"airbrushed" poems
i.
Mine artistry inamorata
Airburshed on tapestry upon;
Fernando Amorsolo canvas.
ii.
Thou art mine Atlantis
The air I sucketh in;
Mine piece of God, timeless.
iii.
What id do without thee?
I couldst not liveth;
I'll giveth thee mine last drop, of blood mine dear.
iv.
Cometh near
Shadow's dance with us;
Filipino perfume's, ancient dusk.
v.
In the negrito of Luzon
Bead's shalt bounce ourn neck's;
Red one's, yellow one's, tribal seed connect.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane dedication
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 7:42 PM UTC
Your leeward left lays
steeped in shadows,
as a perfect line flickers
outlining your silhouette.
Incandescent light makes
porcelain of your skin.
Its honest touch embraces
you with artificial moonbeams,
airbrushed and pale.
I watch your chest rise,
as you inhale the
atmosphere you have
created with your presence.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 5:53 AM UTC
We are imperfect products
placed in the midst
of an imperfect society,
a vicious cycle of perseverance
and failure:
constructed,
broken,
fixed,
and fixed again.
Airbrushed and painted
to perfection:
pale skin
flushed cheeks
slim legs
and a smooth mindset.
Opinionated only
on the matter of
superficial products –
glamorizing and embellishing.
Deteriorating enamel –
cracks in a varnished frame.
A scratched surface,
damaged to the core,
polished and glazed over.
Skin made paler,
cheeks more flushed,
skin and bones,
and a mind wiped clean.
Unachievable expectations
and inevitable failure
are enough to b r e a k
even the toughest material
d
o
w
n.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
When I look in the mirror,
I do not see beauty.
Flaws.
Flaws.
Flaws.
Growing up in this generation,
it seems you are not beautiful unless you are
thin, tan, airbrushed, well endowed, etc.
The list goes on
And
On.
All I see are in the mirror are
Flaws.
Flaws.
Flaws.
Countless times I have wondered
Why can't I be beautiful?
When I was seven, I came home after
Doing makeovers with friends.
I asked my mom,
Am I beautiful yet?
She looked at me with sad eyes and said that I was always beautiful.
Of course, I didn't believe her.
All I see in the mirror are
Flaws.
Flaws.
Flaws.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
my 3rd vice
my catalyst for food restriction
desperate to sooth my shattered self image
daily bombarded by airbrushed perfect female beauty
braking my image of beauty and showing my cellulite
followed by overloading information about fixing me
regular exercise, beauty routines and Cal restricted diets
insecurity the new female epidemic
we fight for women's rights
and threw the baby out with the bath water
a basic human need
unmet and exploited
our legacy
the English standard
geneticly out of reach for women of color
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 1:19 AM UTC
~
*find your torch
light me up
brittle and cracked
I like feeling this incomplete
I hope the nightmares don't start
without me
but if they do
let them stir
as the crow flies away
on dangerous days
with a host of stars
fiery god-smacked
in the vast well of night
where I could play king
for an hour
to a wounded land
and a pair of queens
kept in high dudgeon
lest they sing
their burning song
in rich hues
and deep tones
painted on the warm
analog tableau
on my skin
distant
distillation
happiest when sad
with time and space, some
of the intricacies
can be airbrushed out
but I don’t think
imperfect love
can take too many fires
like that, because then
a renaissance heart
would certainly go black*
~
May 24, 2022
May 24, 2022 at 11:51 PM UTC
I lumber sluggishly,
dragging the weight of my body.
Every pound is tethered to me,
I can’t escape the heaviness.
I am stuffed into clothes,
encased in figure-hugging fabric
that looks better on the hanger
than my rounded, fleshy torso.
The scale is an unlucky lottery ticket
displaying a number
that I will carry around
shamefully like a scarlet letter.
I count calories like beads on a rosary,
making sure I shrink to conformity
critical of every extra curve
because to love my size is a societal sin.
