Beauty is cheep;
a stale notion that
paralyzes all logic.
In her perfection she has been
memorialized, held up, and adorn.
She is sleaze and loans herself
to men with short oars.
She has been plagiarized and abandon
on hell's road of no hope.
She is the filler and fluff of convention.
The bubblegum of pop.
The perfect illusion.
One day soon I will dirty her up.
She will be grimy and snot-nosed.
She will limp when she walks and
just when you think you see a glimpse
of the old "pretty" she used to be
she will have shat on you.
She will have stretched
and sagged and given birth
to new and better ideals.
Far better walks of life.
Moral people with no eye for such abominations.
Yes, this death of beauty to the
mingling and honesty of "our world"
takes hold of me.
I find it hard to write
with shaking fingers of real feeling.
No beauty affected me so deeply.
What do you think?
Comments
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My, my, quite a little tantrum we threw here. You are so spiking in the words you chose to demonstrate the onslaught of old age against the beauty machine. I didn't miss it and wouldn't. Some of the ideals here suggest that beauty is traded for the normal course of life. That is not true as you and I know but it is true for those shallow flesh mongers and we are not of them are we? RC
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Indeed there are truths woven within your poem. Interesting and some brutal metaphors, also. Anything which affects us is something beautiful, else we stagnate and become numb to the world around us.
until immolation,
Grimoire
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