Best Airbrush Poems
Angel Deaths
A dark dawn
Still more illegals cross the border
~ They've 'done nothing wrong'
Peace and Love
Olive Branch, in mouth of Dove
In corpore sano, mens sana*
~ 'Recreational' Marijuana?
Build Back Strong!
Build Back Mighty!
Billions plucked for
~ Day Care 'Infrastructure'
O, such beating of chests
Such thumping of fists
Anxious, we await
~ Euphemism's next twist
____________________________
*Latin expression: 'In a healthy
body, a healthy mind.'
~ Euphemism's next twist
‘I’m ready for my close up’
Said Grouper Dorcas Rose
‘Just let me sign these autographs
And then I’ll strike a pose’
‘I’d hate to disappoint my fans,’
Said Trouper Dorcas Rose.
‘For Fans with Fins are fickle,
And they irritate ones nose.’
‘We Groupers are gregarious
Of that there is no doubt,
but shoals of fans just aggregate
can you Airbrush them out?’
‘Ones stuck you see in this melee,’
Said Super Dorcas Rose.
‘So you just film and I’ll just swim,
We’ll play it as it flows.
I hear their idle chatter and wish that sound was optional.
A box checked in a menu, a simple click and forget.
The rapid dilation of my pupils brings me back.
Back to hypnotic aisles of temptation and necessity. A selection of the finest they say.
Right there see, on the cardboard, next to charts and columns of calories and strange
numbers I’d sooner forget.
But buy one get one free still gets me every time.
I stare intently at the dancing numbers until the man with the tie moves away.
Glossy pages shine brighter than the fruit racks they mirror,
Competing for importance in my wallet and my life
The magpie wins and the bananas will wait.
Half the magazines hawk five a day in rounded sans serif, bold against the background of a
chef’s haircut.
Maxims of bizarre cosmopolitan playboys and hustlers marked up at 3.99. Landscapes of
polished flesh glow beneath the loving airbrush of the paycheck. Competing for nuts at the
zoo.
A vanity fair for the hollow, shining in the fading light of a red top sunset.
Paraphrased blogs and condensed morsels of crude celebrity nudes for the I-Generation and
the remnants of New Labour and Thatcher’s Britain.
Anglers, caravans and 50 cent, half the demographic, half the price. Count me out.
I finger a few and find no real desire. The Internet offers this bilge up for free.
They’d all be nude and crapping on each other.
The great silicon toilet of humanity
Past freezers of long dead prisoners, pulped to perfection. Pigs in tubes and flat cow
concoctions.
Pancakes of vomit and fish dishes I won’t ever try. No time for it.
Frankenstein's monster behind glass slides.
Packets of sugar in various disguises. Cereal and chocolate, soft drinks and sauce dips.
Lattes and ladles, loofahs and loaves. The prattle returns through the shelving
I turn around the curries and there is the tie. Talking sport and hard drinking, women and
the weather. Looks me in the eye.
I turn before any interaction and feign interest in something, a scouring pad. Intricately
woven metal coils waste major concentration and he’s gone. Box checked, minimize and move on.
Everything shines in this weird three-quarter light, hypnotic. Confusing. Conscious of the
bottles ahead that I can’t ever touch. Seedy and appealing, puerile and appalling.
Something for everyone.
And nothing for me.
Remember all those tea ads with the chimps on?
We’ll prostitute the Prague of Gustav Mahler
and desecrate the divas of La Scala.
Would Bart betray begettor Homer Simpson
(he’s not so much a whoreson as a pimp-son)
to get himself a Chevrolet Impala?
You bet he would. This is the Grab-It Gala.
The cripple pawns the plaster that he limps on.
In Pasadena, Pimlico and Perth,
the only thing we´ll go without is girth.
Where JP Morgan’s played by Colin Firth,
we airbrush self-awareness, muffle mirth,
and drown in plenty, blink at moral dearth.
We're always prizing price-tag, never worth.
‘I’m ready for my close up’
Said Grouper Dorcas Rose
‘Just let me sign these autographs
And then I’ll strike a pose’
‘I’d hate to disappoint my fans,’
Said Trouper Dorcas Rose.