Airbrushed beauty queens
and slender starlets
wear their size 0 like a badge of honor
in the battlefront of glossy magazine covers.
I’m crushed with the weight of the world I inhabit
a place that teaches girls to be self-conscious
of each pound that sticks to their body
instead of teaching them to be confident in their own skin.
I’m tired of micromanaging each nutrient that touches my lips,
to achieve a slender frame that resists my big-boned body
self love is not a one-size-fits-all
and I will radically adore every ounce that is tethered to me.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
Morning comes as the sun says it's hello
I open my eyes to an airbrushed yellow
My first thought is of you
My second is too
And how your day will go
And what you may do
So here's a bright start to your day
May it carry you far
Take a wish from this stray
May you shine like a star
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
now, I was just minding
my own business
brought up by very virtuous parents
steeped in a culture ancient and proper
and graced with divine revelations;
the lotus forever growing pure
even in muddied waters;
and so minding my own business
and vowed to matrimonial chastity in mind
never looking at another woman
and never thinking of another ever
I mean no one thought
looking at Mona Lisa
even in my younger days
was ever bad; they simply said:
Oh, Mona Lisa…what a painting!
so I went about years
chaste, pure and I think, angelic,
until these women come into art books
and now more readily in cyber-life
like Rembrandt’s Bathing Woman -
oh, how could I not look?
She, Hendrickje, more natural and
more come-here-you than
today’s airbrushed digitally enhanced beauties…
O Hendrickje, Hendrickje,
entering the water
and lifting up her dress
so it won’t get wet
but O – was that really her intention?
Or perhaps to entice Rembrandt further?
Or to look at her own reflection?
and then what about us, full-blooded men of latter-days –
O Rembrandt, what have you done?
how can I not look, and look?
and come back to look again?
and under pretence of aesthetics I trace every
limb and curve of Hendrickje, O Hendrickje –
I become a Rembrandt of sorts,
just tracing lines on her image
O these cyberspace beauties
they corrupt my high ideals
And Rembrandt says across the ages:
Remember you your traditions and virtue…
And the morally upright say:
Hey! She was Rembrandt’s woman!
And I can only quip: Yeah - she was!
and leaving it at that
with O Hendrickje, Hendrickje,
gazing at her own reflection
and I wondering what she sees –
well, after Hendrickje, O Hendrickje
am I safe? you think?
Then come the women of Japan –
for instance
A woman Applying Powder
while Hashiguchi Goyō sketched and mixed his paints -
and why? Oh why, Hashiguchi Goyō?
why do you release these sirens, these women
this Woman after her Bath
this Woman combing her hair -
O these mistresses of the arts
O why release them
on my sensitive and pure
and morally upright mind?
O why you do corrupt
such a one
such a noble mind
that centuries of spiritual values jousted one another
to produce? Such a delicate specimen as I am.
Or may be
all these women should be deleted from cyberspace
and only decent women with quizzical smiles like
Mona Lisa should prevail…
Sure, we don’t know what she’s smiling about
but at least Old Lisa’s not as dangerous
as youthful Hendrickje, O Hendrickje -
or
as the Woman Applying Powder
baring her shoulders and her Japanese *****
I mean, how can I not look?
and come back again to look?
O my adulterous heart!
but delete them all
or black them out
or cover them all up from head to foot
(technology can do wonders nowadays)
so
I can just be minding
my own business
brought to you by very virtuous parents
steeped in a culture ancient and proper
and divine revelations
the lotus forever growing pure
even in muddied waters;
and I’ll end up in Heaven after all my Holy Days
and for my Eternal Holidays there
I’ll be given all the virgins I’ll ever want
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 4:38 AM UTC
Hidden behind the makeup of society
Painted faces gaze as they tread through life like a zombie
Bright colors camouflage the emptiness behind their eyes.
Airbrushed smiles cover their faces that are emotionless underneath.
