"manicure" poems
Lady Macbeth washed her hands
cleaner than Pontius Pilate
with a new improved, bio-enzyme
oxy-bursting, 99.9% germ-scouring
recommended by dermato-logists
scented with rose attar
oils from Arabia
and spermaceti soothing
unguents from long dead whales.
She’s going to the nail bar
for a manicure and application
of semi-permanent, diamond-
tipped, acrylic base-coated
in red blood enamel.
She’ll scratch
and etch rich tattoos
on her husband’s back
with every ****** he will shudder
with pain and delight
He’ll soon forget long, dark nights
bewitched by ghosts and ambition.
© M.L. Emmett
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 2:55 AM UTC
Amnesia like leaky faucets swollen drain ventilates vapid powdered portrait
At least smiled.
Blood slightly warmed manicure and smiled in forgotten garden
Such lovely font. All wanted
Mini clouds surrounding shrines backlit green in ritual.
Smiles speak but of the wet smell of pollen and the sweat collecting in his hand behind the small of her uncrushed spine.
Curing chlamydia the straight—A fairytale. Conned alive, clumsily and bitter.
Nurtured cotton uprooted attempt. Scrubbed stains to shreds
Not even the green light merely aftermath so of course when shaking egg shells sheltering in “cold hands warm heart” chests receive the song I sing but never knew
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 4:40 PM UTC
a coat of Naughty
a flick of Flirtatious
a dab of Daring
slick on Scandalous
with just a touch of Mischief
voila!
let's go out...
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 10:17 PM UTC
New Year's Eve party.
With the popular kids.
That you don't know well.
But your boyfriend's going,
and you need to go too.
(for a New Year's kiss,
of course.)
Your favorite pair of jeans
because they are easy to dance in.
Your best floral tank top
because it's brand new
(and it's cold out, so you can
have an excuse to wear his jacket.)
Coral blush
because it looks good with
your skintone.
Purple eyeliner
because it makes your eyes pop.
And french manicure,
(your very first one!)
Done by your older sister,
aided with scotch tape
for the tips.
(It makes your hands look pretty,
and official,
like your best friends mom.)
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 9:17 PM UTC
My nails are a mess,
but not a mess like a 2 week perfect manicure 'mess',
a mess like chipped old blue nail varnish
where I have picked away at it.
A mess like peeling skin
when anxiety from deep within
has resulted in me absentmindedly scratching
until I am awoken by crimson blood,
pooling on pale flesh.
I grab a cloth and sigh,
as I realise I will now have to hide
my hands from onlookers,
who will probably tut disprovingly
because I'm a girl you see,
and it's my duty to present myself beautifully.
To be perfect on the outside, but how can that be?
You see my hands bear the scars that are inside of me.
You can't just paint over scars and expect to be free.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
Last night the moon took a break from showing it's Full Face.
It made a showing it was still so bright.
It was a crescent moon.
Who's bright shape resembled a French Manicure.
Maybe even the moon likes to be pampered and look beautiful
for the stars in the sky, and us people below
Until daytime when the sun makes an appearance once more
That is the time when the moon gets it's beauty sleep.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 2:13 AM UTC
I have let my nails grow some
they are well over the tips of my fingers,
i’d say considerably long.
noticeable is their length as i text smilies
type similes. sincerely, i am apologizing now
and well in advance for any future scratches,
scrapes, welts. any body mods. highly probable are scars to your skin too,
later revealing themselves, after a bath like a photograph
being developed. i dig deep in the heat of-brushing, my lips
will serve as nurse, medicinal in purpose.
so there is no need to worry.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 5:04 PM UTC
Don't be fooled.
I don't woo with words.
I don't woo with actions,
Either.
No, I am too much of a novice.
My intention,
Intended,
To release these tensions
Intensified by the cloud
Of tense living.
In tensions with no spa,
No relief,
No massage,
No pedicure,
No manicure
To calm them.
Ever wondered
Who masseurs
The masseuse?
I don't wonder.
I know.
No one.
Intending
To untensify
The tender
Tendencies of
Tenacious living,
The tenders of
Untended flesh
Relieve your tensions
With no intentions
of receiving intended returns.
They take your tensions
With only intentions
To leave you intense
In the freedom of life.
Meanwhile fragile tensions
Tend to rend them,
Causing trouble and strife.
Feel relieved.
They are in tension,
Don't worry about
Giving attention.
You weren't going to anyway.
