"makeover" poems
so it is, so it be.
life granted me a boon, come to me, the honey.
not the merest of coating, but a power enrichened,
capable of driving out the slow acting, daily killing,
poisonous venom.
makeover, coverup of tears of ancient marriage-madness,
black swan hate disguise, her lies, venom injection of
coffee blood staining love pretense, now just scar tracks for a
new boulevard.
the slow pour, the golden russian amber intertwined tones,
tongue tasted, inside me now, revealed in slow exiting, beauteous,
mellifluous tears.
you dance with the stars, I watch you watching,
clueless that my thee-flavored tears, dance and pour down
my face.
destitute, nearer my God than thee, god blessed this child's life,
love gifted from sweet bees, late in life, flew from my computer screen and sonnet-stung me with antidotes of
love n' honey...
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
i am not your ******
nor your sister.
i do not know the meaning
of these words, mister.
except
in instances where
i hate us
like
they hate us.
a putrid loathing
sprouting from different
colored grounds
but a dangerous flower
nonetheless.
they are not just words,
they are drops of blood
spilled from the lashed backs
of our enslaved
triple grandfathers
and mothers.
our slang replaces
hoses
pushing us back
during marches
and righteous riots.
aggression
equals regression
equals deppression.
and now,
it's all our fault.
now it's
black on black assault.
now it's
fly shoes and ghetto booties.
poppin' bottles and
poppin' caps,
running through nights like
street ******* rats.
what would
W.E.B. DuBois say if
he'd seen this
backstep taken
after we'd come this far,
after reaching for stars
and dropping
the ball?
now
i love this color.
i love this color
and prefer no other.
all i'm saying is,
let us pick one day
when we put the negroidian away
put ****** back in it's roots.
no, not the movie,
don't me toby.
let us get the dream rollin'
Mister King style,
not Master P style.
no big rims, or leather seats.
none of that ****
for awhile.
i'm saying takeover.
i'm saying african-america makeover.
i'm saying,
let's take
our pride back,
like our
homeland lions.
let us make black
a taste not so sour.
i'm saying,
Black Power.
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 8:03 AM UTC
a dark place,
dingy and cobwebbed:
the forlorn basement
below an unfinished house;
there is no hope
of an HGTV house-flip
or a makeover
or the sort of boring/heartwarming story
where some nice white family
—or conveniently diverse—
sets up shop,
smash-cuts through a renovation
and gets their dream home.
no,
the house will remain gloomy,
this basement filled with emptiness;
no one desires
to come through the door,
no one except the tweakers
and the vagabonds
and the runaways,
the ****** and the pimps,
the celebrities and psychiatrists,
the demons and the ghosts,
the preachers and their seething
congregations of judgmental ******
that live across the street,
and the ***** teenagers
hunting for a place to try out ***
no cleaning crew
or maid service
or organize-your-life guru
or even the most experienced
of all the world’s janitors
could enter this house and clean it
or beautify this basement
or disenfranchise the squatters within;
the neighbors just try
and demolish it
every chance they get,
to rid their sparkling, spotless community
of this disgusting eyesore.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
Your name,
has become a curse word that falls from my lips.
The picture of you in my head,
has become blurred and wants to be forgotten.
Your voice,
has become a door that lacks oil.
The way you move your body,
must be because of your deceiving bones.
Your rat like eyes,
have become the worst color of diarrhea.
I know this is not the just the “Call out a back stabbers” poem,
lets name the flaws on and in my own skin,
that just so happened,
to be pointed out by you.
As you covered my face in nine pounds of a “makeover”,
you said you couldn’t see the flaws on my skin anymore.
Flaws?
You went far enough to point the pubescent scars.
of my lips, cheeks, and chin.
The shyness I have of talking to my friends,
was pointed out because you didn’t have someone to talk to that night.
Excuse me,
but I thought the effort of the friendship was supposed to be put forth by both “friends”?
Next,
near the end of the friendship,
you often told me I was a terrible friend.
I cried.
A lot.
Later when that came up,
you told me you were just trying to make a point.
Why as a friend didn’t you just try to talk to me,
instead of trying to start insignificant bull crap?
But here I sit now,
with friends that could always be so much better than you.