No substance, no depth of spirit
Fake kindness, rude and cruel compliments
The sweetest words pour out like poison
Puppets strung up by their own insecurities.
Sad and deformed clowns on this stage of reality
The play is so routine they perform without any cues
Drunk off attention only the audience can supply
Becoming so inebriated that no function of self control exist
Plastic dolls arranged in a row
Uniform and neat
No uniqueness, No imagination
Positioned and moved by riches and cold hard cash.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
i have revisited the thought of revisiting thoughts of you
for our memories hold nothing
just a vast empty space that your insincerity made
emptying out anything that i held dear from each photo frame
i love the music that played, our soundtrack, so sweet
but the music reverberates far deeper, in my veins and bones
than the meaningless, shallowness and airbrushed harmony
which was a year-long facade and a full-blown emotional felony
the ability to untag, delete, block and look away
has gifted me with the modern miracle of digital amnesia
and if i wanted, i could look back and reminisce
but with such sweet beauties on the horizon, this amnesia is bliss
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
Show me your pastel shades in water colours
And hide your laugh lines in candle light
Please
Keep your grimace in your sneer pocket
No one wants to see your teeth
I know how sharp they are
I know your growl is so guttural
It is hunger
This canvas soaks up everything it touches
But can’t force anything to mix
There is no texture in your vibrancy
And too much in your shading
So much green in your jealousy
That no one is debating
I know what shades of orange to be
When I need to light a fire
What shades of grey to fill my mouth
When I need to be a liar
But you
Dear model
Airbrushed to centerfold
Show me
Your pastel shades
Where your humanity should be
Watercolour your water colours any hue of blue and green
Picturesque my sunset
And lay me on the grass
Between the fading of your daylight
And the dying of my earth
And don’t dandelion my locks
Because
I won’t turn to face your sun
Don’t dampen my clay
With whatever colorful tears you drip
Some things just never mix
Even though
They look so beautiful
Together
On paper
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 5:19 AM UTC
Lightly airbrushed girls, they tie ribbons in
their hair. Speak of innocence as they kneel
to their own affairs and softly say their
prayers. Skeletons and piano keys,
porcelain, extraordinarily white
and wary to be played, so unlike your
auricular thoughts. Grimoires and cairn like
symphonies, we’re wanting to be repaired.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 2:13 PM UTC
now, I was just minding
my own business
brought up by very virtuous parents
steeped in a culture ancient and proper
and graced with divine revelations;
the lotus forever growing pure
even in muddied waters;
and so minding my own business
and vowed to matrimonial chastity in mind
never looking at another woman
and never thinking of another ever
I mean no one thought
looking at Mona Lisa
even in my younger days
was ever bad; they simply said:
Oh, Mona Lisa…what a painting!
so I went about years
chaste, pure and I think, angelic,
until these women come into art books
and now more readily in cyber-life
like Rembrandt’s Bathing Woman -
oh, how could I not look?
She, Hendrickje, more natural and
more come-here-you than
today’s airbrushed digitally enhanced beauties…
O Hendrickje, Hendrickje,
entering the water
and lifting up her dress
so it won’t get wet
but O – was that really her intention?
Or perhaps to entice Rembrandt further?
Or to look at her own reflection?
and then what about us, full-blooded men of latter-days –
O Rembrandt, what have you done?
how can I not look, and look?
and come back to look again?
and under pretence of aesthetics I trace every
limb and curve of Hendrickje, O Hendrickje –
I become a Rembrandt of sorts,
just tracing lines on her image
O these cyberspace beauties
they corrupt my high ideals
And Rembrandt says across the ages:
“Remember you your traditions and virtue…”
And the morally upright say:
“Hey! She was Rembrandt’s woman!”
And I can only quip: “Yeah - she was!”
and leaving it at that
with O Hendrickje, Hendrickje,
gazing at her own reflection
and I wondering what she sees –
well, after Hendrickje, O Hendrickje
am I safe? you think?
