"primping" poems
it is temporary
the mirrored faces reflecting back into one-
it is as temporary as the sun.
it is temporary,
this burning body of youth.
it is temporary insanity
and temporary truth.
it is movable pieces
in the bottle of corked vermouth.
it is ungrateful youth
and all her fantasy
her ****** opportunity-
the days of endless sunshine
fogged with cascading rain,
full of superficial pain,
that only sets into the skin to rise up
much later.
blemished traitors
of your failing past.
it is temporary,
the primping of memories undone-
it is as temporary as the blazing gun.
it is temporary,
it is fleeting
and no matter how these products
keep us believing
they are nothing more
then distractions, they are deceiving.
as the sand is thrown in our glossy eyes
and stars that once opened in the night sky
just for us-
open no more.
we retire from the bridled gore
of youth and her tireless war
and forever more,
must sing the songs of fading youth.
must curse the uncouth,
the way the years
have wandered by
without any proper goodbye
and we, as strangers
in this looming unknown
we must come to know
as past our prime,
past our time,
and be spectators
into the theatre of vanity
we are now excluded from.
oh, how we wish we’d undone
the regrets and missteps-
but we are denied
to ever confide
the wisdom we’ve gained
since beauty and youth
have fled-
we are condemned
to be voiceless passengers
on our train ride to the end.
yet, this is temporary.
as temporary as you and i,
the ailing sky,
the aching stars,
the rolling hilltops,
tracing to the mouth of the river
and when we are at once delivered
to a final resting stop-
we pray, we hope
as tooth and nail dragged
we try to cope,
to be temporary no more-
temporary no more-
temporary no more-
temporary no more-
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 7:11 PM UTC
I saw a dream
once upon a time.
Don’t know when
but often it seems
as old as time.
Until comes the interpreter
goodness knows
where that’s feet are.
No one was primping
but the meaning shows up
all in all is a mirror.
Oh, when did it all begin?
Now, looking at the mirror
often it makes me wonder,
is there a past or future,
besides an omnipresent like now
truly a full moon picture.
Aug 6, 2021
Aug 6, 2021 at 1:00 PM UTC
You are my dandylion
and I wait with stealth of a summer day
for you to stop preening in the field
of high grass and green bottles.
Yes. I wait, stroke you gentle
with the ease of the summer breeze
as you sway and waltz
for the primroses and the cricket.
I watch with willful patience
like the ripening of the wild belladonna.
as you tease with your burst of yellow
for the field mouse and the garden gnome.
Yes. I will wait like summers heat
And when you are done,
And when your pretty
petals
lay
limply
at
your
roots,
I will take you gentle into my summers grasp
and with my summers breathe
blow your beautiful grey afro out unto the world to swallow.
Dandylion, pretty primping boy are you.
Sahn 6/7/2014
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
honest, the ones that hurt the most to write
are the self-love poems because
they remind me no one's around
to do it for me. they're also the most rewarding
to finish for the same reason. sometimes i sit at
the hickory writing desk my grandfather built
waiting for clarity to be chirped out of the bulb of a
trumpet or true love honked longingly from the
fever nose of a saxophone but it never happens that way.
instead i write my feelings -- veined hand curled
around a crude pencil with gnawed erasers at both ends.
