"tanning" poems
I'd like to think that she's thinking:
"How far have I fallen?"
As she sits on the corner of her bed,
Listening to the soft buzz of his battery-powered toothbrush.
I imagine her,
Running her fingers through her clumsy, coagulated hair.
Glancing at her chipped, crimson toe nails,
Then looking to her class ring,
Made entirely of imitation ingredients,
Wondering when is the proper time to trash it.
When she was still a friend of mine,
I never saw her wear make up,
I never saw her show off in tight jeans
or low-cut tees.
But as he spews the toothpaste into the sink,
Skinny jeans lay tussled on the floor,
Next to the side door
that leads to his sister's side room.
The make up she wears
is from the night before.
It's skewed and shows evidence of running,
Like a wasted watercolor.
I'd like to think he isn't that handsome,
And that he's obsessed with Paul Walker.
I'd like to think when he re-enters the room,
He's in grey sweatpants,
He's wearing a black tank top,
With a Confederate flag backdrop,
With two barely dressed babes looking ******
in the foreground.
His hair, unwashed and greasy.
He rubs his belly,
And bears an idiot grin
on his face.
Looking like he just learned how to smile
at this pace.
"Did it feel good?"
feel good.
After he asks, he scans her body,
Beginning at those crimson toes,
And Ending at that clumsy hair.
Every second he scans,
He still wears that drawn-on
Idiot grin.
I'd like to think at this point she thinks of me.
Of my warnings and prophesy.
Her eyes start at the chipped toe nails,
Course over her tanning bed-inspired legs.
And finally reach the only thing she has on,
A t-shirt that belongs to his sister.
A t-shirt, when given by him,
It was mentioned, "thanks, mister".
Though she didn't satisfy all his redneck intentions,
During last night's expedition.
He still paid her back with a morning
one-sided session.
"It felt good" she says.
In reference to the ten minute **********
When her body was strummed and plucked,
Underneath his sister's Terri Clark T-shirt.
As she sits in the filth and the ****** fallout,
On a bed that is six days *****
While he is grinning,
Being everything but wordy.
I'd like to think she's thinking:
"How far have I fallen?"
Jun 4, 2010
Jun 4, 2010 at 10:31 PM UTC
Sunflowers can be compared to everything. Hope, love, life, happiness.
Here, let me show you.
Imagine each petal
Gracefully touching your lips, traveling all over your
Face, stopping at your twinkling blue eyes.
Love.
The Yellow of the petals is the sweltering sun,
Beating down. Warming your insides and tanning your skin.
The seeds being Laughter, Tickling the insides of your mouth.
Happiness.
The long green stems growing too mountainous
Heights, spilling over running children and smiling adults.
Life.
The scent filling your vivacious lungs,
Propelling you forward,
Content with this.
Hope.
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 11:36 PM UTC
Sweet dough with chocolate spots
Tanning in the oven
The chips slowly melt
The delicious smell seeps out of the oven
Temptation to take them out early lingers in my brain
When they're done I have to wait 2 more minutes for them to cool
When it's time the excitement is like fireworks
They taste of joy
Ode to Chocolate Chip Cookies
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
I am a person of colour
Whose simple presence can cause outrage
they use their tongues as swords
and slay me with slurs
Whilst there are others who pretend to be my ally
but I can see their disgust in their eyes
their uneasiness in their smile
I am a person of colour
Whose beautiful traditional garments are cherry-picked
and woven into a disgusting replica
brandished on “Designer labels”
and mocked as exotic
I am a person of colour
Whose skin is secretly envied by them
they exhaust their expenses on tanning salons
and “bronzing” creams
Yet simultaneously they spit on my “darkness”
and promote their products with the so-called beauty of “lightness”
I am a person of colour
I shall not hide my anger at their ignorance
I shall wear my skin with pride
Because being a person of colour
No matter what I do or how I conform
They will never be satisfied
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
A porcupine skin,
Stiff with bad tanning,
It must have ended somewhere.
Stuffed horned owl
Pompous
Yellow eyed;
Chuck-wills-widow on a biased twig
Sooted with dust.
Piles of old magazines,
Drawers of boy's letters
And the line of love
They must have ended somewhere.
Yesterday's Tribune is gone
Along with youth
And the canoe that went to pieces on the beach
The year of the big storm
When the hotel burned down
At Seney, Michigan.