Then come the women of Japan –
for instance
A woman Applying Powder
while Hashiguchi Goyō sketched and mixed his paints -
and why? Oh why, Hashiguchi Goyō?
why do you release these sirens, these women
this Woman after her Bath
this Woman combing her hair -
O these mistresses of the arts
O why release them
on my sensitive and pure
and morally upright mind?
O why you do corrupt
such a one
such a noble mind
that centuries of spiritual values jousted one another
to produce? Such a delicate specimen as I am.
Or may be
all these women should be deleted from cyberspace
and only decent women with quizzical smiles like
Mona Lisa should prevail…
Sure, we don’t know what she’s smiling about
but at least Old Lisa’s not as dangerous
as youthful Hendrickje, O Hendrickje -
or
as the Woman Applying Powder
baring her shoulders and her Japanese *****
I mean, how can I not look?
and come back again to look?
O my adulterous heart!
but delete them all
or black them out
or cover them all up from head to foot
(technology can do wonders nowadays)
so
I can just be minding
my own business
brought to you by very virtuous parents
steeped in a culture ancient and proper
and divine revelations
the lotus forever growing pure
even in muddied waters;
and I’ll end up in Heaven after all my Holy Days
and for my Eternal Holidays there
I’ll be given all the virgins I’ll ever want
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 4:38 AM UTC
*Airbrushed watercolors
steal tonight,
Majestic acrylics
like royal purple,
lavender & reds-
silken sheets a mess
boldly he molds
her to his skillful hands,
browns & blues, pinks & greys.
Flesh tones meshed in silhouettes
Lips
touching in the sweetest embrace,
as his body joins with hers.
Slowly
masculine hands
hold her tightly
while his ramrod manhood finds it's mark.
Her
tulips open moist for him
&
his honey dew kisses scorch her coco skin,
leaving her heated with each caress of his lips,
burning with each touch of his fingers,
she's never tasted such desire,
from sun up to sun down,
he's ready & willing.
Her
tiny whimpers & plea's escape her
as
his tantalizing assault
causes her to convulse inside & out..
Her
release continues to intensify
and
he's like a caged beast
trapped- with her tightly
pinned beneath him
as
he pounds deeply
within her velvet walls.
She's moaning, clinging,
legs wrapped round his waist,
nails digging deeply
in & down
his back with each stroke
with
each ******
she's moving in sync crying out
as
he causes such havoc
on her body,
scorning her skin
with
each lavish
flick of his tongue.
It's morning and the day breaks
rays of sunlight
streams into
their bedroom,
he's yet to be done
and
for hours now
her body's been
his canvas.
He's painted her
wild & wanton
seductive & brazenly wicked
he's stroked her
rose bud ****** assorted colors
against her velvet walls,
masterfully opened
and
vigorously
he strummed
her tulips to spread widely
on his canvas.
He's melted her to him
and
there's no other place she'd rather be
than on-*
His Canvas.
Always Me Ayeshah ®
Copyright ©
Ayeshah
K.C.L.N 1977 - Present YEAR(s)
All right reserved ®
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 4:55 AM UTC
I saw a man once,
walking slowly.
and
once behind the plexiglass wall of a bus stop overhang
I saw an advertisement that read
BLONDE IS GOD
and the model was thin- and her skin was enhanced by zeros and ones-
and I was entranced by her.
and she was GOd
and she was made to be beautiful.
and she was made out of beautiful.
and then, on my way home I passed by the place again and her picture was gone
and instead was the image of a raven haired beauty-
***** and lustsome with bedroom eyes
and she looked at me and said,
I AM EVERYTHING
and smiled, adding bluntly,
BUY MY BODY AND DRINK MY BLOOD.