or idly scratch the flowers from the wallpaper
while the moon looks down like a twisted bottle-cap
smashed in half by macho fingers into the gray
asphalt sky primping its reflection in the pond,
i think that someday i'll learn to love myself the same
way, by facing all my bad parts in the sharp mirror and my
friends abandoning me. each time they do i hold church inside
my own individual heart on sundays or saturdays,
huddled tight on the first frozen december morning around
a hymnal fire altar, only standing to **** or light another
stick of peppered citrus incense. but right now
i've got a crumb of real turkish hash
and only spittle left in the wine bottle reciting Keats
to the empty moon-painted cow field across the brittle fence
and laughing with lilac bulbs pasted on my face, watching
a low cloud thread itself between the skinny
barbs of pecan tree fingers as i wander through
the orchard. the stars hop restlessly like chigger bugs
and sparkle raw in my
swimming-pool-blue eyes but the ones that
blink back really aren't stars at all.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
She steps out of bed in the morning. Standing, stretching, rubbing half open eyes. She doesn't even so much as glance in the mirror as she walks softly across the cold, hardwood floor and into the bathroom to shower. She turns on the water and tests it to see if it's too cold or too hot. Jumping in she washes away the filth of sad dreams and her wandering mind. Stepping out she wraps herself in a warm fuzzy towel and shuffles quietly into her room, making sure she doesn't wake the rest of her house, she closes her door and turns on her music. As she stares in the mirror she turns up the volume on her iPod so that it's drowns out the sounds of her thoughts calling her ugly, pale and sickly. She sighs and begins to pile on the makeup. Fixing her face to perfection, pulling and magnifying every eyelash and covering every pimple. Once she is semi-satisfied with her product filled face she starts on her hair. Plowing thought tangled curls, straightening and curling, primping and poking and prodding until every piece of hair from root to tip is burned to a crisp. She smiles to her reflection, at least it's a little prettier than before, she thinks. Yet, she's still unsatisfied, she frowns again. She'd rather have her entire face covered and unseen. She moves on to her wardrobe, not liking anything in her closet she raids her mothers. Finding something suitable and baggy to cover her layers of fat (the whole 150 pounds of it), she looks in the mirror one more time. Unhappy with the finished product she checks her watch and realizes she doesn't have time to change. She trumps out the door to the big, bumpy, smelly, annoying bus and listens to the other kids have fun. When she gets to school she walks to the looming doors alone, then walks alone to her locker. In fact, she spends the entire day alone. Even though her school holds over 500 people at this very moment. After school she walks to the same bus she arrived in. Smelling and feeling the same as earlier in the day. She arrives home to an empty house and makes some ramen noodles and tea. Then she sits and does homework and watches TV until around midnight and goes into her room, brushes her teeth and goes to sleep. Just to wake up and do it all again tomorrow.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
New Lovers are interesting creatures
Primping our feathers and polishing tongues
So that rehearsed stories slip out with ease
Ahhhhhh...these resplendent but dangerous times
The preening and waxing of word, as the hands of the clock move
Become less playful lures and more so ... expectant promises
That can resemble and feel like chain link
Ahhhhh...these resplendent but dangerous times
Oh but the temptation to throw caution to the wind is too strong
We tear off our clothes and dive into love's depths
And we forget our mother's caution "Still Waters Run Deep!"
Ahhhhh...these resplendent but dangerous times
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 11:53 AM UTC
Oh how these Strings wrap our Candied Dreams bear
When sordid Fantasies plead our Wishes real
Though caught by Intent from Good Sages hear
Submit to Heart his Childish Play reveal
Though evident Time and Geography states
And Primping Albums we'd like to Assume
These Spectral Lines think to earn our Best Rebates
Then soon Collapse his Investment subsume
For all his Campaigns ribboned his Image
Such his Craft only forced us to beknow
As Profits and Shares feed his Entourage
And only for Them his True Seedlings grow.
So why the Trap we swallow still Fancy
Restrict potent Friends - and salt Family?
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
How stunning
Can a single,
Lone human being be
With skin so smooth,
Flawless
Like a stone
Washed over and perfected
From what seems like
Years,
Blossoming in all sorts
Of colors
Like the vibrant reds
The same shade
As the most adorable blush
One I'm unable to decipher
Whether it is
A natural beauty
Or a masqued era
Shadowing eyes
Behind the truth,
What lies just below the surface,
Of what you think you see.
Your lips stick to what you're saying
Concealing what you're so afraid of
What you're trying to hide
The very foundation
Of who you are.
