Ephemeral Piece of Shit Beauty
Downturned mouths on thin faces
with flat cheekbones that still press the skin taunt
like sheets of cliff-face walls wrapped in cotton,
and from the side, too,
they're visible but just as processes of angles and planes
as if put together by someone who didn't understand
the beauty of what they were creating.
The chin, the end of all faces,
is smaller than what the logic of proportions would predict
and from this angle is
the perfect mirror complement to your nose.
Eyelashes, too.
Long dark spines that shush the eyes down and away,
casting gazes out of sight
like ornate shutters on quartzite walls
with secrets hush hush hushed.
And is it so wrong to imagine it broken?
See it cracked and purple puffy and hurt,
wet from shame like the deepest heartbreak
or the most cunning betrayal. The tip
of a lobe peering from beneath a mop of brown, arrogant hair
incites the sniper, the hunter, the taker of things not offered or given.
A stealer, a voyer, a spider.
This dark crown coiffs a pretty face
like melted fudge repels flies from a putrid custard.
Go ahead with your slanted mouth
and your deflated cheeks
and those black ever black wool lashes lying just so,
the contrast of which is by far the most sensuous thing about you.
Continiue. I'm finished anyway,
nothing about you is poetic and
I can find the exotic fragility of your features
in a thousand ephemeral piece of shit beauties.
with flat cheekbones that still press the skin taunt
like sheets of cliff-face walls wrapped in cotton,
and from the side, too,
they're visible but just as processes of angles and planes
as if put together by someone who didn't understand
the beauty of what they were creating.
The chin, the end of all faces,
is smaller than what the logic of proportions would predict
and from this angle is
the perfect mirror complement to your nose.
Eyelashes, too.
Long dark spines that shush the eyes down and away,
casting gazes out of sight
like ornate shutters on quartzite walls
with secrets hush hush hushed.
And is it so wrong to imagine it broken?
See it cracked and purple puffy and hurt,
wet from shame like the deepest heartbreak
or the most cunning betrayal. The tip
of a lobe peering from beneath a mop of brown, arrogant hair
incites the sniper, the hunter, the taker of things not offered or given.
A stealer, a voyer, a spider.
This dark crown coiffs a pretty face
like melted fudge repels flies from a putrid custard.
Go ahead with your slanted mouth
and your deflated cheeks
and those black ever black wool lashes lying just so,
the contrast of which is by far the most sensuous thing about you.
Continiue. I'm finished anyway,
nothing about you is poetic and
I can find the exotic fragility of your features
in a thousand ephemeral piece of shit beauties.