"loreal" poems
is what i wear.
it is a loreal campaign offering the art of concealment
wrinkles are for unironed clothes and old folk homes
all creation and destruction spun from tomb
the glow emanating from a woman's womb
this spf
isn't always available for the wear
its not some cap we can slip on our hair
or the glasses we use to hide the despair
for our pimples have awoken from
their nightly slumber
allowing the light to
illuminate their number
best we take it all in
the midnight pukes
and
the morning glow
lets carry on with our dancing dynamo
all starry eyed and audacious
all messy and pugnacious
with our lips soaked in red
shouting words of poetic gibberish
to statuesque lovers
who spin in and out of the revolving door
as we sing our tune under helmets
under bleeding stars
and wind up with tattooed legs and arms
for there is a radiant rose in your brain
permanently blooming
against the ticking of time
as you stand in alliance
with lust and love alike
when they conveniently misplaced their pain
at the local bookstore
i can't imagine they'll go looking for it.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 8:31 PM UTC
I have big hair
Hair that looks like medusa
Using loreal.
I have hair that is a
Short version of Merida
But isn't as firey as the mad hatter's
Hair but is
Big enough to be called that type
No I didn't stick my finger
In a light socket today
It's just my hair
My
Big
Poofy
Hair
That seems untamable at the very least
An accomplishment for anyone
I will never control it
And yet it is almost a super power
To have untamable
Hair
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
by: William A. Marshall
we fill a pig
we fill the job
we fill in the blank
we fill a **** tank
our plot of dirt
and wreathed granite
we fill our gut
we fill the dish
we fill a wall
with frame
and single-mindedness
we fill our cup
we fill a slot
we fill up the dog
with greasy scraps
that no one wanted
since they’re full
and we seal friends
with cake from cheap
card board boxes
stuffed with sugar
and nonsense
we fill our kids
with what we want
we fill a prison
we fill our brain
and cabbage chest
that eventually rots
and smells
like old Roses De Chloé
and Loreal pigment
we fill our *******
crows feet with collagen
instead of admiring them
like the meritorious stripes
that they are
they rest in ashen dust
gin vapor and vehicle identity
finally blows up
and floats away
like a bad check
a shadow on the landing
up high,
a sun drenched butte
where lupine and sage grows
out of touch from hectors
reaching what counts,
quiet breezes can be heard
shrilling through the rock
and now bare
dignity never shows up
at times like this,
vultures hover over
the empty can of a carcass
and bones that once stood
just and ran full
and fought clashes,
nothing is full now
and what matters
most is
now
empty.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC
Walking around with pretty Loreal eyes
but something behind them is broken
all the mascara in the world
cannot force your eyes to be open
Throw-away necklaces and bracelets
sparkle bright, dazzle and glisten
all the pretty earrings you own
do not mean your ears will listen
Seeing the world through shutters
too scared to look close up
claiming to be awake
without ever waking up
You may as well wear an eye mask
every hour, every day
and some ear plugs and some handcuffs
every time you pray
You think your life is superior
your little quest to get richer
never bothering to consider
that there lies a bigger picture
Thousands of women and children
exhausted, bleeding and choking
in factories across Asia
so that we may afford cheap clothing
Millions of animals, every day
***** murdered, hung by their feet
because your taste buds prefer it
because you ‘cannot live without meat’
‘If it were that bad the government would stop it’
blind faith in everything they quote
forgetting they also once allowed slavery
and forbade your grandmother’s vote
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC