Profile:
Yuwen Chengdu is the son of Yuwen Huaji, who was a general of the Sui dynasty. He is a warrior of Sui, only secondary to Li Yuanba, who is naturally super powerful. As recorded, he was as tall as ten feet with strong waist and body. In the appearance of golden face, long beard and thick eyebrow, he often hold a weapon as heavy as 350 pounds.

Introduction of ****** makeup:
****** makeup, or Lian Pu, refers to ****** designs for Jing and Chou roles. It originated from daily life experience, describing such changes of expression as white for fear, red for shyness, dark for suntan, and sallow for illness. Most ****** designs attach great importance to the eyes.  The ****** designs for the Jing roles are made by painting, powdering and coloring in the basic forms of Zheng Lian (keeping the basic face pattern), San Kuai Wa Lian (three-section face) and Sui Lian (fragmentary face). These types are widely used to represent generals, officials, heroes, gods and ghosts. The Chou actors can be recognized by the patch of white in various shapes painted around the eyes and nose. Sometimes these patches are outlined in black, hence the term Xiao Hua Lian (partly painted face). The Chou roles fall into the following two categories: Wen Chou and Wu Chou.

Features:
****** makeup bears three main characteristics. Firstly, it is the unity and contradiction of beauty and ugliness. Secondly, it is closely related to the personality of the characters. Lastly, the patterns are stylized.

Beijing opera is one of the most popular drama widely welcomed and loved, no matter home and abroad. It is now acknowledged as a sign of Chinese traditional culture. The photos of ****** mask can be found on large buildings, product packages, various porcelains and clothes. It has gone beyond the stage, from which we can see the deep influence of ****** makeup. More and more foreigners have interest in it and begin to explore the secret of ****** makeup.

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I have enough treasures from the past
to last me longer than I need, or want.
You know as well as I . . . malevolent memory
won't let go of half of them:
a modest church, with its gold cupola
slightly askew; a harsh chorus
of crows; the whistle of a train;
a birch tree haggard in a field
as if it had just been sprung from jail;
a secret midnight conclave
of monumental Bible-oaks;
and a tiny rowboat that comes drifting out
of somebody's dreams, slowly foundering.
Winter has already loitered here,
lightly powdering these fields,
casting an impenetrable haze
that fills the world as far as the horizon.
I used to think that after we are gone
there's nothing, simply nothing at all.
Then who's that wandering by the porch
again and calling us by name?
Whose face is pressed against the frosted pane?
What hand out there is waving like a branch?
By way of reply, in that cobwebbed corner
a sunstruck tatter dances in the mirror.

Leningrad, 1960

Gene Wilder's ***** Wonka once asked me
to step into a world
of pure imagination
and I danced to his voice
of sugary imperfections.
The swelling strings drizzled
on top falsetto inflections
captured me childishly
with candy-coated attentions

But even the finest chocolate melts,
and I learned to let purity be
pushed by treacly lyrics
or stern midgets secure
in their fudge-topped zealotry.
It sifts too pretty for me,
powdering my grown-up
infatuations with petty
wants, getting a little messy

What I crave instead's stained-glass contraptions
to propel me past the stretches
of biblical proportion
where light and dark don't mix.
I'm no Idiot, good-hearted
in the veins of Fyodor
or Akira, and I can't see
beyond the pure tedium
of a blurredly driven snow

I like my mental drifts grime-choked and splotched
with some savory do
dropped in to dissolve flossy
confections to a salted soup
of imagined impurity.

She is known to stand out from the crowd.

And Jessica Hart made sure all eyes were on her in a shimmering golden gown as she attended the God’s Love We Deliver, Golden Heart Awards at Spring Studio in New York on Thursday night.

The 29-year-old Australian beauty turned heads in the dazzling sequined mini dress as she oozed Hollywood glamour for the star studded event.

The former Victoria's Secret model showcased her trim and tanned pins in the shift dress which boasted long sleeves which Jessica rolled up to her elbows.

The dress featured a number of metallic hues including silver and bronze which perfectly matched her strappy silver high heels.

Proving why she is a catwalk favourite, the 1.77 metre tall statuesque stunner flashed her trademark gap-toothed grin for the cameras on the red carpet of the glittering A-list gala.

