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To E.E.

Author: 
Paul Peter Piech

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Artwork by Paul Peter Piech, 1993. Words by Christopher Hill. © the Estate of Paul Peter Piech

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I smooth down my skirt, toss my hair. My buckles rattle with each step

Like little bayonets. They’re called knife pleats for a reason.

 

The blue wool of a Jaeger dress is better than twenty dinners with an idiot.

Bring me the head of Cristóbal Balenciaga! It’s a hoot

 

To sneak cigarettes in some Boston dive, pretend I’m a divorcée.

The curl in a bouffant will always betray you. What’s the point

 

Of living like a cartoon nun when you can pose for the camera

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I lay my fingers on the plate like a fan. I’ve been waiting all my life

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A string of pearls round my neck like an artificial promise:

The harsh taste of gin like an unrequited laugh.

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after Gwendolyn Brooks and Theresa Hak Kyung Cha

 

we make ourselves dizzy on fumes & fruit cocktails        think of plants

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between some image a blur

 

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our hair as big as a neon sign

 

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I would like to be the last person on Earth

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Vivienne Westwood, a cento

 

The garment should say: ‘I am this’

A story of itself

It’s just so creative to put a sentence together

Greet me by ‘how lovely you are’ rather than ‘I like your hat’

I haven’t thought properly about dying

But if I were to write anything on my tombstone

It would be ‘The only revolution is culture’

Every time I speak to someone, I assume they understand

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I know exactly what I would like my legacy to be

Form is always becoming something else

I design for a world that doesn’t exist, you know, one like this but better

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