When I wear makeup
I feel unstoppable
courageous
beautiful.
so beautiful.

but I don't mean regular makeup,
mascara lipstick eyeliner blush etc,
I mean the kind that takes hours to apply,
transforming myself into hit characters
ghastly ghouls
alien creatures
minotaurs
ziggy stardust
I mean painting myself
with all the theatricality I can afford.

I feel like I can breath when I wear my makeup,
I feel okay and calm and like nothing can touch me
above all else I feel safe.
so safe
with that paint,
everybody's looking at the makeup
instead of me,
they admire and compliment the mask I've crafted
and it makes me happy to know
they can't see my plain pale face underneath,
the outrageous conception
has formed a shield
allowing me to step out in public
without being afraid to exist.

when I wear my makeup
I'm allowed to be whomever I please
and mingle-talk freely with all I want,
my makeup lets me be like everyone else.

The only downside is that not every week is spirit week,
my gentle skin is too irritated by even the most
hyper-allergenic makeup and acne protrudes
and at the end of it all I still have to wash it off,
watch my happy colors go down the sink drain,
the mask doesn't last forever,
and I'm left standing there the next day,
without my makeup
without my shield
and I feel so naked,
I feel incomplete and scared.

I wish every week was spirit week,
and that my skin was tough,
so that I could paint my face every day
              so I wouldn't have to be afraid.

“Being born a woman is my awful tragedy. From the moment I was conceived I was doomed to sprout ******* and ovaries rather than ***** and *******;to have my whole circle of action, thought and feeling rigidly circumscribed by my inescapable feminity. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars - to be a part of a scene, anonomous, listening, recording - all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to ****** them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night...”*
-Sylvia Plath

all the streets i’ve walked become a neat little maze
under crete is a labyrinth
under los angeles is a cage
in my head forms a neat little map
cover your legs with your napkin
the monster in my head
says to cover my back

she’s looking for a sweet little life
she’s slumping over in her seat looking white
she may seem a little lifeless because she is
are you okay, are you okay?
are you?
no.

you put on a little periwinkle dress
you reign in your red hair with barrettes
now you shed the little periwinkle dress
in a gas station bathroom
to be less like a girl and more like
the smoke in your lungs
the pain in your heartstrings

you rip your red hair from the barrettes
it doesn’t feel good anymore
they don’t feel right
you go to goodwill and stare at the men’s button ups
in gaudy patterns and colors
shaken and sleight like your mind
some people’s eyes just chill your bones
you think it is safer to wear camouflage
in a city where pretty little girls
are devoured by minotaurs
when they wander out alone

don’t think about strange boys on the boardwalk
who are stuck in your sun glared eyes
the less you told
keep telling yourself it was wise
the lies you told
keep replaying through your mind
the wall rears it’s head
when he says the word *****
you ignore the warnings
you ignite the warnings
you forgot the warnings
hand him the lighter and watch them burn

they say they can feel your lightness
you tell them you are looking for a life full of light
and it lessens, as the sun drops
learn your lesson
they only want one thing
and you don’t want to think about it
but eventually they say what they really think
what they rashly think
what they readily think
the sniffing nose around the corner
you barely blink
the bull shows you the horns
you know you stink vulnerability

and you always get up to leave
just in time, the warnings
you disappear back into your well memorized labyrinth
your body and mind are warring
the minotaur is bearing down
the moments are fleeting but you carry the feeling
the moments are feeble but the fear keeps on teething

maybe tonight
you can do something different
try not to haunt
every place that you live in

Laying on the columns of hell
waiting for my turn to get molested by demons
I am being warmed up with fire and metal
The grotesque ****** is sharpening forks

I am in the Black of Inner Earth
The lowest point, not much life or vitality
Yesterday I was a man, the day before a woman
Now I am androgynous
They sent me intellect, had me believe I was genius

They traumatized me with images of evil
They eviscerated my chakras
Disintegrated my soul
they told me torture was my destiny
A working demon is better than a burning soul
You trust it to inflict pain, a burning soul uses you for its gain

On Wednesdays we are made to watch Minotaurs have *** with MothPeople
Now and then we are fed ants and swallow burning coal to digest

The Chariot comes and they transport a few to work in other galaxies
where planets are dense,
manipulation rampant,
loneliness a melismic  tune
The only Light is the burning eye and the lava beneath where it is a tomb.