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 3:20 PM UTC
Beauty is power
The words we teach our girls
whipped mousse over the freckles along your temples
will get you respect
the zit under your chin
will make you somebody to avoid for a month
The rouge on your cheeks
will make people think they've made you laugh each time you smile
Taken more seriously under anonymity on cyberspace
than to that same person talking to your face
As the standards grow higher
The modified faces and bodies of revlon and maybeline
become tall tales in every sense
The waistline is taken in to better display the shellac of that manicure
why of course!
as more and more voices go hoarse
from taking out meals before
in fear of a body to abhor
when beauty is power
and its concepts changing
is it only to keep us from misbehaving>
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 5:05 AM UTC
Designer clothes.
Designer shoes.
Manicure.
Pedicure.
Highlights, too.
Your facade is immaculate,
but you don't need to be told.
You put up a front,
and think nobody knows
the real you.
That insecure woman,
is much more beautiful
than any surface you could summon.
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 4:16 PM UTC
American city, your roads make me gasp,
Hold my breath with cancerous anxiety.
Your sidewalks,
Ancient ruins of time passed: A failed optimism for Utopian desire:
A house, a yard, a car for every person.
Now derelict, termite infested, but rented.
Chlorinated chemical water runs through rusted, moldy spickets to
Rinse pesticide seasoned vegetables.
And yet they remain so tasteless.
But who cares?
Suburban middle class zombies?
Created with media placed propaganda.
Born and inoculated with DisneypepsiMccocacola ideologies.
Oh Wal-Mart,
how we love your homogenized Chinese products.
Oh America,
how we love your multi-million dollar cathartic films,
They bring my mind to no place and inspire nothing.
Your theme park inspired retail caters to any identity I desire:
I am a professional,
My wallet lined with the best credit cards,
SUV, Hummer, Super boat, designer label, mall bought,
bleached teeth smile, with slick greasy hair style.
I'm cool, I pay for the gas.
Beep your horn, and rev your engine.
We are at war with each other.
Everyone get out of my way: road rage lifestyle: compete or die.
Big screen television dream.
Bought it at Target.
Open my cupboard: Macaroni and Cheese, delicious.
Ambian, Prozac, antibiotic, Listerine.
Collagen bovine beauty:
Manicure, pedicure, dye and wax
Acrylic nails, hair extensions
And silicone sacs.
Oh, American city
How we want to steal your money and **** your blood.
Chop your trees and cement your grass.
American city you are dead.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 6:22 AM UTC
*After last manicure
preparation for guests
concern for
their notice of
most careful work..
Yet something was
hidden concealed from
close diligence..
With the sun
a yellow explosion
just that single one..
deep yellow glory
a message of
imperfection
in quick rising
Joy...*
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
Once we were panthers,
sleek and powerful
embroidered in the silks
of midnight and dawn.
Passing the reflections
of city windows
as all bare streets
gave us their throats-
Tasting of blood and love.
And then the morning went away.
The dust settled with a silent thunderclap
the open streets closed upon us
with a wall of eyes,
We reached our hands forth
and touched nothing -
but the ivory shadow
left by
daffodils in death.
The day the morning went away.
We poured our questions
into the water supply,
we drank the mix
as the night rolled by.
It painted upon our minds
that we were snow coated deer
and soon we took their form.
We never made love again
we simply locked horns
until the roosters call
called us to stop.
For to make love
became a **********
and to **** without mercy
our golden seduction
into their secret submission
The day the morning went away.
Your perfect stranger
became your perfect enemy
your perfect enemy,
your perfect friend
and you were silenced by the thunderclap
you were silenced by
the thunderclap.
My little panther
afraid of the quiet thunder
afraid of the doe eyed stare
that cuts you from the mirror
cuts you right down
to the bone.
I watched you place
your tiny
white
lipstick to the corner
of your eyes
and manicure
your perfect
stag horns
as you brace yourself
to step outside.
The morning mist
comes into your lungs
and you exhale
a liar’s hello
to all below.
The day the morning went away.
Our ebony coats were hung up on a nail
we once were panthers
now our hearts are meek
we once were panthers
we once chose to seek,
now we flee at the sight
of moths dancing in the
summer light.
We once were panthers
we once were panthers
we once were glorious panthers.
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
Step One: Dress for Success
Dawn yourself in armor each morning
Spikes and studs
Headbands and helmets
Strike fear into every man’s heart
And look good while doing it
Step Two: Be a Lotus Flower
A rose, a lily
Be a venus fly trap
Deadly nightshade
Lady Macbeth said it best
“Look like the innocent flower
But be the serpent under it.”