I gazed upon her airbrushed ******* and breathed,
No,
I refuse you,
BLONDE IS GOD
and bleach touch-up foam, Our Savior.
and *** is God
and the Natick Mall is my favorite place to be
and I love you.
and I am i
and barely . -
and
YOU ARE EVERYTHING
and I will always adore you.
and
everything i have ever done, becomes quantified in this, tell me how to be beautiful- tell me how to be worthless- tell me-
once, behind the plexiglass wall of a bus stop overhang
I saw an advertisement that read
BLONDE IS GOD
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 2:40 PM UTC
Red-haired artificially
with shiny teeth,
clean knees
with a gap in between.
and my voice will carry
like a songbird in the morning.
Beautifully composed
uttering a peaceful warning
My linens
So pink...
no blue stains to be seen.
And the skin I wear
Porcelain.
airbrushed and screaming
a lulled importance
With my night creams
and appointments
lessons and ointments
I will become the most perfect woman-made sculpture America has ever seen.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 12:22 AM UTC
Declare pragmatism a vulgarity,
a taste fowl to the tongue.
Embrace the long way home as
an integral part of healing
and swear by the virtue of art.
Decide that you will not be swayed
by flashing lights, airbrushed make-up,
or impressive displays of feathers.
Seek only the flower unseen
in a globe armored to the teeth.
Flea the baroque temptation,
extravagance will not suit you.
Confess to the heavens
your deepest desires
and find them in your own backyard.
Accept helplessness as a gift.
Stop wringing your hands,
for they will not wind the clock
in either direction you mistakenly feel
would be to your benefit.
Savor the precious little
any one thing can give you.
Scrape from each moment
all that is beautiful and velvet
and forget there is anything else.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
A size 14 at the age of 14 she didn’t love the body she was in
But how can you blame her, she did have a seventeen magazine subscription
Airbrushed girls, with their perfect pin curls showing you how to be pretty
Gap thin thighs, the one thing she did despise but would certainly die
to get.
She tried it all
Starvation lasted not more then a week because for food she was weak
Switching it up
She would feed her addiction just to plummet it into the toilet and then flush it away at the end of the day
She tried it
Gagged so hard, stuck her fingers down her throat so far
Till she thought she felt her tonsils
Worst decision of her life
She never tried it again after that night.
She gave up the pursuit of the beautiful magazine look and lived her self conscience life
Grew up with it until it became her best friend..never to part until the end.
Junior year, she’s now 16 turning 17 and some things are starting to change
She’s getting attention from other guys and yeah it’s a bit strange
That day she stood in the mirror and just stared
Stared at what she avoided for three years
Stared at her curvature, skin, smile and then
That’s when she realized, she was actually a beautiful toothsome girl
A different kind of elegant pearl
Belonging to the finest columbine
She had the hips that every girl in her school talked about
The teeth of pearly whites that complimented her biggest smiles
She was growing into herself, slowly loving herself the way she is
Five years past now she’s in her 20′s
Her best friend from earlier years still pays a visit because even though she knows her beaut she still held on to her self conscience mess
Oddly enough it was her comfort from the first time they ever met.
Maybe one day she’ll find herself a new best friend
One that’s more uplifting then the last one has been
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
You leave me cold—and so forlorn;
thou weary jaded face of ****
Does any of your turgid action
hold a trace of true attraction—
more than the membranes, moans and glands
that move your products’ many brands?
Your upper face looks haggard, used
your orifices gape, unmused
in lurid and contrived excitement
offering at best, incitement
to a spurt of blasé bliss:
a risk-free game of Hit on Miss.
Fleshtones moan: transparent fakes
where tremors masquerade as quakes.
For such hard work you’re unimpressed;
your weary looks leave one depressed—
to seek, instead, an amateur;
the accolades belong to her
whose modest shoot on humble bed
ensures her book of love gets read;
much better than that HD trash
where made-up squeals meet ***** cash.
Recalling now the titillation
of my youthful sex-fixation
wherein falsities were prized,
airbrushed half-truths, oversized:
thrills to nevermore regain
nor recreate, much less attain . . .
yet, seen beside today’s hot mess
it’s more alluring to undress
the past, by varying degrees
(her imperfections sure to please).