The smile you show,
Gleaming at the world around you,
To them,
May be completely normal,
Absolutely genuine.
But I know you,
And that air of confidence
Comes with it,
Much more consequence
Because,
What you never learned for yourself
While you were
Too busy
Primping your hair
And checking your nails
Was to focus
On what was truly beautiful.
So you spent endless money
Crafting a perfect face
For imperfect people
To impress those
Same people you seem to hate
For no good reason
And what killed me
Is that what you forgot
I noticed while you were with those who didn't relate much
Was that your mind was the most beautiful part you
And it never had on makeup.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC
When I miss you, the world goes dark
When I miss you, I can't breathe
I feel it in my chest
Echoing in our now quiet room
I guess it's just my room now.
I miss you and my lungs won't work
When I miss you, it all hurts
Every **** thing hurts
And I don't know how to make it go
I can't put it into words.
I miss you, and it is bitter
I miss you in my heart-soul
Yes-It all feels empty
And I don't know how to make it stop
I can't make it go away
I miss you, my heart is hollow
I can't sleep without you here
It has been 2 months now.
Yeah - I keep track of how long it's been
Like a drug, I can't let go
I miss you - my body is numb
You say it wasn't my fault,
But I don't believe you
Yeah - I blame myself, what did you think?
That I would just move on? No.
No - I am stuck here like this, now
Your ghost haunts our old bedroom
Comes and goes like vapor
Or a cloud of dust - yeah, more like dust
Settled over my life
And no matter how much dusting
How much cleaning or primping
Or moving that I do,
You will never truly be gone - no,
You will never truly leave
Because this house - room is haunted
Haunted by the one thing that
Will never truly go
It's you, it's always been you - phantom,
Ghost of could have's and almost's
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 5:21 PM UTC
Glass box mirror,
she's primping and prepping,
neon lights in a smoky bar,
alluring and unrelenting,
swaying and swarming she is on the hunt, praying she isn't the one being preyed on.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 1:33 PM UTC
You're not my type
Not in the slightest
But yet, there you are making me ever so nervous
And yet, here I am primping myself up for no reason
You're not my type
Not in the conventional ways
But yet, here you are saying my name and I blush
And yet, here I am writing about someone who doesn't notice me
You're an anomaly in my day to day functions and I am ready to explore
Oct 21, 2019
Oct 21, 2019 at 2:44 PM UTC
The ticks of the clock are wavering under the sound of snoring through the house
I cannot see the clock
And it seems I've been here so long
I wonder if time has stopped,
Slowed, drooling down
Their cheeks
Onto a pillow
As I slyly try to slip
unnoticed
into that same unconsciousness
Search party flashlights shine thoughts to my mind
Pierce me for a moment
So bright
I must look
And ****
Just like that,
There goes the exit sign
So I flop around like a sunbather
Flustered
No light to soak,
While the next head over
(My sisters)
Is draped in a French fry crown
Being fanned by her burger henchmen
The McDonalds queen
orders her bidding done
And mom
Below in the basement
Is caught in her teens
Primping feathery hair
To an 80's pop tune
Chanting into her hairbrush
Until she becomes Stevie nicks herself
And next door,
and on this street,
and the next,
People enter their portals
To find (or forget) the untouchable realm of their minds
And I lie
And I wait
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 12:27 AM UTC
Is it wrong to want to write hit songs
smoke from bongs while wearing thongs
move the throngs into song
about long dongs and walking along beaches…
what is the problem with tripping with dips
and nipping buds while ripping joints
flipping skirts and dripping squirters
primping limp ***** in front of debutants…
it has to be alright to fight the right wing blighters
near sighted and mighty with Jesus
high on tea leaves and asking why can’t **** victims
just have the baby at night
tis their plight….
Aghast, I blast past raspy voiced smokers
Flashing my press pass at the ****** masses
I lash lasses with pizazz on the bleachers
preaching all the time about reaching for Zion
screeching teachers speechify
addressing lecherous miser’s
bent by societies plyers ….