I often hear your snickering words behind me a your lunch table,
and I turn around and smile at you and your “friend’.
You usually **** your head in confusion,
but really,
that's me.
The 15 year old giant ginger with a second graders personality,
stinking my pinky finger up at you to flip you off in Chinese,
and to say in a nonexistent voice,
“frick you”.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
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!
Jun 6, 2023
Jun 6, 2023 at 10:51 PM UTC
He was taken into custody on Friday
After he got off a bus in Marseille
That had come from Amsterdam
By way of Brussels,
According to police.
The manhunt began
After he opened fire
At the Jewish Museum
In the center of Brussels,
Killing at least 3 people,
Obviously: an anti-Semitic attack.
He was taken into custody
“As soon as he set foot in France,”
According to François Hollande,
Congratulating himself
For an efficient round up of
The usual suspects, all Jihadi
Round trippers from Syria.
He was taken into custody in a mere 6 days--
A magnifique display of French efficiency,
A sublime achievement by
Our furry friends in
Police-Protective Services.
The swarthy perp was carrying a Kalashnikov--
That’s AK-47 for you NRA gun nuts--
A handgun, ammunition, a baseball cap,
A small video recording device, and a
Copy of The Koran,
All items matching
Descriptions of the gunman,
And, even if not, a known-terrorist
Named Mahdi bin Laden,
Carrying an assault rifle
Would have been enough
To fit the profile,
Justify the profiling,
Sufficient to stop anyone
Passing through Customs,
Except, of course
The French Corps Diplomatique,
Wreaking most of the havoc in the EU these days.
There was once a time when any Thom, Dieter or Heine
Could get outta town on a ratline,
Blessed by the Pope,
Assisted by the OSS.
A white linen suit and a Panama hat:
Was all it took any Schutzstaffel
To pull off another Argentine makeover,
Melt into the landscape,
Speaking Spanish with a thick German brogue.
It’s nice to know
Jew persecution is criminal,
Socially frowned on these days.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
.
• p-
eople do
not see past
her makeover•
•only traded snea-
kers for heels beyond
her years• starkness of
change, her before and
•••after•only constants
•••are her darkness and
•••••fears•happily ever
••• after is a dream so
••• far•when sickness
••• consumed her caregi-
••• vers old•hides these away
••• as she approaches the stationary
••• car • only her stilettos know... of her
••• ••••••••••••••••••••••••••
••• ••••••••••••••••••••••••
story untold•
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
Now deadline entrapped!
Deadline to safe life
Deadline to take food
Deadline to drink water
Deadline to breathe air!
Now dead line entrapped!
Deadline to recharge vitality
Deadline to recharge vanity
Deadline to recharge - cover-up felony!
Now deadline entrapped!
Deadline to makeover
Deadline to sprawl
Deadline to crawl
Deadline to growl
Deadline to haul!
Now deadline entrapped!
Deadline to behold toxicity
Deadline to amuse atrocity
Deadline to submit buoyancy
Deadline to ****** and welcome grief I
It is the deadline for post modern reformation!