6.6k
Ignorance is bliss,
really,
more like Stupidity.
an aspect,
benefiting a person,
like cold sore,
irritating,
an annoyance,
peevish to your life.
Face it, honey,
you’re as fake,
as your personality.
You’re plastic,
I could melt you,
if I truly desired,
setting a lighted match,
to your artificial body.
Please, take some advice,
lay off the make-up,
you look like a clown,
maybe a **********
Tanning is acceptable,
but looking dark orange,
is outrageous.
There is no need to look,
like you just rolled in bag of Doritos,
that’s Snooki’s Job.
There is more to life,
besides appearances,
waking up like P. Diddy,
sweet heart, don’t like be Kesha,
it’s ******
Partying is enjoyable,
but not necessary every night,
consisting of drinking,
frat boys, jocks, pretty boys,
saying “oh my god”,
or “I broke a nail”,
and precarious ***
I know you were raised with Barbies,
but you don’t have to be one.
Barbie is a piece of plastic,
containing no originality,
with an unfeasible body,
and isn’t real,
much like yourself.
Stop with the act,
no one wants to be,
around a person,
who is often intoxicated,
narcissistic,
and a ditzy *****
You can be a girly girl,
but be genuine,
stop being a follower,
if everyone jumps off a bridge,
then you’ll be splattered,
upon the ground with them,
no use to anyone.
My words are probably useless,
going right through the holes,
of yours ears,
attached to the plastic head of yours.
Anyways, I tried,
as excruciating as it was,
to reach out to you,
who are living this life,
of alleged greatness,
more like a travesty,
in my eyes.
Hopefully, you’ll change,
wake up from this social stupor,
become yourself,
regain your individuality,
and cease to be,
a Barbie doll.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 2:54 PM UTC
The sun
Is glad to see your face,
Your unseen grace,
Your Hidden space,
Your
Silhouette now covered in sun beams.
It seems
You've been
Packed away for a very long time
Its almost a crime how you've
Shielded yourself from his hydrogenity.
The sun
Is glad to see your smile
Your pearly whites
And colorless lips
Soft,
Too cold,
needing,
Craving,
warmth.
His
Golden fingers graze your cheek
And Bring life back to your pallor.
Who knew
Living as a recluse would make you so blue,
So unidentifiable?
He Brings you back from the dead
Pulling your soul back out
into your flesh.
Fresh
And healed,
At least Temporarily
But it
is enough,
His touch,
To liven your now tanning skin
To Make you akin to his own:
A sunflower
Trapped in the dark
3 inches tall instead of 3 feet
Now starting to grow beyond skyscrapers with his aid,
if his light is what's causing you to
Stand up straight
His heat is what is reviving your heartbeat
A Crescendo from silence to a slight pitter patter
Almost as soft as rain.
Almost as if crying.
If you listen hard enough,
You just might hear it wimpering, waking up from it's hibernation.
It
Wants to go back to sleep
But he
Refuses to give up his efforts of recesitation
For he knows it isn't for naught,
For he knows that it is working,
Your heart stirring
Beating
Louder as you step further out of the door frame
Let him
Cradle your soul with his firey hands
Let him
Bring you back from the dead.
You Look so much more alive when you let him work his magic on you.
The world
Has missed you.
Looking around,
Your mind starts whirring,
Analysing The outside world.
The Green of the grass and the
Blue of the sky,
All Graces of the solar angel shining over you,
Shining into you.
Giving you sight,
Giving you life,
Giving you the things you couldn't have before.
Let his
Golden happiness seep into your freezing bones,
And,
Turn them into torches
And burn brighter, in the daylight
Than you ever did in the darkness.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 10:53 AM UTC
Calf augmentation => silicon implantation
Endoscopy, otoplasty, baby
Mentoplasty, rhinoplasty, scalpel
Juvederm at 4, Starbucks pit-stop right after,
pop some xany's and go
Chemical peel, dermabrasion
Dr. Unknown PhD. meet patient Montag XR3.
Brain stimulation, kneecap replacement
Doc, I'm starting to miss the table, is this a complication I should expect?
Fat grafting, bone grafting, mystic tanning
(what really is natural nowadays?)
Chin reconstruction, laser resurfacing,
(what really is me anyways?)
