mild celebrity

[billy]

hi debs, sorry for getting to this one late.

you have lots of good stuff in thee poem, it's like essex girl meet betty grable. it shows how people often try and remodel (sometimes literally) themselves for fame etc which also makes the piece quiet sad. one of the main problems i saw was the narration felt a bit weak, mainly because of the lack of images. if you can sort some decent images into the poem in an edit it will go a long way to elevating the poem.

thanks for the read.

1st edit

She thought she was the epitome of cosmopolitan...

She painted her nails red red makes it cliche lime green makes it less of a cliche or some other unusual colour
while listening to the gay disco hits, this and the other 2 lines set the scene well
a martini glass on a coaster made of cork. [Martini]

Plucked and tweezed and oiled and waxed i normally hate so many [and's] but they work here at showing how much work the process took.
to a cocoa-butter tanned perfection.

A man in her distant past had purchased her, so now he uses her plastic
had stayed away while the bandages were present what a bastard he was,
then later tucked her arm through his to show a suggestion would be to move [to show] down a line so it reads as [to show ownership]
his ownership.
He wanted to inspire jealousy and awe,
but all he received were telling looks
and an underlying sympathy for her. these last three lines feel like they need an image or two instead of the telling

Inevitably she was discarded roughly and without mercy, is there any other way to get discarded? a suggestion would be [she was discarded like a candy wrapper] or [sweet wrapper] if you're from the uk.
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.


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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.