08-16-2013, 03:30 AM
2nd
She thought she was the epitome of cosmopolitan...
She painted her nails red
while listening to the gay disco hits,
a Martini glass on a coaster made of cork.
When young she had become
the trophy wife of a shallow man.
Plucked and tweezed and oiled and waxed
to a cocoa-butter tanned perfection.
Gradually the taint appeared.
Poison was injected,
with a blank-faced, smooth-lined stare
her ritual maintenance intensified
but still she was discarded,
shrugged off like an outgrown skin.
She twittered, birdlike for a while,
it never really did sink in.
Sanity slowly slipped from her mind's grasp,
she had a tattoo, delighted in the small pleasure
of the pain. A copied version of an un-glossy picture
in a magazine filled to the brim with d-list personalities.
Like a religion she studied the form
of her erstwhile contemporaries,
inwardly seething at those who
she deemed to still 'have it all.'
She lurched, in an ever downward spiral
from successful man to moderate man to loser.
Her scars had faded years ago,
although the mascara build-up on her lashes
could have filled a bucket full of lost dreams.
She kept her fingernails red.
She still bought the magazines.
She twitched and floundered like
a several minutes out of water fish.
Slowly she realised and accepted
that she was only a has-been nonentity,
avoiding her reflected image,
she put on her paste jewellery
representative of her faked life.
She bought a bottle of vodka a day
and gave in.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
1st edit
She thought she was the epitome of cosmopolitan...
She painted her nails red
while listening to the gay disco hits,
a martini glass on a coaster made of cork.
Plucked and tweezed and oiled and waxed
to a cocoa-butter tanned perfection.
A man in her distant past had purchased her,
had stayed away while the bandages were present
then later tucked her arm through his to show
his ownership.
He wanted to inspire jealousy and awe,
but all he received were telling looks
and an underlying sympathy for her.
Inevitably she was discarded roughly and without mercy,
shrugged off like an outgrown skin.
She twittered, birdlike for a while,
it never really did sink in.
She continued with her ritual maintenance
so practised she was, at worshipping herself
with a blank-faced, smooth-lined stare.
Sanity slowly slipped from her mind's grasp,
she had a tattoo, delighted in the small pleasure
of the pain. A copied version of a un-glossy picture
in a magazine filled to the brim with d-list personalities.
She longed for a d-list life.
Like a religion she studied the form of her contemporaries
inwardly seething at those who she deemed to 'have it all.'
She lurched, in an ever downward spiral
from successful man to moderate man to loser.
Her scars had faded years ago,
although the mascara build-up on her lashes
could have filled a bucket full of lost dreams.
She kept her fingernails red.
She still bought the magazines.
She twitched and floundered like
a several minutes out of water fish.
Then, one day, she realised and accepted
what it was that she was meant to be,
she put on her fake jewellery,
knowing that it was representative of her fake life.
She bought a bottle of vodka a day and gave in.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Original
She thought she was the epitome of cosmopolitan...
She painted her nails red
while listening to the gay disco hits,
a martini glass on a coaster made of cork.
Plucked and tweezed and oiled and waxed
to a cocoa-butter tanned perfection.
A distant in the past man had purchased her,
had stayed away while the bandages were present
then later tucked her arm through his to show
that he owned this beautiful creature.
He wanted to inspire jealousy and awe,
but all he received were telling looks
and an underlying sympathy for her.
So, she was discarded roughly and without mercy,
shrugged off like an outgrown skin.
She twittered, birdlike for a while,
it never really did sink in.
She continued with her ritual maintenance
so practised she was, at worshipping herself
with a blank-faced, smooth-lined stare.
Sanity slowly slipped from her minds grasp,
she had a tattoo, delighted in the small pleasure
of the pain. A copied version of a un-glossy picture
in a magazine filled to the brim with d-list personalities.
She longed for a d-list life.
Like a religion she studied the form of her contemporaries
inwardly seething at those who she deemed to 'have it all.'
Her scars had faded years ago,
although the mascara build-up on her lashes
could have filled a bucket full of lost dreams.
She lurched, in an ever downward spiral
from successful man to moderate man to loser.
She kept her fingernails red.
She still bought the magazines.
She twitched and floundered like
a several minutes out of water fish.
Then, one day, she realised and accepted
what it was that she was meant to be,
she put on her fake jewellery,
knowing of the fact that it was representative of her fake life.