‘For Fans with Fins are fickle,
And they irritate ones nose.’
‘We Groupers are gregarious
Of that there is no doubt,
but shoals of fans just aggregate
can you Airbrush them out?’
‘Ones stuck you see in this melee,’
Said Super Dorcas Rose.
‘So you just film and I’ll just swim,
We’ll play it as it flows.
big Yawn Productions presents
the daytime drama Living Therapeutically
as others live randomly or habitually
you'll need a supply of 3-D glasses
and I know just the guy
a trailer park Samuel Becket
cheeks rosy like Mr. Stalin
sitting atop the dustbin of history
a loafer researching activity
with plenty of typos under his airbrush
did we mention the amnesia
mind like a document shredder
but as the italicized print will indicate
Big Yawn will take you back to a time when
we used fact to be stupid with
we were trained and armed to the arm pits
for the great battle between
the grunting instincts of ownership
and the suicidal embrace of empaths
cadavers of man and animal everywhere
though the limbless victims of the empaths
were more carefully arranged in rows
we had to take sides to survive
galley slaves of the world unite
oh yeah you're already united
chained to your oars and all
well then don't let the trolley
to the asylum leave without you
the inmates are management again
I banged my cage door for an eternity
Tex Lester the cowboy yodeler
came to my rescue somewhat
Tex once played 8 ball with the Devil
had to let the Devil win of course
swear to God for what it's worth
municipal records will prove my case
they have been weaving the world together
for over a thousand murky generations
starting from the premise
that life is an unbridled miracle
yes logic is anti-coercive
or is it vice versa where are my bifocals
one tends to go in the direction he's looking
intention being a common denominator
of some influence
Samuel's DOA toe tag read
tried to die with a smile on his lips
left only a cartoon grimace
had it most of his life
so it was hard to tell
if he was actually dead
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
...Sitting in this cell
Laughing at this guard that fell
Nothing else to do but play with the dirt under my nail
Days move slow as snails
Sit ups all day
Push ups every way
1000 lunges
1000 crunches
So much time to think
So much time to blink
Been reading and writing so much there's words on my sink
Man prison air stink
C.O. is a menace
His name is Dennis
Coincidence
In here a different world
A deepr crater
Tensions so dense
Drugs still smuggled in here, it doesn't make sense
Even though it makes cents
Food is so crappy
Lack of sleep so I'm crabby
The barber got stabbed so my hair is nappy
I'll sure be happy
When I win my case
If this is what life serves you, it's an awful taste
I try to keep my distance from hispanics
When they speak latin I start to panic
But they do great tattoos
And airbrush shoes
I'm not due to lack of visits
So my family can take those letters and stick it
Where the sun doesn't shine
Because there are no rays in here
No emotional breakdowns
No sign of fear
I never shed a tear
Even as the guards carry me from my room grinning ear to ear
I notice how we're goin opposite direction of the courtroom
The sign says "electrical chair"
I'm facing my doom
I sit down get strapped up
Constipated now
Stomach crapped up
Last thing I saw was the mayor with her vovacious curves
She pulled the handle and I felt a powerful surge.....
I airbrush the phone off your
selective listening machine,
and transform that outfit, I never
saw, into a concrete memory.
I tint your lips redder, so they
make you blush, and blend your
knots into manes of locks which
you want, to be stroked by me.
I crop space so you’re closer,
and hyperbolize shadows of
your limbs, so the sunlight, which
I make, paints you skin colour.
I increase my exposure, so you
can see me if you open your eyes,
and I blur my illuminated image,
so you’ve already seen me.
I contrast your skin tone, so you
are all alone, and I leave my
second person, in a self-mirrored
memory, so I can start my life again.
Sunset separates
Midnight blue ink permeates
Fireflies celebrate
By Robb A. Kopp
-sculpted in false image-
Hey, look at me
now I see
I’m more like you,
and less like me
chiseled and shaped
the mold half broke
chipping away at
pieces of my soul
Till I don’t know
Who I am anymore
Figures in a magazine
Prophetic in hope
Used as examples,
As real women choke
Why won’t you just
let me be me?