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
1
Peter's been in the job
nine months
He's got the hang of it
He's really good;
Customers ask for him
Colleagues rely on him
The boss assigns him tough jobs
Peter's wife says at home:
*"My, you've become irreplaceable
Time for a promotion;
and time for my makeover"*
2
And so Peter speaks to his Boss
about a promotion
and runs through what he's done
in nine months:
*"I've got the hang of it
I'm really good;
Customers ask for me
Colleagues rely on me
You trust me with the tough jobs
I'm irreplaceable"*
"Agreed, " says the Boss
"But you are irreplaceable"
…pause…pause…pause…
*"So no one can take your
current position; so
you'll have to stay there,
I'm afraid"*
Mar 10, 2012
Mar 10, 2012 at 4:12 AM UTC
Jamming jellyfish
Top-Me
((Giddy App Seahorse))
The horseradish on
my lap______
The jolly Jelly
Gefilte Fish
Little help from my friends
How we click the laptop
One dent to Deceive me
The Rock and Rolling
Stomach his smoke went
Like *** Cheese)
he leaves me
The spicy tongue map
Z-Top Zany Chilli Pepper____
your # tap dance tap
Italian top of
the cheese designer skirt
The outskirts of Naples
Her sweet dimples, please
The Islands of Sicily
So many Cheese forms
Terms of Endearment
Mama Mia Murano-Positano
Her lips of Romano Cheese
(To Top Me) Challenge me
Cheese doesn't mix
with cappuccino,
she's the Capri
Ala Denti
Cheese Wiz chair
Mediterranean Wines
Bear men doing low
sips of time
the grisly(Z) pour
The car smelled like
Flight (Top Me) Swiss air
Meet Dominique
How it went La Cirque
Anti Christ Devil Red-bed
cheese mystique
SOS to their notes
PS the junk car in
Midas the makeover
Make-up artist counter
Clinique
I could paint over your hood
Creamy mind put at ease
He's so displeased
New castle disease
Mingling social disease
She's so infectious
ZZ- Top me rock me
Eyes bloodshot you got me
And nevertheless
With twelve and V
V- Vamps tramps
and 14 karats
The French Lieutenant
Mistress Brie with heavy
bite teeth like garnets
Cher turning back time
The burlesque striptease
Come back little Sheba
Z Top Queen of Sheba
I know it's coming soon____?
All Tight claustrophobic
The tight squeeze
Him speaking
Mandarin Oranges
The British Colony
Unique Chinese languages
Her hills, San Francisco
Jack Nicholson
Comedy of China town
The American Women
Smile cheese at the Disco
The food Cantonese
style
Z muscles Hercules
Joan Rivers
Fashion Police
The Cheese of Portuguese
Its the meat market
With his nifty thrifty Neice
All Socrates
(Gromet and Cheese)
Those Brooklyn
workers
The Falcon Matese____*
More cheese Z-Top
Who could ever top
The string cheese
Silken strings became
to rest, I rest my cheese
What cheese fascinates you
Tell me?
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 9:12 AM UTC
Life flows through the doors,
Dispersed by the ceiling fan,
A makeover for every patron,
The waitress serves a second chance.
Ex-husband but current parent,
Negotiating with a teenage daughter,
Two untouched lunch plates,
As the gap grows further and further.
Central focus being on a book cover,
Held by an E.R nurse still in her scrubs,
The waitress tries to decipher a meaning,
All while wiping leftovers from table tops.
The calender on the wall says Friday,
And in walks a sundress along with a button down,
Two steaks and a red rose,
Right up comes the waitress with a dinner to astound.
Beginnings and ends in motion,
The clock cues for the 40-something man,
In the far corner he sips his black coffee,
Forlorn eyes of a widow staring at a wedding band.
Wiping beads of sweat from her forehead,
Retying her hair into a secured knot,
Exhaustion slowly kicking in,
As she refills the coffee ***
The college girl strolling in with her book bag,
Smiles with pity at her as she gives her order,
She thinks of how her minimum wage must look,
But her love for her job makes her smile never falter.
Days are something treasured,
Every hour, a different movie plays,
She collects all those stories,
With the tip left after the customer pays.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
Waiting from a long interlude of life
en route for heed the hymn of eternity,
Searching from a extended period
Au fait with a phizog of humanity,
Budge for makeover from sterility of life to nature’s tranquillity!
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
**The fairest hair, peroxide blond
beer shampoo feeding the roots
primped and pinned with paperclips
blown and set as candyfloss sticks.
Hydro-pack cream erasing the pouches
colourful lashes, stuck to the lids
with copyright brows by electrolysis
both almond eyes are now penciled in.
Lines of life filled with putty
trowelled in layers, foundations built
delicate cheeks, powdered, pampered
rouged and shaded, giving them youth.
Clinical lips, Botox injected
tattooed outlines guiding the brush
the budding artist colours by numbers
pouting, she paints in weatherproof gloss.
Turtleneck sweater hiding the wrinkles
genuine paste, drawing the eye
both purl and knit-one inside the jumper
pulled and snagged by glued on nails.
High heel shoes, stretching the sinews
of Lycra clad legs, holding them taut
a girdle of whalebone hugging the figure
gently molding, the form to behold.