Consultation with your post-op pain,
It's gonna be "Ouchy" for a month,
but worth it in the end.
Self-esteem scan shows a cancerous tumor and growth
Yuck
And here I thought plastic was
"cancer-free"?
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 11:43 PM UTC
Meadows surround me.
My hair catches in the breeze,
You whisper but I don't hear you.
The wind whips my dress.
I feel free.
And complete.
There is existence around me,
But I don't see it.
All that's left in this moment is me.
Flowers have sprouted and birds fly past,
But I can't tell you about them.
Because I am free.
And complete.
I turn my face to the sun and soak up the rays.
My skin tanning, the warmth enveloping me.
I sigh.
I feel free.
I am complete.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
GUNS
Tanning
Karate
Outrunning storms on 40
Outlasting my compatriots full of toxins
Yawning after afternoon
Delight and coffees.
I'm going to miss her like hell
When I expatriate,
Her and these simple road signs.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 2:40 AM UTC
My daughter will not crawl from crib to tanning bed.
She will learn
the terms “unnattainable beauty standards” before she learns the alphabet.
She will never compare herself
to anyone.
She will never compare herself to Britney, Christina, Selena.
She will never compare herself to Cinderella, Ariel, Belle,
Hell. No.
She will never aspire to be the sultry *** kitten taking seductive showers in shampoo commercials.
No.
My daughter will be named Venus.
The goddess of love, beauty, fertility,
The most beautiful woman I ever saw.
She is plump, fullfigured barebreasted wide hipped with curly hair covered mons
Goddess.
My daughter will grow up to be ****** poisonously beautiful
With long locks of goldenrodred hair, like her mother.
Greyblueblack eyes and shoulder freckles, like her father.
And if I can never become pregnant,
my sisters daughters will be my daughters
skin the color of cinnamon or chocolate, or vanilla ice cream
and just as sweet.
Men, women, boys, girls will pine over her, fall in love with her radiating skin
that will never look photoshopped, but always real.
As if the sun came down from the sky to give her the glow of all the light in the universe.
She will love her body the way that my mother taught me to love mine.
I will show her pictures of Whoopi Goldberg and America Ferrera and Margaret Cho and Marilyn Monroe
And she will know that beauty
is not a synonym
for skinny.
Beauty
is not a synonym for
****
Beauty is not defined by size
or color
or texture, no.
It is defined by how she distributes
her love
and light
to everyone she meets.
no exceptions.
and she will never doubt that she is lovely.
Sep 2, 2011
Sep 2, 2011 at 11:47 AM UTC
Thunder resonates throughout my entire being
If there's rain,
I can't feel it
But I can taste it
As it slithers past my parted lips,
Cool against the tip of my tongue
Absently, I watch it caress my skin
Slowly pouring down,
Like tears across my face
Briefly revealing my bruised soul
And I wish I could describe this ache
I hate the terror in my head
More than I could ever possibly say
I doubt anyone will ever have the patience to break through my walls
After all,
Damaged goods are still damaged
No matter how attractive they might be
I can't ****** my way into a happy ending
© 2014 Peach
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
*In their blind bid
To become westernized,
They lost touch with reality
Created shadows of themselves
Despised their own intrinsic values
Embraced a twisted dress sense
Of fallen pants and revealed underpants
Idolized everything they're not
The good, the bad, the ugly
They birthed dual personalities
Picked up foreign accents
On ****** home-based passports
The American Dream, they call it,
As they wear winter jackets
In scorching African sun
All in the name of fashion
Trading our simple hues
For complex shades unknown
Bleaching skin and hair
Trading natural black for artificial white
Unaware the very gods they adore
Are tanning theirs to look darker
Insecurity drives them mad
Inferiority complex overtakes them
As they ban mother tongues in offsprings
Placing exotic tongues on pedestals
At the expense of our cultural future.
This is not an attempt at poetry
This is wake up call to Africa
Be bold, be proud, be black!
You are BEAUTIFUL!!
You are AFRICAN!!!*
© Raphael Uzor
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
the thick frames surrounding
my prescription perspective,
are the curtains to the ceaseless show.
the same charade everyday.
it's a 4-15 minute drive from my apartment to the campus.