In-keeping with the graceful theme of her look, Jessica wore her luscious blonde locks in an elegant up do to showcase her striking ****** features.

She sported copper-coloured eye shadow which added to her glittering ensemble, while her flawless complexion was accentuated with a light powdering of foundation.

Jessica let her spotlight stealing dress speak for itself as she opted for minimal accessories, wearing just a single ring on her left hand and a pair of diamond encrusted stud earrings, whilst carrying a perspex clutch which contained her wallet and phone.

The supermodel attended the event solo as her boyfriend of three years, billionaire Stavros Niarchos III - was not at her side.

However instead, Jessica mingled with a handful of her model pals including Toni Garnn and Cameron Russell.

With long legs and a small waist, genetically blessed Jessica knows how to rock her enviable figure.

She recently opened up about her body in the October issue of Cosmopolitan Australia, revealing how she manages to stay in shape.

'I have a private trainer, he’s a Pilates teacher, a yoga teacher and a personal trainer all in one,' she admitted.

'And when I can’t work out I just try to eat a little less pasta!'

Meanwhile, Jessica lives with her beau Stavros in New York's trendy East Village, with rumours surfacing earlier this year that the pair were engaged.

But with no official word yet from the couple as to whether nuptials are impending, they seem happy living a relatively quiet life with their competing busy schedules.

Stavros famously dated Olsen twin Mary-Kate for several years, as well as controversial socialite Paris Hilton.

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I have a problem...
A very serious problem.
I cannot talk to machines.

I try to reason with them,
But always go into a surrealistic episode
Ending with a tirade of foul insults.

A syrupy voice says with a British touch
"When you hear your choice please
Please say yes or press one,
Followed by the hashtag....”
I scream such ****** things!
But I cannot get the her angry.
Has she taken a Socratic oath?
Did she take some cyber LSD?

I say, “Hey babe, ever have an ******”
Y’know what she says to me,
That I’m being sexist.
“So you think, I mean really think
Of yourself as a woman? “
“I’m Cyber Gender,
No need to be mean.
Why do you hate me?
I don’t hate you.”

(Imagine some millennial programmer
Was hired for infuriating pleasantness!
They heard of  people like me, the old ones,
Pampering us like we emerged from a jungle
And would get lost in a supermarket).

The elevator asks me what floor,
And reminds me to have a nice day.
(O,  how I miss that operator man
Going up and down all his life,
With bad breath and body odors,
Dandruff powdering his uniform,
Saying something poetic about the baseball game...
Seeing us daily at our best and worst
He might say “have a good one,”
But only if he meant it.)

The self-pay check-out reminds me
“Please take your cell phone.”
Everyone near
Holds it like the battery
To their hearts.

I see the latest blockbusters of
Man versus the Androids.
Man always used to win.
Lately the screen writers prefer the robots.
(O, forgive me! AI.  My bad.
“Robots” are not PC! Lol, lol, lol...)  

How shall I proceed-  
They’ll lock me up if I’m not careful.
I’ve noticed the folks in power
Who have conversations with God  
Have no problem with Siri.

These malicious machines don’t get drunk.
They can never understand
There’s great empathy in human relationship
Even if the other person, like yourself,
Is not really listening.

You're in the bathroom powdering your nose
While a man in a tuxedo waits for you at the bar
Though it's not the shine you are trying to disguise
Or the scars you gave up trying to hide
One more inhale and you'll be fine
Exaggerations
Exaggerations clouded your head
You have retained more than you can control
And all the facts are scattered on the bed
Lingering on your pale flesh
Flushed and fragile
You need delicate hands to touch you
But you find only sandpaper in the night
Coarse, rough skin
Pressed against you
With the tuxedo mans lips kissing your ear-
Whispering into your head
The lights inside your mind dim as you begin to disappear
Until tomorrow-
Life's only a distant falsity

(C) Tiffanie Doro

wintry sun,
brief,
byplay yard
shadowed in cold

and yet

powdering
golden tones,
drafting
a fire, a mirage.

heyday adjourned.

ethereal hibernaculum
of the light,
tilting floret in
full-blown decay.

we
all sit by the tree, waiting
taking a grave stroll now and then
seeking the moment
between past and future perfect
but all return to the tree
to wait for Godocalypse

many are sure he will arrive
and some believe they will be alive
swooped up by some magical mystical hand
to a permanent never never land
four horsemen will gallantly gallop by
their demon defying dust powdering a skeptical sky
but the unwashed will be “left behind”
relying on the wretched rest of mankind
anticipating the cataclysm and the clash
and a singular blinding flash
seven years of trials and tribulation
and I suspect a Jew-less jubilation
if the ultimate One does arrive

for now, we all
(jew-gentile-heathen-hindu-buddhist-muslim-infidel-gay-straig­ht-rich-poor-black-white)
sit by the tree
waiting for Godocalypse

They were her hands,
Destined for pleasure.
Fingers tied knots
Ringed with gold,
And pointed the way
For growing old.