And see the design
God intended me to be
I am beautifully flawed
Without airbrush aesthetics
Mixed bag of crazy
And genuine intentions -JAZ-
The Conference at Mantua
Ah, what a scene of tranquil learnedness!
The scholars nurse their tomes like babes in arms:
white locks: heads cocked to savor the address
of Pius, in his charming Latin: balm
floats in through high-arched, airy colonnades.
The lake is laced with skittish little skiffs:
those rolling lawns of Mantua could be made
to sport a kick-ass golf course. Oh, those cliffs!
But life just ain't that peachy. Belching blame,
the Cardinals did squat, but bleat and *****.
No representatives invited, came.
And Mantua was a cramped, unhealthy pitch.
Scarampo wasn't much inclined to linger.
With imprecations colouring the air,
he gave the Pope the metaphoric finger,
and rode away, at haste -- to God knows where.
The Lake was nothing but a sluggish stream.
It bred mosquitoes in malevolent clouds.
The croaking frogs made sleep a pious dream.
The locals were more oafish than in Stroud.
Bessarion stayed true, and Torquemada.
A basis, then, for troops to rally on:
but Europe's bookends? "Altar y espada"
is not much use among Italians!
At last, some envoys came -- but far from helping,
they asked for help! From Burgundy came Cleves,
but not disposed for listening, more for yelping
about the local petulance and peeves.
And when they paint the frescoes of your life,
they'll airbrush out the unappealing grunge.
They'll strip away the struggle and the strife.
And you'll bequeathe what's pretty (dung expunged).
A photo on a dating site
How gorgeous that girl looked
By text we flirted all that night
And I was truly hooked
She looked like a celebrity
Like Marilyn Monroe
With sexy eyes and pouting lips
And slim from head to toe
We texted till we felt at ease
And then we made the choice
We swapped our numbers eagerly
To chat some more by voice
She said some sexy things to me
(And some that made me blush)
I praised her lovely curly hair
She praised her own hairbrush
But I’m a proper cockney
And it turns out so was she
One thing she did the same as me
Was say ‘H’ silently
So when we met I got a shock
It seemed I’d got it wrong
Her ‘H’ had not been silent
For an ‘H’ did not belong
She hadn’t used her hairbrush
And her airbrush was long gone
Because the girl in front of me
Looked just like Elton John
______________
[‘Goodbye Norma Jean’ from ‘Candle In The Wind’
by the aforementioned Mr John]
Lord I paint
You with
This airbrush
In my mind
One-step
At-a-time
" Artist Nature paints on sky with airbrush using Sun rays ." - Poet
PAINTED
Setting sunrays to colour in delight.
Sky canvas to get painted as twilight,
using air brush , sketching deep , dark or light :
Spectacular view mostly random !
Sun rays got reflected and refracted,
on drastic dispersion were diffracted,
human vision got allured, attracted,
overwhelmed watching splendid album.
Sun rays twined with raindrops form coloured bow.
Seven arches shown and shone on rainbow.
painted by Nature to glisten and glow:
exhibited being pasted on sky.
Spectrum of Sun ! Violet- Indigo
serially came Blue, Green and Yellow.
then Orange , Red at end: Gorgeous show.
Artist Nature painted without a die.
03\ 28\ 23
Writing Challenge - " P " words
First Place
Contest by Constance La France
Looking herself in the mirror.
She is not thin, air brushed, or photoshopped
Magazines show real beauty
She cries at what she will never be.
She sees a frumpy, average girl.
She is young, vibrant, sweet-
but not beautiful.
Her homely reflection gawks at her in her tainted, ugly mirror.
It laughs at her naked body, pointing at her flaws and spitting at her
The magazine airbrush images are real to her, and she idolizes impossible images
Unattainable-
Unrealistic.
In her dreams she is airbrushed to
perfection, no one understands.
The boy she likes stares at her like she is a circus freak on stilts, wearing a mustache and a tutu.
Sleeping pills will take this pain
and imperfection away, just for today.
Just for forever.
In her coffin she lies at peace, as the people say their respects.
The boy she adored walks up, looks at her. “Sad isn’t it?”someone says.
The lump in his throat strangles his voice...
All he can do is look at her,
Lifeless,...and think
‘She was so beautiful.’
She never knew...