4 minutes if the dark-humored, aliens that control stoplights are kind,
15 if they are looking for a laugh.
my feet hit parking concrete outside of classrooms.
it's rhythmic yet mundane.
but it's a game we all play.
i fall into line, the slow parade of apathy,
that leads us to lectures each day.
the professors project views of wicked youth,
we like white, pull-down sheets,
sport whatever image they insist,
so easily.
it's branded boys
and
tanning bed-inspired girls.
it's blind acceptance and
weightless regret.
i want to change lenses.
pull the curtain,
and start all over again.
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 10:14 AM UTC
Sirens and drunk laughter
outside my window
burnt ciggerete butts
Empty cases
outside my window
no flowers grow
outside my window
only people peeing
outside my window
***** ***** **** traffic
no white fence
outside my window
a group of lowlifes
junkies and ********
outside my window
wouldn't mind seeing a garden
or a hot girl tanning
outside my window
Walk outside
****** and drunk person
puking
outside my window
moving soon moving soon moving soon
where ill see a backyard outside my window
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 1:48 AM UTC
there are some things,
that just smell so good:
corn freshly shucked, potatoes roasted in campfire coals, carrots fresh from the ground, then washed and stovetop roasted
basted with butter
and lavender honey.
the nape of my toddlers neck,
that clean fresh hopeful little boy smell.
coffee, straight up, freshly brewed
caramel warming,
passionfruit, strawberries, citrus any type, zested. freshly planed fennel curls, mint crushed for a mojito, roast lamb and rosemary gravy.
the smell of planed wood in the palms of my man's hands as i kiss them. frangipani, coconut tanning oil,
earth newly rained upon. popcorn popping, chocolate melting,
jasmine, orange blossoms,
a grove of pine trees.
warm gingerbread and mulled wine.
salt tang on the morning breeze.
the smell that lingers after the lovin.
garlic and ginger in a hot wok.
salt tang on the evening breeze.
prawns all sea salty and
a crisp cold beer.
sandlewood and citrus aftershave lotion on your smoothed cheek.
nectarines, apricots,
a yellow juicy peach,
freshly bitten.
apple scented shampoo daphne & lilac my nana's smell,
bay *** newspaper print and palmolive soap,
my pop's study.
rose petals crushed.
earl grey tea,
toast just before burning damper and cocky's joy
crisp fresh linen warm from the sun.
so many scents, so many smells...
these are my favourites please feel free to add your's, as long as it's clean
and above board.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 7:10 AM UTC
The sound of small plastic wheels
On the ridged metal lip of an escalator
Bookends each trip between home and birthplace.
The first two uptempo, eager
To race to the smell of marble and leather,
Perfectly cooked fish and pastries with blueberries
The next two, piano, as I cross back,
Result of exhaustion, arms full of clothes and sorting small bottles into bags.
But on exit
Not due to vents, air conditioning, or the sensory assault of shopping under halogens,
Home smells of rust.
Of dirt and smoke - burnt.
Home smells more damaged and ****** up than its neighbour
And it's apt position on the map
Behind our back
Peering over the shoulder of the small ursa, overbearing and controlling.
But it's not the smell of burning petrol and tissue in glass,
Nor riot shields and plastic armour,
And only slightly of over emphasis on Northern Irish poetry during exams.
It's the stench of friendships, bouquet of break-ups,
Awkwardness and overconfidence,
Fake tanning and too much tea.
And like bonfires and cigarette smoke,
Burnt wood and tobacco embers,
It's the one perfume I can't get out of my clothes.
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 9:25 PM UTC
Foggy days in absentia
Caught in the ripples of a memory
The sparkling bay laps the sand
Soaking in the love
Tanning in the brightness of a smile
Living behind closed eyes
Where the heart is full
And the soul lives with its mate
In that bliss, glowing red
That is where eternity continues
Bliss found in a gaze
Perfection in a kiss
sigh, foggy days in absentia
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
I imagined we’d grow gray together
and take winter sun holidays
somewhere we could warm our bones
cut out coupons from newspapers
stacking up in a jam jar
next to the fruit bowl
you’d rent guidebooks out of the library
and I’d take evening classes
so that I could understand
black tied waiters
you’d find it cute and impressive
and you would hold my hand tightly
during take off
the plan was that we’d walk around
foreign supermarkets and guess
the contents of the cans
they’d be faded beach towels
and the sticky scent of tanning lotion
our antiquated skin would burn easily
if we didn't smother it
but I’m not sure it matters
anymore, fretting over factors
we already have tumors
growing like doubts in our chests
we have nurtured them,
tended to their hungers and thirst
until we have none of
our own
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
The air has begun to adopt that
damp and coppery hint of decay,
every breath a syrupy drop of autumn.
