdering Ministers Speak

Fair sofa! Lay, undo if she fear.
Free -- so feel need of sea fare.

For so flood need of sad for
far sea. Feel. Nod if so far.

Fee raise: of land, of sea, of ore.
Of "or:" see file, and, if. See fear,

firs, oaf, lend. Of "safer:"
far, ease, flee, undo, ifs, free.

This epic poem is not completed, and Zelda hopes with all hope that it will not go the way of the Guns 'N Roses album Chinese Democracy, which has been in the works for around 14 years now. But Zelda is posting Part the First, for she is loving the fact that there is a slender-bodied dragonfly in it.

November Raincoat

When I look into visual images that are

superficially attractive and entertaining

but intellectually undemanding, I can see

a love child restrained. But when I hold

the long, slender-bodied dragonfly --

don’t you know I feel?

Because notion lasts forever, and we both

know broken hearts can change, and it’s hard

to hold an evergreen tree while you’re in a cold

November raincoat. We’ve been through this --

that long, long timothy grass, that grass

widely grown for grazing and hay -- just trying

to kill the painted bunting, but low-borns

always come, and low-borns always go,

and no one’s really sure who’s letting go

today, walking away. If we could take

the timothy grass and lay it

on the lingerer, I could rest my health

just knowing that you were mine. So if you want

to love me, then don’t refrain from that long,

slender-bodied dragonfly -- or I’ll just end

up walking in a cold November raincoat.

Do you need do you

need everybody

needs don’t you know

you need

I know it’s hard to keep an open heart

broken when even frigates seem out

to harm you, but if you could heal

a broken, a heartbroken -- sometimes

I need sometimes

I need everybody needs

don’t you know you

need

And when your feats subside and the shag

carpets still remain, I know that you can

love me when there's no one left

to blame. So never mind the ryegrass,

we still can find a we. But nothing lasts --

This will not be Fashionable.

Let us discuss Vivienne's mental state today.

Let us realize that Vivienne's mental state can be accurately judged by the beverages she has consumed.

Today, Vivienne consumed a cup of Earl Grey Tea, a large coffee, a Diet Coke, two liters of water, three glasses of red wine.  Today, Vivienne found herself crying in her office after reading an article which stated in No Uncertain Terms that teaching was the worst thing for a writer to do.  Today, Vivienne found herself asking, but what if I like teaching?  But what if I like it?  Does this make me less of a writer? Today, Vivienne saw a news clip about robots and thought, Lucky.  Lucky bastards.  Lucky.  Today, Vivienne found herself taking the long way home so that she could finish singing along to Dolly Parton's "I Will Always Love You" (Vivienne insists that this is the only Fashionable Version of this song, Whitney Houston be damned!).  Today, Vivienne found her voice loud and warbling on "Good-bye, oh, please don't cry, 'cause we both know I'm not what you nee-eee-eed."  Today, Vivienne bummed a cigarette from the one-armed jogger who refers to her as "schoolteacher" and "the little old maid."  Today, Vivienne's cheeks have been chipmunked by Nicorette.  Today, Vivienne needed desperately to feel useful.  Today, Vivienne packed her spoons in a box to feel useful.  Today, Vivienne realized she'll need her damn spoons.  Today, Vivienne unpacked the box of her spoons and felt once again like a failure.  Today, Vivienne went down to the pool and laid, towel-less, against the burning hot concrete with her feet in the water, until she noticed the secretary of her apartment complex staring down at her from a second story window, head cocked, as if she was thinking, do I call Animal Control or the hospital or the men in Fashionable white coats with their relaxing syringes? Today, Vivienne used the elliptical trainer with such Fashionable and Ferocious Intensity that she actually broke it.  Today, Vivienne found herself pumping iron while listening to M.I.A. at top volume and mouthing the words at the wall-length mirror.  Today, Vivienne found herself opening the Fabulous Bottle of Red Wine she has been saving since January for a special occasion, thinking that a Date with her Angst might be the most special occasion she'll face in the next few months.  Today, Vivienne heated up some chili and was happy that she unpacked her packed spoons.