Palms held petals,
Bows, ribbons
And pages;
Wrists watched
The measured time
Of keys and games;
Wrapped packaged treasures,
Opened doors.

They were small
Determined hands,
Covered in flour
White skin
Powdering her face,
Inviting
Me in.

Hands held in supplication,
Joy and despair;
Hands in need
Of salvation.

Like leaves on
Autumn branches
That branches
Can't hold,
Her hands
Lost their grip,
Then closed
And fell cold.

Today is a day,
for nostalgia;

For the reaper to finally and momentarily be
beaten.

Even in all of his infinite wisdom,
in which the past becomes just a laugh,
and the lurid poisons of our love,
have the shallow touch of a feather.

When the snow begins,
we relive all those duldroms,
all those meaningless nothings
seemingly so meaningful and wrong,
long ago.

We retell our stories,
silently,
to ourselves,
feeling less bitter as the words
litter our minds,
powdering the pain,
and covering with joy,
our sorrow.

In dementia,
they say,
our love goes stronger every day.

Grows newer
in old ways.

I hope to be like you someday.

Today,
we will beat the bitter sandpaper of tomorrow,
that which rubs away our definition with every brutal blow,
with the soft tapping of our fingers
against our skulls.

Puzzling over what made us beautiful and purposeful,
instead of what crowds against us like a box,
instead of what destroys us like a skipping cd,
instead of what sings against our mind like a harpy
with it's constant verses of regretfulness
that grow stronger with every fatal flaw
we rehash in ourselves.

once more,
you will be as beautiful to me today,
as that swirling suffocation.

I watch you fall outside my window,
covering each and every lichened rock,
in a linen of newness.

In silence,
I stop listening for the return of your love,
and instead marvel in the present satisfaction,
that you are,
and were.

I revel in your presentness,
in the swiftness of your presentation.

In the delicacy of your touch,
and the humility you drive me too,
as you take me too my knees with
each
quiet
drop.

And yes,
you will melt.

And yes,
I will remember.

And yes,
I will see the snow melt,
driven away by the erosion of the sun.

You make a good bed,
Sophia said.

I smoothed the top sheet
of Mr H's bed
with a motion
of my hand,
trying hard not
to look at her
by the sink
in the corner.

It's a firm bed,
isn't it?

It's metal framed
for endurance,
I said,
lifting my head,
seeing her standing there
with Vim powder
in her hand
and cloth in the other.

We have ****?

I pulled up the blankets
and duvet,
pretending I hadn't heard.

No one around,
she said,
be safe.

Until Mr H
or some other old boy
comes along
and keels over
clutching their heart,
I replied.

She smiled, turned
and began powdering
the sink and scrubbing
with the cloth.

I looked out the window
at the grounds below;
the grass
was a bright green,
the few trees
in full leaf.

I turned
and she was
standing there
with one foot
on the bed
and her skirt hem
lifted, showing
a fair glimpse of leg.

You sure
we not have ****?

Not here, not now,
I said,
taking the glimpse
of leg inside my head.  

She pouted her lip
and shook her long
blonde hair.

Shame,
it could be good.

I went out the room,
closing the door,
thinking of my next task,
giving Sidney
his morning bath,
and as I walked on,
I heard her
mocking laugh.

