her make up could have been much finer
the powder accented her purple eyeliner
she paraded past a farmer and a miner
is that make up or does she have a shiner?
Yes at thirteen, if you’re not a forty-niner
You don’t need your under eyes to have black eyeliner
But we do not say anything, because thirteen is a whiner
At supper we all keep our mouths shut at the clown-like diner
My knuckles are raw from the cold subway pole,
and the guy next to me smells like damp wool and cheap coffee.
He’s staring at a cracked phone screen,
his thumb scrolling past headlines, dinners, divorces.
We don’t talk.
Nobody talks here.
But under his heavy black winter coat,
somewhere behind his lint-covered tie,
a small fist of muscle is slamming against his ribs.
Thump.
It’s a clumsy, desperate noise,
like an old radiator knocking in a basement.
It keeps time against the black tunnel outside the window,
a persistent thudding negotiation with the dark
that just asks for enough time to get to Tuesday.
We walk around pretending we own the sidewalk,
worrying about the rent, the teeth that need fixing,
the text message left on "read."
Every wet breath is a lease renewal
signed in the dark without our permission.
I look at the girl across from me,
her eyeliner smudged from a long shift.
Her chest rises.
The cold world looks the other way,
indifferent,
and lets her have another minute to figure it out.
It’s not a grand design.
It's just a truce.
A messy, fragile truce,
kept alive by a pound of red meat
stubbornly refusing to stop hitting the wall.
i do not notice the peeling white polish on my nails. the blinding mirror has betrayed me once more and now my body wants in. i now bite my nails but i do not notice its bitter tang—my eyes are paralyzed to the screen as it dissects me; it is the first to forsake me. the mirror is false. in the scrutinizing eye of the camera each imperfection seizes the spotlight; beneath all layers of falsity—the smudged eyeliner, the thick lashes, the sharp-smelling nail polish—lies a pathetic 16-year-old girl who can only pray for a way to fix her face, her body, her smile, her laugh— she can only lay motionless as she gouges out her stomach with the hope that by morning, appetites will become nothing more than a myth. the mirror cannot help but lie when the little girl engrossed in fantasies of magic, greek gods, and the idea that she could become anything now cannot see further than the hand-held mirror inches from her face and the honed blade of the tweezer tips gripped between her mangled fingernails that lay like salivating wolves ready to pounce on the next blemish— the mirror cannot help but lie.
Egyptian eyes awaked, my cat's cries
dark lover's shadows slumber
distant thunder sound rumbles
moonbeams flashlight the sky.
As I reconcile this love, this death
Silent man no longer sleeping at my breast.
I like wearing makeup in the way that I do it
I like my big eyeliner, my colourful eyelids
My cheeks covered in a heavy layer of blush
A small little highlighter heart on the tip of my nose
And a shiny spot right on my angel kiss
A eyeliner drawing of a heart or a bee
Sometimes a star on the freckle by my eye
Colours of eyeshadow that match my fun earrings
Maybe my outfit, and maybe my shoes
I hate wearing makeup in the way of my peers
Skinny sharp eyeliner, tan or beige eyelids
Face covered in a layer of foundation, concealer, and bronzer
Highlight on only ever cheekbones
And of course the bridge of the nose
No cute little heart right by their eye
No colours to match with, they just wear gold earrings
Not to say that their makeup isn’t gorgeous
It suits them quite well although to me it's boring
They are happy with their makeup and that's all that really matters
But I wonder what they would do without societal pressures
Hello friends, makeup is a skillful art, Do you agree or not, it is real, You know born babies need no cosmetics, He or she is naturally beauty, Teenage girls attract towards the makeup, They spend more time before the wall mirror, lady of forties sits before a mirror more, for doing fine makeup their wrinkled faces, They use their skill to create their skin bright, The rose powder diminishes their wrinkles, Their eyes shown luminous by eyeliner, Lipstick changes their chapped lips certainly, By makeup fading rose like ladies faces, have become an enchanting rose lovely.
Gothic She Is
Pale white skin.
The night begins.
Always with dark eyeliner.
With black haunted clothes.
With many tattoos.
A black rose.
With painted thorns.
Gothic is born.
Thorns grow on a vine.
You're alive at night.
In the broken mirror, is a beautiful face.
You stand out in the crowd.
Follow your own rules.
Attractive in gothic.
Always dressed in black.
You answer to no one.
Gothic is she.
Always a mystery.
The untouchable.
Lurking in the night alone.
You don’t need anyone.
Out in the night having fun.
The darkest light on the run.
Gothic is she.
Creepy indeed.
She said I can't trust you.
You are to cleaver for me.
so why do I stay?
it sounds foreign
to be close to you my dear.
My morning star right there.
Can you help?
Can you heal?
instead, you are poison for me.
Now you have my soul, but you can't own me.
so please move, step back, don't move.
don't f$%ken touch me.
I'm mangled up inside.
I'm so gothic by design.
Black eyeliner on my eyes.
and now I must oblige.
Can you see the dead?
Then what's dead inside of me?
Help and heal
Instead, your poison for me.
So, move, step back.