And so you can imagine the cognitive dissonance which occurred when, upon putting her usually-in-tune-with-her-emotions-iPod on shuffle, said iPod played no other song than ... The Monkees' "Pleasant Valley Sunday."  Are you kidding me? Vivienne thought.  Are you fucking kidding me?  Seriously.  Seriously. Vivienne then found it necessary to attempt, for OuLiPoWriMo, to make "Pleasant Valley Sunday" into a depressing song.  Today, however, Vivienne was shocked to see that it was already depressing, and half of her work was done for her.  And so it goes.  And so it goes.

Sunday

The local group -- hard
to learn to seranade. The weekend
squire, mow his lawn.

Another valley
burning everywhere,
all the same
no one seems to care.

She's proud. Her in bloom,
serene in every room,

pleasant. Sunday
status Mothers complain.

Creatures, comforts
make it hard for me
to stray. I need a pleasant

valley. Sunday.
Charcoal everywhere.

Vivienne of Fashion:  Well hello!  What are you doing?

Philosopher/Emotional Robot: Oh, conducting a Gedankenexperiment.

VoF: Why don't you just call it a "thought experiment?"  Seriously.

P/ER: I'm harkening back to Mach.

VoF: Awesome.  I'm watching I Love New York II and conducting a Gedankenexperiment in which I attempt to determine why New York thought it was necessary to get breast implants.

Vivienne's New York Gedankenexperiment always failed, because, really, there IS no logical reason as to why New York thought it was necessary to get breast implants.  However, Vivienne is not one to give up easily, and so wishes to conduct a Gedankenexperiment now.  Let us think about The Childlike Empress in all of her innocent, beaming beauty.  Let us think of her experience, trapped in the Ivory Tower, knowing that, despite her non-involvement in the political realm of Fantastica and her reluctance to judge the inhabitants of the land based on their goodness or badness, their beauty or their tragic ugliness, Fantastica nonetheless depends upon her, so much so that, should she die, Fantastica and all Fantasticans would also die.  Imagine being under that kind of pressure, sealed, parentless and Prozac-less, in the heights of the Ivory Tower.  Then, imagine being attacked by none other than The Nothing, a horrid beast who seems concerned solely with with replacing all that is good and holy with its Nothingish emptiness, because she's depending on some little punk of a boy who doesn't even have the nads to call her by name.  Imagine the Childlike Empress staring the Nothing in the eyes, begging Bastian, who takes so damn long to fulfill her needs that it's almost, almost too late.

Now, imagine the Childlike Empress in her thirties.  What could possibly happen to her, other than her becoming Neely O'Hara in Valley of the Dolls, addicted to dolls, trapped in a tragic marriage, with nothing but the Nothing -- not even Helen Lawson, not even Helen Lawson's wig -- to even fight against?

In honor of this Gedankenexperiment, I use Fashionable Poem Prompt / Poem Prompt of Fashion Five to put the truly unspeakably bad poem which acts as a preface to Valley of the Dolls on a diet in an attempt to chase the Nothing away.  Neely, Neely, I say your name!

Dolls

You've got the valley, a brutal peak.
You never knew what was

the last thing. Waiting, you thought
you'd feel. Applause no place

left, alone, so thin you can
scarcely. A hero was more fun

at the bottom, nothing more.
That mountain - there was no

one, doll. It's different when you reach
the elements. Enjoy your victory.

Which raises an important philosophical question: is there any possible break-up worse than a Post-it break-up?  Which raises an important philosophical answer: oh, yes, yes, my friends, there is, and Vivienne has experienced it: the phone call, received a-day-and-a-half-post-major-surgery-with-four-month-recovery, when one is on ridiculous amounts of opiates and isn't even quite sure that one really exists, when one's boyfriend announces that he "just has some questions" and proceeds to launch into a litany of outrages that end on a break-up.  That might just be worse than a Post-it.  And what might be worse than THAT might be the fact that, two months later, said now-ex-boyfriend began to leave a trail of obviously-passive-aggressive poems on his MySpace page clearly addressed to his now-ex-girlfriend-who-refuses-to-speak-to-or-of-him, including but not limited to Yeats' "When You Are Old and Grey," the intended message of which very clearly seemed to be that despite the above-mentioned phone call, no one, and he meant NO ONE, would ever love his ex-girlfriend the way that he did.