******* powdering our guns
white powder powdering our gums

this is the new world

i hope your happiness grows sweeter and sweeter
and each layer of dulcet pleasure wraps around
your heart like some great red lozenge.

i hope your happiness grows hard in your chest
like a too-sweet lump
with a liquidy sour center

i hope your happiness tastes like my mouth
and my bile
and my love for you powdering your lips.

i hope your happiness grows like a tumor
and your skin shrivels around it
while you wither in late summer heat.

i hope you cant sleep at night
and your heart slathered in happiness
draws every hungry bug.

i hope you have it removed,
that jawbreaker you call an *****
and i hope you choke on it

A Snowbird’s Trip

Through Powdering snow flakes and cold wind

Rushing forward ahead of Jack Frost

This was certainly a race of endurance

to reach our paradise…..To avoid becoming his victoms

Freedom of Jack Frost’s Curse was the cost.

Past overcome victims

The odds were stacked.

We busted through Jack Frost’s Icy Wall

As to escape to a brighter destination..a war..

The first wave.. We attacked.

Jack struck back with all of his icy might..

However, the Snow Bird was too cunning….

We were upon strong wing

And blurred out of sight.

I walked in with her ******* in the air, still wearing her shoes like some **** star we the younger generation wants so badly.
My best friend is helping her hide her ****** with himself inside of her.
Clenched fist, tears turning to fire, gritting my teeth so hard I feel them powdering away.
The door **** is nothing but a twisted *** of metal as I tear the door of the wall,
Clubbing his head with all my rage only made my bloodlust thirst.
I grabbed the mirror and smashed it a crossed the both of them,
The room now filled with shards of glass; the sunlight making it look like as if the bedroom was crying with me.
Sweat, tears, body odor, blood, spit, all in the air nauseating my brain, like spoiled food to a sick man.
Each hand is full of hair, one his, one hers, were headed towards the kitchen.
I see the garbage disposal, the knife block, the priceless hardwood table.
I see red, black, white.
All I can hear is ****, ****, ****.
My head filled with only with regret. My hands covered in blood, is it mine or is it theirs?
One deep breath, one look down, one thought….

Those quiet moments
When I’ve laid awake all night
And life has swallowed everyone up for the day
And the voices in my head
Are wave over wave
Self-loathing lashes over love of others
And those I love distantly
Are more distant than before
And I meditate on my life
And my map is smeared with tears
****, I knew where I was going
But now the route has faded from the paper.

In my hands I feel skin
Warm and alive
I feel a soft, contented smile
Pressed against my lips
I can almost see them, smell them
This other
The being that completes the circuit
So there can finally be light in my eyes

They say
"Your somebody’s out there, waiting just for you."
Pretty words
Meaningless
From birth I’ve been marked
Many have loved my mind
Many have loved my heart
Few have ever loved me

So every time someone says “I love you.”
I put those words in the closet with the rest
That spilled from the lips of maybe, possibly, not really lovers
I know what they see
What they see in my eyes, feel coursing through my veins
The evils of two families I never asked to be born into
But I pay the penalty for their carnal sins
If you’re born of monsters, what does that make you?

Those quiet moments
Each day that rolls by
And the earth keeps turning
And I can feel the cobwebs on my skin
The dust powdering my hair
The rust corroding my unembracing arms
Each day, another day another day another day
Each one same as the last
Laughter and smiles, I play the puppet
And oh how I dance
A performance so convincing
I almost believe it myself

Those quiet moments
When make-believe is better than reality
Escaping into my mind
Hour after hour
Where I’m the victor
And to me go the spoils
Crimson rubies and honey gold
Lavish and adored
Fought over and fought for
Then real life comes shrieking in
And all the pretty gilded things turn to sand
And I feel so old, like I’ve lived three lifetimes in one

In these quiet moments
I wish it’d all just be

Quiet

As I sit here
In the corner of the couch
My spot, 0:0:0:0
grown down
Says a whisper

I ask myself
What do people my age
Generally do?
Is it normal for a girl
Of 27
To stay home on weekends

Should be powdering my nose
not that powder, actual powder
Getting ready
To go out
Release some stress
do something stupid!
Says the whisper

But no
I'm here making a list
For the grocery store
How much is enough
All my friends have done this

My boss once asked me
On a company dinner
Late friday night
"What are you doing here"
Huh good question

Suppose that when he was 23
He was ship wrecked at this time
But then I asked
"Where did you live at my age"
"With my parents"

Then it is safe to say
Your idea of safety
Was different than mine
"Suppose so" he admitted

So my late resolution
For the year
Is to grown down
And get stupid.

now that powdering your nose
has a whole new meaning
what pray tell will we do with our noses next?