She bought a bottle of vodka a day and gave in.
She thought she was the epitome of cosmopolitan...
She painted her nails red
while listening to the gay disco hits,
a Martini glass on a coaster made of cork.
When young she had become
the trophy wife of a shallow man.
Plucked and tweezed and oiled and waxed
to a cocoa-butter tanned perfection.
Gradually the taint appeared.
Poison was injected,
with a blank-faced, smooth-lined stare
her ritual maintenance intensified
but still she was discarded,
shrugged off like an outgrown skin.
She twittered, birdlike for a while,
it never really did sink in.
Sanity slowly slipped from her mind's grasp,
she had a tattoo, delighted in the small pleasure
of the pain. A copied version of an un-glossy picture
in a magazine filled to the brim with d-list personalities.
Like a religion she studied the form
of her erstwhile contemporaries,
inwardly seething at those who
she deemed to still 'have it all.'
She lurched, in an ever downward spiral
from successful man to moderate man to loser.
Her scars had faded years ago,
although the mascara build-up on her lashes
could have filled a bucket full of lost dreams.
She kept her fingernails red.
She still bought the magazines.
She twitched and floundered like
a several minutes out of water fish.
Slowly she realised and accepted
that she was only a has-been nonentity,
avoiding her reflected image,
she put on her paste jewellery
representative of her faked life.
She bought a bottle of vodka a day
and gave in.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
1st edit
She thought she was the epitome of cosmopolitan...
She painted her nails red
while listening to the gay disco hits,
a martini glass on a coaster made of cork.
Plucked and tweezed and oiled and waxed
to a cocoa-butter tanned perfection.
A man in her distant past had purchased her,
had stayed away while the bandages were present
then later tucked her arm through his to show
his ownership.
He wanted to inspire jealousy and awe,
but all he received were telling looks
and an underlying sympathy for her.
Inevitably she was discarded roughly and without mercy,
shrugged off like an outgrown skin.
She twittered, birdlike for a while,
it never really did sink in.
She continued with her ritual maintenance
so practised she was, at worshipping herself
with a blank-faced, smooth-lined stare.
Sanity slowly slipped from her mind's grasp,
she had a tattoo, delighted in the small pleasure
of the pain. A copied version of a un-glossy picture
in a magazine filled to the brim with d-list personalities.
She longed for a d-list life.
Like a religion she studied the form of her contemporaries
inwardly seething at those who she deemed to 'have it all.'
She lurched, in an ever downward spiral
from successful man to moderate man to loser.
Her scars had faded years ago,
although the mascara build-up on her lashes
could have filled a bucket full of lost dreams.
She kept her fingernails red.
She still bought the magazines.
She twitched and floundered like
a several minutes out of water fish.
Then, one day, she realised and accepted
what it was that she was meant to be,
she put on her fake jewellery,
knowing that it was representative of her fake life.
She bought a bottle of vodka a day and gave in.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Original
She thought she was the epitome of cosmopolitan...
She painted her nails red
while listening to the gay disco hits,
a martini glass on a coaster made of cork.
Plucked and tweezed and oiled and waxed
to a cocoa-butter tanned perfection.
A distant in the past man had purchased her,
had stayed away while the bandages were present
then later tucked her arm through his to show
that he owned this beautiful creature.
He wanted to inspire jealousy and awe,
but all he received were telling looks
and an underlying sympathy for her.
So, she was discarded roughly and without mercy,
shrugged off like an outgrown skin.
She twittered, birdlike for a while,
it never really did sink in.
She continued with her ritual maintenance
so practised she was, at worshipping herself
with a blank-faced, smooth-lined stare.
Sanity slowly slipped from her minds grasp,
she had a tattoo, delighted in the small pleasure
of the pain. A copied version of a un-glossy picture
in a magazine filled to the brim with d-list personalities.
She longed for a d-list life.
Like a religion she studied the form of her contemporaries
inwardly seething at those who she deemed to 'have it all.'
Her scars had faded years ago,
although the mascara build-up on her lashes
could have filled a bucket full of lost dreams.
She lurched, in an ever downward spiral
from successful man to moderate man to loser.
She kept her fingernails red.
She still bought the magazines.
She twitched and floundered like
a several minutes out of water fish.
Then, one day, she realised and accepted
what it was that she was meant to be,
she put on her fake jewellery,
knowing of the fact that it was representative of her fake life.
She bought a bottle of vodka a day and gave in.