With grace we age throughout the years
a time filled life, craves respect
hairs of grey are marks of distinction
an occasional blemish, a beauty spot.
Tiny crow's feet, signs of good humour
experience of life, lines proudly worn
for with laughing eyes and glowing smile
who need wear a plasticine face.**
... ... ...
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 12:15 AM UTC
You strip naked and then
Display your protruding ribs and your gentle curves
Bask in the lust and admiration of drooling men
Glued to their MacBooks, fingers pressed to nerves
You think you are a *** symbol
Your beauty commands respect
Strong and nimble
Attention simply what you expect
But you’re wrong about your power
You’re weak, tied with a tether
A fragile, dainty flower
Crumbling under a feather
You do what they tell you to do
Tiny **** are better than sagging thighs
Body hair like buzzing flies
Cellulite
Overnight
You are a socialite
Swallow pills so hearty
Starve day after day as you become more vein
Stay up all night at parties
Prolong the pain
Hover over the toilet below
Half crying, half vomiting, hungover
Your guilty pleasures are reality shows
The Biggest Loser, Extreme Makeover
Love, *** and lust
Drive you to do this
Or maybe you just want trust
For someone to care instead of dismiss
The powder from the thick white sponge invades your nostrils
It is the bread, your red nail polish the wine
Vogue and Cosmo your glossy gospels
Your closetful of designer shoes a shrine
Cocktail dresses and Gucci are your new burger and draught
Finding nourishment in Martinis, icy words
Why do you think this will make up for your past?
All it does is make it worse
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
My belly
Among ***** made silhouettes
Shedding (the outside of) my breath
Sudden body shakes makeover the silence of
Days
Wrapped in ***** stained dreams
Without an end to my bleeding
The smell of **** is evident
In the same ways that
Blame is kept in tact
A muffled voice is heard through the air
Giant particles grasping at the face of my dawn clocktower
Simulation in the evergreen hands
The very odd feel that denies faith
An old familiar disgust that overflows from my pores
Instant
Glorified
Pure
Sanctity
The calling of angels ******* on a downward spiral
Towards my vascular thoughts
Like a disease which interrupts the collision between planets and words
My pixie movement through the ice parade
An unlikely sorrow from you
What is that distilled sound coming from your hands?
And if the traces of heroine on my breath are mine alone
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
Remember that story you used to tell
about how the pyramids were made by aliens?
You loved believing in ridiculous things.
And that homeless person who sang Better Days
better than Springsteen?
That song always made you smile.
Remember how I always took your case
about your political beliefs?
You'd try these silly tricks to make me stop
( kissing worked pretty often )
Remember that fall night when we were ******
and thought the elevator wasn't moving? (It was)
We were in there for a while.
What was that joke about the bunny and the bear?
Cracked you up, every time.
Remember that time we made fun of all the sappy scenes in all
sappy movies?
(There was the bet, the makeover, the boat passing under a bridge,
the wine in a park, the meet after a year at this spot,
the blue french horn, the airport lounge, the waltz song).
And then we said we'd make our own sappy movie, and it would be original.
Remember those times when nothing needed to be said?
And it seemed as though the world just stopped breathing for a few moments.
As though we slipped through a fleeting crack in time.
As though .. I cant find more analogies. You'd have to be there.
I no longer remember the irreverence of first chances and carry-on luggage.
Because the world just kept moving,
and the traffic lights turned yellow,
and the umbrellas came out in the monsoons,
and Heath Ledger died,
and old stories were forgotten and new stories told.
I didn’t find any crossed stars, or dividing oceans
or random people in bed.
I searched for misunderstandings
under the sofa cushions, but could find none.
There were no pieces to patch up together.
The quilt just seemed a little frayed at the edges.
Maybe there’s just no such thing as an original movie.
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 3:59 PM UTC
Stay cautious
Believe me
Got broken takes, no time
Healing, a way long
Fragments,
Need to be confirm
Align to the earlier form
Stabilize for endurance
Then finally
Makeover stitch
Allowing the time to recover
But this is not the end
Some of us take
Much longer than
The usual time
In those
Who are obsessed
To scratch the scar
Recall the moment
With a same dumb question
Why me?
