Sarah (figliadifuoco) wrote in the_second_step,

A little poetry.

with her face she captures sideways shrapnel from that badmiton bomb
carelessly spinning over treetops and swimming pools to deafen what once was innocence
persuading the pervasive evidence that it's not all that convincing
she doesn't want to un-numb her hands to write down the damnation of ink
and then there's those days when nothing is pretty or sane
all that you want is to see ugliness so that you're right about the worst aspects
because you can walk all self-assured and angry then
break your back and break the spine of all the psychiatric casebooks
write with tempera paints on your own eyelids and become the mask that haunts the museum lights
and you can't affirm and you can't deny
the twisting of your own arm underneath the skylined smog
while you dance be-gloved and betrothed to an image of happiness that exists only in paintings
wear the pearls while you can and wait for them to turn out the ballroom lights
even society turns nasty when given the chance
the beleaguered bombshell (she caused war upon war in her prime)
is waiting heading a rancid fete bowing to all the invisible guests
a Dickensian parody of happiness
drink that gin and tonic, doctor's orders for forgetting
wash away the pain and sterilize with high-class peroxide
bleaching into neon androgyny that will fade into orange
slow and searching for the nameless fame that comes with a drunken tumble down the stairs
if you can't hit the notes just right, fake it and pose
maybe someday the magazine will fill with bullets and make you die in high-gloss infamy
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