Now, gentleman.  Seriously.  Here is another lesson in the Wooing of Vivienne: if you must be passive aggressive, be creative about it.  Don't be passive aggressive with YEATS, for Christ's sake.  What could possibly be more obvious?  At least respect the Viv enough to produce original examples of passive aggression.  Be passive aggressive with vague references to Stephanie Strickland's V.WaveSon.Nets.  Be passive aggressive with quotes from Martin Buber.  Be passive aggressive with pictures of The Nothing from The Never-Ending Story, or with cartoons of hedgehogs, or with Tootsie Rolls.  With Yeats?  Please.  Gentlemen.  Seriously.

Which brings us to tonight's FaOuLiPoWriMoFaPo: a passive aggressive OuLiPo-ization of Yeats (which, gentlemen, would, incidentally, be acceptable).  For this poem, I am using the constraint of antonymy, or antonymnic translation, found on page 50 of the OuLiPo Compendium.  This constraint, which "means the replacement of a designated element by its opposite," has been applied by Lynn Crawford, Marcel Benabou, Raymond Queneau, and, below, an embittered Vivienne, who seeks to reclaim her love of Yeats from her general blech towards her ex.

When You Are Young

When you are young and bright but empty of wakefulness,
And shaking your head by the water, put back this scrap of paper,
And quickly scan, and forget the hard ignoring
Your ears had forever, and of their light shallow;
How few hated your hours of sad blundering,
And hated your ugliness with hatred true or false,
But many women hated the settled Devil in me,
And hated the happiness of my unchanging fist;
And straightening up away from the darkened freedom,
shout, very happily, how Hatred returned
And stood still upon the valleys below
And shone her fist in front of a solitary dark.

For tonight’s Poem of Fashionable OuLiPo Fashion, Zelda has chosen to work with an Invisible Library. Zelda has created an Invisible Library of books that have been Number One on the New York Times Bestseller list since the inception of the list. The poem below has been constructed using titles taken from aforementioned list (click here for a .PDF file of list).

If you partake in the Invisible Library exercise, Dearest Vivienne, Zelda politely requests that, if at all possible, you include Doctor Zhivago in your poem. Zelda regrets that she discovered that Doctor Zhivago was on the NYT Best Seller List after she had finished writing her poem.

*I know, I know, Dear Reader: smoking is quite unhealthy. But since Zelda no longer drinks the Devil’s Brew, since Zelda has been sober for over two years now, please allow her this one vice for now, Dear Reader. For now.

The Green Years

[for Zelda were spent innocently lusting after Jordan Catalano.]

Let's abbreviate: Vivienne's love life generally most resembles a scene she once saw in Florida whilst sitting happily in the backseat of her parents car, admiring the fancy and frenetically green foliage, the tropical flowers and their profusion of blooms, then: the vulture, in the middle of the road, dying, and six of his vulture companions gathered in a circle clearly not of mourning but of pure appetite-whetting.

Given this, Vivienne decided to hearken back to a simpler time for this evening's poem. Vivienne decided to revisit her 8th grade Algebra I class, where she sat, every day, her crossed legs pressed against the cold steel bars of her desk, and stared at the glorious and magnificently tousled hair which circled the back of one David F.'s hair. David F. was, in a word, beautiful. He was Zack Morris. Or, more so, he was Jordan Catalano, and he made me so mute that I think the only words I ever said to him were "you dropped your pencil." And yet, and yes, I hoped. I had faith. I purchased a fashionable gray angora twin-set from The Limited and removed the sweater once I got to school. I had faith. One day, one day, David F. would be mine, just as Jordan was Angela's.

Of course, David F. asked me to the 8th grade semi-formal solely as a way of getting back at his ex-girlfriend and my best friend. Of course, David F. snuck out behind the back of the school cafeteria with his ex-girlfriend and my best friend and a yearbook camera caught them kissing. Of course, David F. later dropped out of school because he couldn't spell the word "cat." Of course, David F. now has very little of his formerly fabulously tousled hair, and wears pink polo shirts which never quite fit right, which (the pink polo shirts, I mean) makes Vivienne very glad David F. bestowed his smooches upon his ex-girlfriend and her best friend.