Don't move don't f#$ken touch me
I'm mangled up inside.
I'm so gothic by design.
With black eyeliner on my eyes
now I must oblige.
I consider my hair my crowning glory
it is very very long blondish and straight
and I pamper it every single day
so, it is soft like baby hair
I have smooth and silky shampoo and conditioner
different types of scented detanglers
leave in conditioners for an extra silky feel
brushes and combs that will not break my hair
I wear very little makeup
just pink lipstick, blush, eyeliner and mascara
'cause I like a sort of natural look
I love how my hair blows in the breeze
and how it swings in dance class when I twirl
people tell me how pretty it is
even strangers will stop ask what I do
to make it so nice (I give it love)
some even say is it real
and I say just tug on it and you decide
since a little girl I have had long hair
I have pleasant memories of mom brushing it
sometimes, even braiding it
but nowadays, I just let it be long and straight
that's what I like . . .
Corked off glue, oral mucosa clamped, oyster bald razor, thumb running along twine binding the package, a conductor testing violin tension. Hairy balls of fire, a jackdaws caw, drawing her in with dirty sticky wet joy. Creaks on bed springs, open windows, neighbors staring, a drumbeat counting down to rupture. The squeezebox gripped tight, seething under bare back muds. Breath, a bird in a cage, jabbing at the bars of her ribs. Burnt-out fluorescent light, firefly flash caught behind bone. Hands unwrap with surgeon’s grace, flesh revealed: pink, marbled, mutinous. The cuts: rare, exotic jewels radiating a savory sheen. A finger tests the muscle, a pianist poised over ruin. And then: a grunt, “the trick,” a gesture, sleight masking ripened fruit. And my snake, swollen, pounding, thick and huge, slithers through her smooth underbrush. The Calvary arrives, a swarm of bees in spurred leather. Engines rev, Bouffants tumble, spiderweb eyeliner, one blink from collapse. Ten-gallon hats deflate, soft as old balloons left out in the sun.
Starlings chime down an alleyway.
Corked off glue, oral mucosa clamped, oyster bald razor, thumb running along twine binding the package, a conductor testing violin tension. Hairy balls of fire, a jackdaws caw, drawing her in with dirty sticky wet joy. Creaks on bed springs, open windows, neighbors staring, a drumbeat counting down to rupture. The squeezebox gripped tight, seething under bare back muds. Breath, a bird in a cage, jabbing at the bars of her ribs. Burnt-out fluorescent light, firefly flash caught behind bone. Hands unwrap with surgeon’s grace, flesh revealed: pink, marbled, mutinous. The cuts: rare, exotic jewels radiating a savory sheen. A finger tests the muscle, a pianist poised over ruin. And then: a grunt, “the trick,” a gesture, sleight masking ripened fruit. And my snake, swollen, pounding, thick and huge, slithers through her smooth underbrush. The Calvary arrives, a swarm of bees in spurred leather. Engines rev, Bouffants tumble, spiderweb eyeliner, one blink from collapse. Ten-gallon hats deflate, soft as old balloons left out in the sun.
Starlings chime down an alleyway.
White Supercilium, black face mask,
White collar,
Dark buff head with Black central stripe,
Dark gray stout bill,
Gray eye-ring with white awake – eyeliner,
Buff crowned,
Glossy blue, dark green, Turquoise-Blue,
Shocking white wing-coverts,
Thin black trace, garish scarlet Underbelly,
Black blue-tipped tail,
Toned, endless, enviable strong pins
pink
Divine ensemble apt for
Wallpapers, earrings, motifs, art, stamps and study
They sit shy, inconspicuous, in
Leftover dense forest
Mad for being naive in
Sartorial world, they keep
Picking up worms under leaf-litter
On forest floor, autumn always
Secretive Monomorphics
Complain to Sun
Once at dawn, once at dusk,
risks
To migrate preferably at night
Opulent pair dances to mate
Nests to breed, care their chicks,
Teach their fledglings to hide and play
Along predators’ plenty,
Teach their fledglings along
Stressful achromatic life,
to fly away
She wakes, bare as morning light,
A face unframed, soft in sight.
Mascara lifts, lashes rise,
Eyeliner sharpens her guarded eyes.
Blusher blooms, cheeks come alive,
Contours shape what can’t survive.
Lip gloss glistens, a coy disguise
Her beauty speaks, but never lies.
By night, the mask dissolves away,
Each streak of cleanser blurs the day.
The mirror holds her rawest view
Which face is hers? Which one is true?
Ambiguous Domestic Abuse.
The hall mirror, has gone.
It was my cage door!
My daily changing reflection
side glanced swift as
an un-robed ghost i begin again,
last step stairs sitting,
stareing unblinked, eyeliner floods
cloud my slited vision, blurred
and faint pulsed, but no pain.
Stagnant the visionless mourning morning
it does not move, and
if you are awake, neither do I,
Beyond the gapeing splintered
front door, lies a tiny piece of
what could be, for me.
Betrayed in public, by two running colours
Daughter of darkness;
I don’t fit the description;
No black eyeliner
with a matching dress or boots;
But my thoughts? Creepy as hell.
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