Perennial curiosity
spreads carnal luminosity
upon the mysteries of the flesh
to tease our hungers; and refresh
our longing for the great Unknown;
flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.
Those naughty childhood memories
transmute the lustful ecstasies;
each glance, each timeless thrilling tease,
was stronger then—compared to this
whose pull is harder to dismiss.
It fades more quickly once it’s past—
but Venus’ vintage treasures last
until the suns of lust grow cold
and all of desire’s daughters old.
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 9:43 AM UTC
Real life isn't always perfection
Often it's nervously bitten digits and cracked nail polish.
Real life isn't always photogenic
Mostly it's oily faces and adolescent outbreaks.
Real life isn't perfumed or pretty
Sometimes it's pit stains and bad hair days.
Real life isn't a page in a glossy magazine
Airbrushed and edited to curveless perfection.
Real life isn't about salads and diet coke
It's more like ice cream and pizza at 3 am and fat days spent in yoga pants feeling sorry for yourself.
Real life isn't always smooth sailing
Rather it's more like "I hate you" one minute then "I love you" the next then "shut up, go away" right after that.
Real life isn't fantasy
It's the 9-5 grind and knowing you'll never make enough to afford all the things you want.
Real life is never how you expect it to be
So when you tell me that I'm beyond perfect and that you don't deserve me . . .
What do you expect me to do . . . degrade myself so I'm imperfect for you?
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
A sweeping staircase is her stage.
mahogany and marble.
Dressed to thrill, a fashion plate,
your heart she will ensnarl.
Each step she takes is calculated,
to keep your eyes upon her.
With waistline tight and neckline low,
accentuating the lure.
Her dress does slip, down behind her,
like a river, flowing red.
A sultry pout worn on her lips,
her eyes, promising her bed.
Perfection, there, before you now.
Yet, there stands an obstacle.
There's no chance, for she is just an
airbrushed, magazine model.
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 8:40 PM UTC
they say, 'You're beautiful' and I look around
to see who they are talking to
always shocked to hear the sound
of compliments
beautiful is the perfect wave crashing
while sunlight shimmers through aquamarine water
or wrinkles at the edges of smiling
eyes full of life
beautiful is the feeling overcome
pure emotion that fills you up, bursts out
when you're with the right one
authentic love
beautiful is not simply seen
nor is it defined as a commodity
on the pages of an airbrushed magazine
to be bought
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 2:55 PM UTC
I took a walk to see.
All the queens down market street turning just for a fix .
The ******** of the day doesn't matter when you only live for the score.
Greetings from the gutter.
Go wash yourself clean as I embrace it's decay.
Least I know my place art is never a safe bet sweetheart does his touch still make you cringe?
Meet me at the bar and we will get lost together.
Goodnight to the fakes I have little more to give.
Goodnight to you all it's ran it's course shall we just let it die?
To the designer junkies who's prison resembles a palace I prefer the chaos of my own reality keep your distance for your ******** need not apply.
The cutter scars I prefer to some airbrushed queen your flaws are your perfection were all ****** up so embrace the truths and ignore there lies.
Goodnight my friends my buzz has began to fade .
Life is a bruise beautiful in it's story .
Never hide the flaws for art is the biggest train wreck of them all.
Cheers
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 4:33 AM UTC
joy to most
melancholy to many
and the clouds descend
even on sunny days
or Christmas Eve,
leaving sorrow....sorrow
toys and loved ones
know the ritual,
the ebb and flow of sanity
like falling snow
or balloons deflated
from full moons
luminous with love
to crushed souls
filled with sorrow....sorrow
when the shrinks surrendered
I knew the battle was lost
that causes unknown
would define my fate
and my autopsy would be
an airbrushed question mark
on canvass
in black and blue
like sorrow....sorrow
~ Pablo (#sad)
(10/22/2013)
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 4:21 PM UTC