Falling over the lip of the precipice
Into inky stillness
Where the heart sings dirges
Of the dead and lost souls
Holes poked through and dripping muddy waters
Like the sons and daughters
Of the god of decay
Rusting in the back of the pantheon
Running on down into the catacombs
Of black corridors and Minotaurs
Weeping for salvation
Red hearts beating on pikes in blue flames
That burn hot but no light
Nothing to bright the abject savagery of the surroundings
These things show no mercy
That hold old souls under rusted grates
Sluicing juices into terra firma
Thousands of feet below sea level

Are you any closer to God?
How far have you gotten?
Last I saw, you were throwing
Ink on paper to see what stuck.
Well? Had any luck? Oh, I see.
"Not as such." But I suppose
You still want your grants, yes?

Go on sticking needles into mice,
Just be sure to try the untried
Methods. A whiff of repetition
Oozes around this situation, and
I worry for your mind. Sometimes
I think you must be close to God:
Only good friends play hide-and-seek.

Now, you've tried looking up trees,
And behind and over and under things -
Inside bridges and beneath streams.
You've forgotten Him like a perfect dream,
Hazy and clouding your bright eyes.
His silhouette strikes as sharp and
Stinging as morphine's needle.

Mice do not know Daedalus, nor
Do they fear Minotaurs. They've no
Thread to follow home, so put
Them in your Labyrinth and see
How far they get. Know this:
I will pay from pity and cry when
You leave. I see Icarus in your eyes.

Impossible is nothing but a word.
Chance encounters mean more than we know, and yet, like heralds of portent or foretold, unraveled mysteries, we untangle; by following Ariadna's thread:
No Minotaurs of doom to fear; no mazes of walls to get lost in; no legends to survive.
Life is real, and lovingly cinematic, like our dreams.

J Eduardo Ramos ©

Unicorns
Fairies
Elves
Sinless Entities
Vampires
Goblins
Monsters
Stability
Dragons
Minotaurs
Ma­gic
The wage gap
Superpowers
Aliens
Ghosts

Hazy star gazer watching through your scope
Seen a pattern purple in a sky that gave me hope
Wished upon a star
It came true as well yours might
For if you’ve seen a darkened sky
My friend that’s full of light

A power in a dream
Did bring me to this place
A family of cheer and vibe
‘Tis good to see thè old lost tribe
For if you see a darkened sky my friend that’s full of light

I think I thought I saw something and I looked and it was gone
I think I saw a scene of sea and sand within a song
A hazy day, a lazy day and a Minotaurs sweet grazing ney
A crazy canny kant hey hey
A crazy hazy day

Mesmerized by swirling lights,
kaleidoscopic colors flash,
reflections of silvered mirrors
simply add to the confusion.

Lurking clowns with orange hair,
crawl amongst the shadows,
waiting in ambush,
armed with terrifying laughter.

Slippery slides and trap doors,
lead to fearful passageways,
a labyrinth of neon trees,
roamed by purple minotaurs.

Helixes of pink and yellow,
spin baffling the mind,
tables and chairs on the floor,
but we walk upon the ceiling.

Jets of air blast through the floor,
surprising and delighting,
and suddenly the door opens,
and real life rushes in.

Winter is all black,
its robe rubs salt into the wound
the convergent bruises, rustle our being.
Gifting us a load of happenstance.
Angels and minotaurs don't speak for us
I say this quiet apparition,
gives us an imperfect  surprise
if only for an unrepentant moment.

This hooded man mutters in your ear,
speaks of minotaurs and heroes. You
said we had found Winesburg long ago.
We know he works at Costco, but now
we know his name is David, this hooded
man. He wore a straw hat from Thailand
days ago, thought perhaps he was
eccentric and out-of-the box.
He is,  I think.
It scares me dear, that he heard our small
talk, all those words that slipped
from our lips
into his ears…

Does he know us more than those who think
they know us?

We've surely trodden
all the directions
around our house -
methodically, at times,
drunkenly, at others.

We're Minotaurs,
trapped inside.
Hooves poised,
compass needle
wavering under our
magnetic indecision.

Our walks along
the railway cutting -
a city's scar, threaded
under bridges, over bridges -
an old straight track or
urban ley line, perhaps -
is the only place
we briefly, freely,
realise how trapped
we are in this labyrinth.

I remember, as a child,
stepping off the tube
in a new station and realising,
with utter indignation,
that left and right had
cheated me.

Every city, its corners
pinned down by maps,
keeps turning if you
stand still - there is
no easier way to be lost.