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
The floor cared not about the transient presence of my bare, calloused feet upon it, and it returned no hushed squeaks or slaps to the questioning foot-falls of my tired, heavy steps. In fact, the only indicator I had moved about at all were the spattered sand drifts that flaked off my soles slowly with the grinding of my heels in each trip.
A soft, self satisfied whisper came from the edges of my cotton skirt as it dipped down to drink momentarily, the cool insulation of the tile floors grazing its parched lips.
I hadn't had a cigarette in months. hadn't even crossed my mind, truly. Something in the sticky summer air called me to revisit old tendencies, and it was admittedly maddening trying to resist. I had already done the hard part. That was, going about acquiring the ****** things. I was out of a car due to some irresponsibility and malfeasance on my own part, and the engine blowing on my former transport. Besides, I had no real notion where the nearest filing station was, seeing as this wasn't my city. For a moment, I let the unforeseeable notion sweep me away with it, and tried persuading it to disappear.
It was merely out of chance that on the way home from the beach earlier this evening, our car would be in need of filling up. As he fiddled with the various buttons and nozzles on the marquee, I slipped discretely inside and purchased a pack of my old favorites. I contemplated lighting one up immediately but suddenly, I felt ashamed for my relent in defense against temptation, and instead tucked them away, un-tampered.
The sun and all of its steaminess had sunken back into the earth, and a cool sea breeze swelled about me and rushed in through the passenger side window to ruffle my hair. I had spent twenty minutes into primping it just right, but it was the end of the night and had decided to give up caring as I edged my head closer to that blustering wind.
Back home again, my fingers found the crisp plastic-lined corners of cardboard stuck in the left side of my clutch and, once again I toyed with the idea of giving in. No use, I had nothing to spark with. I let the package fall back into its place in exasperation.
I suppose it's better this way.
C.e.M. June 22
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 2:22 PM UTC
When e'er i chance
to steel a passing glance
in the mirror hairline fractures appear
than 'afore long
snap, crackle, pop
becomes crystal clear,
whence aluminium glass mirror
(made of a float glass
incorporating additional processes)
leaves highly reflective surface patina 'ere
one narcissist ken
while away countless hours
preening, primping, and pruning
e'en the slightest glare
ring blemish finds cause
for cosmetic surgery
evincing interlinear
crows feet and dark
circular "bags" that distinctly lear,
which medical term for skin folds
and ballottable skin edema
described as “festoon,”
or “malar mound,”
an eye sore overclear
demanding immediate
dermatological action
(if necessary) taking
extra adipose tissue from rear
end supposed extra junk in the trunk,
where derrière,
would not be unduly sore,
perhaps requiring
(whatever would suture self)
plus extra padded underwear
which subjugation voluntarily
"going under the knife,"
would stave off depredations aging
(such as puffy eyes)
at least for another year.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 11:22 PM UTC
Primping Vapor
Forever a Laughter
Of
Buddha
Belly
Blossom
Booming
Reminder
Of Minds
Nothingness
Properly Attired
Suit
Of
Non committal
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 5:51 AM UTC
After caffeine fix
after long lost documents
from my adolescence
(the old country)
reviewed and dictated into English
after primping
for my love to love me
I indulge myself
in self exam
I'm a good boy "are'nt I"
likable and lovable
which is not bad
after all these years
of turmoil
women, children
stress
one-on-one sessions
sessions with family
(those are the worst)
making a living
but here I am
alive and hale
having fun
with what I've been given
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 9:45 PM UTC
And he wouldn't care
If she stopped working so hard
Stopped spending those hours
Primping
Prepping
Practicing
To gain his attention.
To catch that single moment
To pray she stays on his mind.
And he wouldn't care
What she does,
She's all beauty to him
In the little things.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 12:07 PM UTC