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Anais Vionet Jun 2023
Get out your sponges, stippling brushes and pens,
It’s time for makeover-Monday-night to begin.
Think Winky Lux, L’Oréal, Urban Decay,
Maybelline, Armani and Fabergé

It’s a black magic realm where brushes are wands,
where a carnival of colors are carefully crayoned.
We have palettes aplenty, in kaleidoscope hues,
to create fashion looks, both bold and subdued.

In the realm of makeup fashion, where trends never end,
we remodel each other - for fun - when we can.
Tonight, our new friend Jammie has come to watch us play,
and he even brought two bottles of chardonnay.

Lisa has a ‘Miss Rose’ case, like she saw in Bernadette Peters’
dressing room, on a backstage tour of the Shubert Theatre.
Konjac, Kabuki, Doe foots, Spoolie, Lisa’s got legit tools to use.
“When it comes to makeup,” she says, “always avoid dupes.”

That night I was the chosen face, the excited living canvas.
Lisa’s a practiced artist, her process is brisk and never tedious.
She painted my lips a crimson cherry, alluring and brightly sensuous,
my brows were moonlit art, my cheeks a midnight adumbrated edifice.

Lisa created a special look, where rebellious edge met elegance.
We took some snaps, then I washed it off - but Jammie was impressed!
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Adumbrate: “to partially outline and obscure”

Slang: “dupes” are off-brand knock-offs of famous luxury brands
fox Oct 2023
she says e7. a pawn opens the door for her queenliness.
over by the counter, a tower sighs into the wind
her order of starbucks coffee. he says a3
she playfully tilts her spoon of sunlit konjac jelly
to his lips. over by the bishops they are discussing
a door to hell. one says to put up a blockade
and a pawn glares in their general direction
she shakes her head and says d4. he accepts
and asks about distant, far removed things
like parental approval and the efficacy of
work home commute. she says she doesn’t mind.
enough to still offer an open door to the rest of her life.
he holds open the door. she gives him a kiss
with a fresh coat of lipstick twenty paces down
the street in return. she hits her shoulder on the
elevator door when they leave for the night and she
will touch that bruise in three days time in the shower
in the morning she gives him a key and an
address; square a5. it’s an invitation that he
doesn’t take, a doorway he doesn’t go through
again. but he’s always the first to look at her
instagram stories after that. she finds herself
waiting on the sofa that faces the door on
alcohol-lulled nights but to no avail.

— The End —