Each morning
the chorus of birds that greet the rising sun thins,
its members gradually cashing in on their accrued vacation time
and jetting off to winter homes in Florida.
Tourists.
All birds are tourists.
They won't be here to see the snow
turn to viscera under the tread of our lesser travels.
No,
they'll be tanning by gated watering holes,
discussing the downward trend in early worm returns.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 9:52 AM UTC
In my dream,
I was accosted by sugar ants
in the sandbox,
near the honeysuckle
and curled parsley
behind the house.
I was trying to eat the little ants
but was called in
for cheese and baloney.
When I came in,
hopping in worn-out slippers,
the glass door slid into the kitchen
with plasterboard walls
and beige ceramic tile.
There was a black spider
perched on the ceiling
with bright yellow knees.
Those years ago
I drew with sidewalk chalk,
made myself mazes
on the sloping driveway
too steep for basketball.
Cicadas dragged in heat
on waves, droning.
One landed on me -
a yell caught in my throat -
but I made myself look at it
and be still, shaking.
Back then I had an old cape
& a homemade bow-and-arrow.
I’d sally forth
into the backyard, barefoot,
jumping over prickly mulch,
brushing my shins
against clouds of low love-in-a-mist
with its threaded leaves
& shy blue-white flowers.
Sometimes my sister
was back there too, tanning,
or Mom carving
little men out of cherry,
but more often I was all alone
in that wilderness
in moccasins & living
off wood sorrel,
the brighter clover, lemony.
Or in rain
I listened to my brother
play piano if he was home,
maybe Bags and Trane,
and I’d dance between shadows,
the underworld of the patches
of carpet in the light.
Later - a little older -
I recognized that home
is more a time than a place,
and understood I would miss it
years before it was gone
so around nine years old
I went through every foot
of that high-ceilinged house,
that weedy backyard,
and made a solemn farewell
to everything in advance
trying hard to be ready
long before the time came to leave.
Jan 12, 2010
Jan 12, 2010 at 6:41 AM UTC
Momma gave birth to a dark skinned baby girl,
She said go out there baby and conquer the world…
With that in mind, little Suzie went off to school,
She paid attention and learned the golden rule…
At 9 years old, teacher asked Suzie what she'd like to be,
Oh that's easy miss, I will work in the bank on Market Street
Child please! With that tar skin and ***** hair?
Ha! You just might give the customers a scare!
Heart broken Suzie went home and told her mom,
She had many questions about where she came from…
Is something wrong with the colour of my skin?
Why is it so hard for me to fit in?
At 18 years old Suzie went out to see the world,
Wow! You're pretty! For a little black girl…
Enough is enough! I am proud of the colour of my skin,
It's obvious that you want to go where I have been…
Don't say my black isn't beautiful, when you spend hours in a tanning booth,
Don't say my black isn't beautiful, when you know I speak the truth…
The curl of my lips, and the curve of my hips, many of you desire,
So with many surgeries, and doctor visits, my image you try to acquire...
Afraid to see and admit how beautiful my chocolate skin is,
they try to brainwash me into believing that I am not His…
You're too dark, or she's too light,
Just look at her! Her complexion isn't right…
Now my brothers and sisters are trying to look like you,
Using chemicals and creams to lighten their colour that's true…
What more do you want of us?
About our thick curly hair you make a fuss…
Making relaxers and extensions for us to use,
Who can I call because this is abuse!
You seem to be very insecure,
That is why my chocolate skin you cannot ignore…
Tired seeing us on the cover of Vogue?
I bet you'd prefer if I were a rogue…
Stop beating down on the colour of my skin,
And try to know the person that is within…
Black, white, pink or blue,
My colour should not matter to you…
My black is beautiful and of it I am proud,
So I will stand tall with my head up and declare it loud…
My black is beautiful and I love every part,
And whether you agree or not, I am a work of art…
My black is beautiful, I just want you to know,
That I will wear it proudly wherever I go!
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 7:01 AM UTC