What Vivienne remembers and treasures most about David F. is the hope, and much of that hope existed in the glittering hours of the glittering evenings she'd spend in her upstairs bedroom, playing Frente's "Labour of Love" over and over, rewinding and replaying the cassette, so many hours and so many evenings that even now, when that song pops up on shuffle in her iPod, her heart clenches for a second and then soars and she thinks -- no, she hopes -- no, for that second, she knows it just might work out this time.

N+7 Adolescent Verses

Here, we learned that Frente secretly loved Brigham Young.

[And what will follow will be a horrendously unfashionable poemlogue, and for this, Zelda apologizes profusely but really has no excuse, for, instead of working on said poemlogue today, Zelda took a mid-morning and mid-afternoon nap, and between said naps, Zelda read Slash’s (yum) autobiography, which she highly recommends.]

Zelda followed Fashion Poem Prompt / Poem Prompt of Fashion -- Prompt Five to construct the poem below. Zelda took Adrienne Rich’s poem “Trying to Talk with a Man,” a 39-line long poem (40, including title), and removed half of its lines.

Is it wrong, Dearest Reader, that when I reread “Trying to Talk with a Man,” the first thing I thought of was the movie Broken Arrow? You know, the one with John Travolta and Christian Slater (yum) in it? I mean, there was this nuclear bomb. And a desert. And an underground river.

Trying to Talk with a Man

is impossible, Readers of Fashion. Absolutely impossible.

Since Episode 407 of Project Runway dealt with high school students, the following Fashionable Poem Prompt / Poem Prompt of Fashion was inspired by the emotions one experienced while in high school. For this poet, there were two: one being love, and the other being hate. And since love, that day-glo cotton candy field in which unicorns and kittens pranced and frolicked, so often devolved into the nuclear winter landscape smeared with ash and char that is better known as hate, "love" and "hate" play a very important role in the following Fashionable Poem Prompt / Poem Prompt of Fashion. We decided to appropriate the angsty emo-girl that Vivienne used in an earlier Fashionable Post / Post of Fashion into this prompt's Graphic of Fashion because, really: doesn't she say it all?

Prompt Seven — “Love + Hate = Angst of the Poet,” inspired by Episode 407 of Project Runway, in which the designers were teamed up with high school girls and their mothers and told to design the teenagers' prom dresses while following instructions from the teenagers and warnings from their mothers.

The poet will construct a poem the length of her choosing. Each poem, however, must begin with a noun, verb, or phrase of love and end with a noun, verb, or phrase of hate. Enjambment is encouraged. The Hyacinth Girls have fashionably provided for you, Dear Reader, a PDF file containing seventy-five (75) nouns, verbs, and phrases of love and seventy-five (75) nouns, verbs, and phrases of hate. To view this PDF file, click here, or click on the image to the left.

And that is all for this poemlogue, for Brenda Dickson is really all you need.

One more thing! I must confess that I have appropriated Most Fashionable Vivienne's Most Fashionable Word "Char" in this poem. But it is used quite unfashionably.

It sounds pretty bad, but you can get used to it, and once you acquire a taste for it, you won't want anything else.

Start with a clean face, a steel face, a face
so still the breeze won’t know it’s coming.

This is the best advice I could give any woman.
This will be the answer to all your problems.

You’ll need lips, sealed lips, blood
tinted lips, lips glossed with sheered magenta.

They’re used in movies, and they work
well with your blank slate of face. Your eyes

should be traced with flecks of your heart’s
char, rimmed with hallowed ash, kohled

with the cold calm of the righteously wicked.
It may sound commercial, but it makes you

better. It’s a great look.
It’s really all you need when you want.

This is too disturbing. It's making my nerves bad tonight. Yes, bad. Here is a photograph of Courtney Love to calm my nerves. Nobody, not even the rain, has more cake.

