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MY POETRY HOME — trespassers welcome
(Sometimes in 1999) She's no doubt a flop, but she insists on
being the pleasure of every eye that stares.
After bathing for an hour with
mercuriated soaps and iso-propyl solutions,
she sits before the mirror and
makes herself an object d'farce:
First, she lays the foundation with
exotic creams containing foetal protein.
Then she lashes her scanty brows with black kohl;
her weather-beaten face is overhauled with
crushed and fragranc'd carbide lumps
highjacked from industrial coaches.
For hair, she has only spiky wires;
but she labours her hands to weave some
cheap wigs onto her balding scalp.
She then forces her upper torso
into an inelastic bodice so that
her flaccid breasts might be forged out
in some outlandish contours.
She looks up and bares her teeth
into the mirror, and gets up.
But she's made aware instanta that if
the Pygmies of Equatorial Africa be dwarfs,
then she's still half an inch too short to be as tall as one.
So she puts on her bespoke stiletto heels
in order to complement her highfalutin costumes.
Then out she goes on the streets,
gait awkwardly poised, each perverted catwalk step
carefully measured for its power to provoke
some applause from men who may stare in lust.
But she's passed scarcely noticed.
So she clangs her trinkets in desperation
to charm men, but they only glance in brief
and soonest move on – for all her efforts strike not
even their eyes, let alone their hearts at all.
© 2012, M-Auwal Gene III. All Rights Reserved
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