Step Three: Always Have a Perfect Manicure
Sharpen your nails into knives
Slit your attackers throat
With just one swift movement
Of the wrist
Walk away with the blood working as polish
They won’t be able to tell the difference
Step Four: Smile
Never let them see you crumble
Never let them see you for what you are
Human.
Put up the walls
Man the cannons
You’re no longer a girl
You are a castle
And they want to storm you
Step Five: Be Polite
Swallow the bad words that want so badly
To sting that *******
Who cut in line at 7 Eleven
Suppress the rage that makes the blood
Under your pretty skin
Rise to your cheeks.
Instead, when he’s not looking,
Slash his tires in the parking lot.
Step Six: Stay In Shape
How else are you going to be able to survive
When the apocalypse comes
And its only you left
Step Seven: Focus on Your Education
So when the boys at school
Groan because they have to work with you on the English project
You can spit out verses of Shakespeare
And Frost
And Plath
And make them shake in their
Khaki shorts
Step Eight: Don’t Forget Where You Cme From
Don’t forget the hours
Your mother spent in labor
Pushing you through heaven’s doors
Don’t forget the women who came before you
The women who have tried so hard
To be the perfect girl
To collapse themselves into paper
To roll themselves like dough
Don’t forget those women,
Those girls.
Don’t forget to kiss your wrists each night
And say thank you to the stars.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
Staring at the world
Sitting by the window
watching it pass her by
Sitting by the window
All alone
Her eyes dried red
Forever Incomplete
Regrets left unsaid
She has no retreat
Willingly Given
Forcibly Taken
Pulled Back
to yesterday
Clothes neatly repressed
Easily suppressed
She puts on a new smile
Disguising inflicted vile
Perfect Darling Princess
Daddy's little girl
Alone in her world of shadows
Voices calling out to her in the swirl
Nail Paints
and a Bloodstain Manicure
Cold Faints
feeling so impure
Some wounds
aren't meant to heal
and some scars
are better left unseen
"please!"
There she lays now..
... Forgotten
Darling Abigail
Beauty so broken
Like the promises i made
Holding you against the wall..
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:32 PM UTC
She's lost and alone.
As she bays at the moon,
it's soul, so full.
The full moon smiles in a mischievous way,
Inviting her sorely to come out and play.
Tangled hair rolls down her back,
enveloping her fearsome face.
For tonight's cull,
Her manicure's gone
her nails have grown,
They're so sharp, so vicious, so fierce,
her tears,
although,
tumbling,
remaining unwiped,
She can bear no scars,
from her previous hunt.
Who said that t'was only the seventh son of the seventh son?
She wanders lonely hillocks,
On the hunt for human kind,
Her mind is cursed,
with ****** souls blood,
As she wanders alone through the wind blasted wood,
she's looking for food.
Her mind's set on feeding the curse she was given,
Stuck in a situation she did not want to live in,
Death did not become her,
it never could,
while,
she wandered lonely
through the wild wood.
Although,
desperately,
she tried hard to expire,
as an immortal wolf woman,
her wish was denied,
and she cried.
On the evenings,
when the moon was wane,
she sobbed to herself.
Feeling such pain,
knowing incarnate,
that soon the full moon,
would with it bring with her next date,
a date with death,
for somebody else.
(C)Livvi
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
I am alive & just barely;
my throat is closing off
with hard, precious cancer eggs
tucked safely where my tonsils
are supposed to sit.
my fingernails this lovely
shade of purple, a deeply
blueish tint influencing them
almost indigo. They tattle,
silently proclaim my complacent
malnutrition. the moons of my manicure
have sunk backwards, eve
returns to dusk, my favorite
time of day, where the quiet
begins, the candle may be lit,
& the eyes I always feel on me
are at least shadowed from my vision.
the coffee is so black
pulsing through my shrunken veins
that my tears are caffeinated.
even when I don't hold a cigarette,
I see the smoke under my breath.
my hands & feet are always cold,
my muscles tremble & I swoon
when we try to stand strong together.
there is turmoil
constant static
in the fissures of the grey matter.
well? tell me! does it really matter?
my bones ache
my face breaks
oh, this Exist Contemplate.
my government has always
been corrupt; the city walls
are finally wearing, having
borne the onslaught for decade
& decade. oh, the Burn & Blister.
I crawl to my coffin without your permission;
Where are you, my Handsome Benediction?