Little do we knew
Why few don’t
Want to get healed
And what keeps them
Scratching
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 6:52 PM UTC
My life it needs a makeover
It's become as dull as grey
But my lack of drive and vision
Is getting in the way
I seek out toys to fill the voids
That occupy my soul
To fill the huge expanse
To remove this gaping hole
But my lack of drive overwhelms me
And the voids they do not fill
My heart has lost its rhythm
And it's beat has slowed to still
Dark clouds they do not leave me
They smother all joy and hope
I start to wonder how it would feel
If i dangled from a rope
But that would only transfer my pain
And pass it on to others
My beautiful daughter
My grandkids
My sisters and my brothers
So i need a spark to light the dark
And guide me on my way
To give me back the life i lost
That day you went away
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC
Capture consciousnesses,
implement into
an amalgamated
substrates' soup.
Dissolve dark
pigments, promote
all-consuming oxidation
to tear
through thoughts,
seal strands
with wishes
of overcoming
indulgences, individuality.
Beauty beyond
reason resonates
with withering
minds' molds.
Shape-shift self,
melt mercifully,
pretty please.
Evaporate every
free-spirited feeling,
despised dearly.
Free from
humble humanity,
an astonishing,
extravagant, empty,
splendid shell.
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC
I don't feel a darkness creeping on to me,
I don't feel my demons.
I don't feel tears on my face,
I don't want to leave.
I don't feel numb,
I don't feel like screaming.
I don't feel like bleeding,
I don't want to succumb.
When there's no negativity in me anymore,
The paper and pen lie alone.
When I've begun seeing good colours,
There's no more of me forlorn.
I used to write five or six poems a day,
Now I write one in five or six weeks.
In the night, I don't lie awake
To craft ink and silently weep.
I wish I could pen down happiness,
The way I could with emptiness.
I've tried to do so a number of times
But that's just not me, no vibes.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 12:29 AM UTC
Droplets of a black swan's fever sweats
coat purplish nightmare blisters
Reminds me of nights before
I forced my eyes to sometimes drift
through broken down envy telescopes
opening pathways to fissured late night ruptures
Blotting out black plague garlic mask threats
no one left to speak ill of these mass grave
injuries
Our blight flag battle standards set for
miserable whiskey soaked duelists trudging through the snow
past careless crossroad wasps' nest dissection
a Glasgow smile cut in a hostile makeover struggle
makes for uneasy amends
when my copper cable pirate princess
holds the offending knife
pulled across like a dishwater blonde's drag on a last fix
I know I'm hard to follow but no one else
will take the torrential reigns
to leads us home but bitterly so
Who do we end up with in heaven
if no one likes us now?
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
Sleep casts a spell over my eyes
Heavy eyelids caress my dreams
So many thoughts nurtured today
Sleep shall take over the stage
Laying supine, soul is in a realm
Of the subconsciousness realization
Paradise of life blooms with colors
Colors of life and beyond
Gives dreams a makeover
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC
False reality
Tons of casualties
Thoughts eminence
Linger a thirst cannot be quenched
Ballin for all of my homies
Ballin for all of me solely
Family I'm ballin for fun
Living and learning the game
Glimpse of words gets you dazed
Aren't you amazed that game I play
Drill it till yeah after that inhale a jay
Smoking till losing the day
Smoking till livid the day
I rock with all of my homies
I rock with thoughts of controlling the whole thing
I rock with thoughts of control
I ball with thoughts of control
Seese and gimme control
Hostile take over gimme your gold
Rearrange the game.
Gimme all of the holds
Makeover of the game
Big king of the game
Mayweather type of **********
Make piece with a pen
Edgar Allen Poe types of analog
Make peace and then end.
Take over all of it man
In Pieces I'll Leave My Enemies,
I take hold.
Leaving casualties, only to my enemies.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
She was a homemaker
a trained Baker
four kids
and a dog named Jude
she dreamed big
of something new.
Always a smile
no matter the weather
willing to go that extra mile
to try and keep it together
but no amount
of gritted teeth
could ever surmount
to what laid beneath.
All the big ideas
and grand ambitions
stifled by fears
and inhibitions
but now was her time
to break the mould
makeover her mind
and never fold.
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 6:03 PM UTC