Acne Nightmare
Pizza face pizza face,
whatcha gonna do?
With a face like that,
just who could love you.
Pizza face pizza face,
where ya gonna run?
With a face like that,
you are just no fun.
Pizza face pizza face,
whatcha gonna say?
When the girls all run,
screaming all the way.
Pizza face pizza face,
whatcha gonna be?
With a face like that,
you cannot kiss me.
By
Josehf Lloyd Murchison
On Pimple Pond
Pocked, our dreams spurt from cabin walls.
Woolen cover and cotton pillow catch
pin point boils from day breaking, like pitted glass.
White pebbled path meanders the hill’s cheek,
wet from being squeezed by nights cold hard hands,
to where set-tables will not wait our scrubs,
pastes and pleas for clarity like hot egg whites.
Yawns pop-jaws hinged under waxy ears.
We pass the lake and spit the dregs of sleep
onto her smooth glassine mask.
At the mess ladybugs rest, on pickle-surfaced leaves,
decline to fly. We arrive for breakfast.
One hundred-twenty faces come to bond
And maybe find a friend on pimple pond.
It's blisteringly dry.
Martian, winedark, overweight -
No lawns on this mesa of millet-baked pie,
To make this crater straight.
No spades here, no scraping rake.
Just sharp sticks, blood-bricked mortar.
Berbers camp here for old time's sake,
But can't stay; as there's no water.
In this sahara's nape,
There sinks this winderly dome.
Winedark, martian, squat-blooded black grape,
The Nomads' ruined home.
Its winedark walls're muralled,
Of a grand god grazed by honest plague.
His gentle green ways enmarbled,
Wonderfully weathered, and vague.
He sent no fire or floods,
So those drifters still kiss his hand.
He let grave waves pave their jungly woods,
In a lawnless scheme most grand.
Ancient bone-sands, sifting.
Campfire rise, boots trace.
Dead trees' shoots forever lifting
That Martian, winedark place.
The green god grins, in a mirror's embrace.
The dome, squat-blooded, has an ozyman grace;
If lawned, he'd have deserted it, its peoples displaced;
And there'd be less life living upon his face.
The young man's acne was severe
Looked in the mirror, and shed a tear
He put salt on his face
Then tired to erase
His acne grew, making him look *****
Gone are the days of tears
Gone are the days of sorrow
Gone are the days of weakness
Gone are the days of pretence
Those were the days
Cherishing those who loved me abundantly
Appreciating those who embraced my uniqueness
Suprising those who thought I will never make it
Gathering those who love me unconditionally
These are the days
Gone are the days of confusion
Gone are the days of neglect
Gone are the days of discrimination
Gone are the days of habits
This is the day
The acne vulgaris
Was rampant in Paris
From forehead to shin
It erupted all over the skin.
The blooming bachelor,
Living on wine and gin,
Frequented the whore,
And forgot his sin.
Three weeks later,
Developed an atypical ‘canker’
His family doctor
Diagnosed this as a genital chancre.
The Paris-acne is not ‘young man’s pinple’
Its cause is subtle and not so simple!
It’s a blunder of raging hormone,
The signature of a sin, long forgotten!!
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