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
Because you are wonder-bread-woman--
bearer of two and a half children,
five feet and four point six inches
of dapper domestication.
soaring, you are at the peak of the bell curve, and when you slip
it's on spilled milk, never cried for.
wistful, you stand on the edge of the bed and reach,
manicure outstretched towards plastic glow in the dark stars
upwards of your eight-foot-walls,
because after all,
ceiling's the limit.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 12:54 AM UTC
finally i give way
a deep low moan
my arching back relaxes
satisfaction flushes over me
sealed with a warm passionate kiss
a new moon begun
a dash of color added daily
new hair style, off with the old
accessories a must, compliments my manicure
dark short and eye catching
all i need is the perfect pair of shoes
a women matured
savored for my chosen
the nape of my neck
small of my back
the tip of my *****
a knowledgeable lover
brings fire to my belly
stopping only at sight of satisfaction
the kind young girls fantasize about
old women relive in memories gone by
stories and poems inspired
my words covered in lace
awakens passion
my lovers eyes burn at the thought of me
:) :) the mind a powerful gift
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 7:01 AM UTC
She calls.
She waves at me.
Her French manicure frothing
Come she whispers.
Come with me to adventure.
Come with me to danger.
Eventually I’ll go.
Despite all the corpses littering her depths
I wait for my hair to be pulled in and tied.
My sails to be hoisted and set
And my nose to be pointed
Towards the next port.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 7:31 AM UTC
If the world was a metaphor,
we would manicure our animosity.
you’d file it down,
and once a week I’d paint it--
that way it’d always be clean.
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 9:47 PM UTC
The gate is hidden in ivy, thick
Ropes, both alive and dead
Providing trellis for new growth, always
Leaving room for the gate. Arched
Top of weathered oak, so keenly
Shadowed underneath, one key to
The secret of my secret garden
Never Locked,
No Need,
No one goes there but me.
The doorway cut in hollow blocks
Some turned up, others down
A mosaic of solids and holes;
Triangle holes where small breaths
Of citrus air sneak past, to scent
And blend with vine and flower
Large and small, brilliant shades,
Fresh turned earth,
Nostrils full,
With sweet privacy.
Walls, much taller than my head
Surround the inner area
One north; a mass of solid stone,
One south; holding the gate in its arms,
One west, staying the evenings sun
One east, open every other stone
With the beams of Sol cutting through
Giving life,
Living Light,
Make my garden alive.
Well worn bricks in connecting
Circles, still damp at noon
From dawns' quick cleanings.
My feet in soft soles, never disturbing
By tick or clacking a fear in
The blue-jays and redbirds
Perched on the ancient carved stones
Worshipful,
Quiet though singing,
Singing for me.
The oak bench, painted only
With rains of many seasons
Polished seat and back, smooth as
Sanded, with the fabric of trousers and shirts
My body reclined in respite,
A few hours, a few minutes
Stolen from the demands of others,
Everyday demanding,
Draining the quiet,
Chipping at the walls of my garden.
A damp perspiration
Slips down the inside of my shirt,
My face is washed in the afternoon sun
Alone, finally alone, pulling useless weeds
Impeccable manicure, attempting perfection.
Maniacal fervor must find a place,
A place where one can think,
A place of my own,
of my making,
My secret garden.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 10:48 PM UTC
Grandma would smack my hand
Gently
She meant well and I'd feel guilty
Lessons she'd learned passed to me
The lore solidified this importance
A compromise? To the salon!
I'd pick at my nail polish
A compromise from the worst?
Chipping and scraping them bare
Until they were ugly
Back to boy hands
Tomorrow could be life changing
Yet I'd face it without rest
Will or would?
Fine, I'll stop picking.
Jun 19, 2024
Jun 19, 2024 at 1:55 AM UTC
Try this one on for size,
Go to the twenty or less register at your local Wal-Mart
With hunger pains growling, its lunch time,
And all you got is a fresh salad and vitamin water in your cart.
Add this one to the list also,
A Safety orange colored truck circling around
Up and down the street
Looking for that next parking lot to tar
Or driveway to seal
That would be his next treat.
Waving hi to me every time they pass me by
I just play it off and wear my ear buds playing my own beat.
I know them both and I know them very well
Only if they knew, please GOD, I hope nobody will ever tell.
They think I just manicure the lawn
But truly, in reality for now, I’m just a pawn.
Carried their family flowers
Put them on easels’ and my O’ my
How they looked like the twin towers.
In front of them
I centered his remains
And then suddenly it hit me like a million trains.
Two prior works I wrote before and they were for him,
They were called,
“Ice Fishing” and “Positive I.D”
Yes, those were the name.
And writing them, believe me they were no game.
Yeah Hello Poetry Poets you all might know now
On whom I am and what I’m learning to do,
But forever, I’ll never even give them a clue.
What would you do?
(CARSr. 6-9-12)
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 1:02 PM UTC