In the below poem, I satisfy two requests: one, from my dear friend of fashion/fashionable friend, who requested a Miley poem. Two, from Zelda's prompt of fashion/fashionable prompt, the menswear one, requiring us to write in a form we've never tried before. Oh, it's the end of NaPoWriMoFa/FaNaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month of Fashion/Fashionable National Poetry Writing Month). Oh, yes it is.

On the Occasion of Miley Cyrus’ Vanity Fair Photo Shoot

It was just WRONG.

[If I might digress for a moment to give the Reader of Fashion a little background. . . Zelda recently completed her manuscript! Hooray for Zelda! This is something she has been working on (or, to be honest, merely thinking about and agonizing over) for years. And, with the help and support of our Lovely, Most Fashionable Vivienne, Zelda FINALLY got her act together. Zelda FINALLY got her poems together. Hooray for Zelda! That, Most Fashionable Reader, is the end of the Fashionable News / News of Fashion.

So. When Zelda completed her manuscript, what should she have done? If you guessed “Pack it into an envelope and send it to Vivienne straightaway,” you would be correct. But did Zelda do this? She is sorry -- very, very sorry -- that she did not. She will now strip her neck of the most fashionable diamond heart necklace that she has been awarded during this NaPoWriMoFa (National Poetry Writing Month of Fashion) in an act of contrition. What, then, did she do instead? If you guessed “Give newly completed manuscript to therapist because therapist requested to read it,” you would be correct. So. Zelda’s therapist was the first person to read Zelda’s Newly Completed Manuscript of Fashion. This, Dear Reader, is the Very Bad Very Unfashionable Thing.]

In today’s therapy session, Zelda and her therapist discussed the Newly Completed Manuscript of Fashion. The discussion began with Zelda’s Most Unfashionable Therapist saying, “I found your poems very. . . interesting.” Then she threw out some phrases such as “quite a lot of violence,” “violent abstractions,” and "rather startling violence.” It took a lot of explanation from Zelda to convince her therapist that what her therapist deemed as “violent” was not, in fact, a mirror of Zelda’s external environment, but rather a) a representation of Zelda’s internal strife and turmoil and b) a representation of the internal strife and turmoil of women in general. Zelda is not sure her therapist believed her, for, at the end of the session, Zelda was given her therapist’s mobile number (again). Zelda was also given her therapist’s unlisted home number (for the first time). Sigh.

So what would Slash say about this? Well, when he moved from England to California at age 11, he said that he “wore holey jeans and rock-n-roll t-shirts” and that he was “content with the fact that he didn’t fit in.” So there. Zelda is going to be content with the fact that she doesn’t fit in with her therapist. Thank you, Slash!

Eyes Wide Shut

And the men-of-war [can still really sting the crap out of you even when they're dead. trust me. I know.]

Lowe’s Home Improvement is too much, Dear Reader. Too, too much. Zelda thinks that its name may as well be changed to:

“Lowe’s Home Improvement -- No, Wait, Zelda Doesn’t Have a House to Improve Anymore! So WTF Are You Even Doing in Here, Zelda? This Store Is Only for People Who Own Homes that They Wish to Improve. Get the Hell Out, Zelda! Do You See These Faucets, Zelda? Well, Guess What? You Don’t Own a Bathroom to Put Them in, Zelda! You See This Lumber, Zelda? Guess What? This Lumber Is for People Who Live in Their Very Own Homes so That They Can Add a Back Deck so That They Can Enjoy the Summer Breezes Outside of Their Homes. You Know: the Homes They OWN. Get the Hell Out, Zelda!”

Now, Zelda realizes that she chose to move out of her home. And Zelda is happy with her decision -- Zelda is very, very happy. This does not, however, change the fact that the 117,000 square foot building housing appliances, outdoor furniture, power tools, and kitchen cabinetry is a vile and despicable building that is positioned perfectly over the very gates of hell. Neither does this change the fact that when you walk into a Lowe’s Home Improvement on any given day, you will most likely find Zelda curled up inside a 44-gallon plastic trash can wailing as loud as Slash’s guitar wails during his “November Rain” solo.

the icemaker

[is broken, you betches!]

In the meantime, the poemlogue:

It's a good thing that this is an anonymous venture, because only one person who has the address to this blog has known me long enough and well enough to know what this is about, and that's Zelda. In fact, I quite expect to receive a (deservedly) sternly voiced phone call from one Zelda Fitzgerald after this post, reminding me why this is a Very Bad Idea. But, here it is. Look: love is the subject of 120% of my poetry. And as I write so much about love, I know that I can, in no way, even vaguely begin to consider myself an expert on love. But, I can consider myself an expert on talking about love. And here's the thing about love: it ends. But it doesn't. It's over. But it isn't. And suddenly, years later, you find yourself thinking these terrible thoughts that you know know know know KNOW you should REALLY NEVER BE THINKING. But you're thinking them. And then you're writing this damn poem, which is pretty much exactly like the last three poems you wrote, but whatever. Whatever. You can't get these thoughts you should REALLY NEVER BE THINKING out of your freaking head.

So here's the poem. And here, in support of Zelda, is the "November Rain" video, posted, again, so that you can watch it, again, and think very carefully about what you've done in denying its awesomeness. For its awesomeness is truly, truly awesome. SEE SLASH WAIL ON THE GUITAR IN THE CHURCH YARD!!! WAIL FOR YOUR LOVE OF SLASH!!! WAIL FOR IT!!!

End scene.

In the Airport Parking Deck

Removed after stern talking to for the good of the universe, really.

While I was with my hair stylist this week, we were talking about her marriage. She married about seven months ago, and -- get this, readers -- she was asking me for marital advice! So I reminded her of one of the most fabulous songs EVER. It can be found in the video below.

And I am not ashamed to say that the song in the video below is on my iPod. And that I have listened to it over one hundred times in the past year or so. And that I tear up sometimes while listening to it (except for the part that tells us not to read beauty magazines -- rubbish, I tell you. Rubbish!). I am not ashamed!

Advice Being a Form of Nostalgia

Silence ["Silence. Period. That's all the advice you're getting from me, betches!" says rest-of-poem.]

Now, I realize that if Viv and I were to take a road trip together, it would probably end up like this:

Still: the lure of the open road beckons. But I can’t decide which car we should drive! What do you think, Viv? What do you think, Dearest, Most Fashionable Readers?

Reference the Graphic of Fashion below before you vote in the poll, if need be.

Which Car Should Vivienne and Zelda Take on Their Road Trip?
( polls)

Well, I always had difficulty with that. I could never do it! To attempt to write like Emily Dickinson, William Carlos Williams, Anne Sexton -- just thinking about it nearly gave me anxiety attacks! And even now, my heart is beating faster!

[this being the portion of the poemlogue in which Dearest Zelda walks outside to take a cigarette break in order to quell her anxieties and also in order to procrastinate writing aforementioned poemlogue]

But lately, fashionably famous poems by fashionably famous poets have been floating around in my head. Perhaps it’s because of the incredible intensity of the NaPoWriMo. Perhaps it’s because I’m floundering just after the fifty yard line.

So. When you read the poem below, Dear Reader, and you think, “OMGWTF?! Is she, like, trying to write like James Wright or something? Whatev!” -- well, you will be wrong, Dear Reader! You will be wrong, wrong, WRONG! I was actually thinking of Pearl Jam’s “Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town.”

So there!

I know the solemnity of the honeysuckle permeating the early morning this time of year.

I sing the litany of green

[la la la, rest-of-poem is skipping through the hyacinths now.]

A Self-Help Guide to the Meaning of Goodbye

Has, itself, said goodbye.

Which takes me to the point of this confession: my favorite song from said musical is "Good Thing Going" (besides, of course, "Not a Day Goes By," but we're not going to talk about that one because I really will cry, okay? Because that's the one I sing on my kitchen floor after four wine coolers, okay? And there is NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT, OKAY?!) (Ahem). I decided to take Mr. Sondheim's advice and keep on going with my self-help series.

Only, of course, YouTube does not provide me with a clip of someone suitable singing said song, and so I supply you with a similarly titled song from -- yes, yes, wait for it -- THE TELEVISION SERIES FAME!!!!

A Self-Help Guide to Getting on Gracefully

Breaking up is hard to do.