Beauty
Masks
Beloved
child she stumbled on a limelight stage
wearing
heels made for a mother
cheered
on by strange adults with fancy cameras
she
pursed lips in what she thought a smile.
Frail
legs swayed with newly found pain
hoses,
mascara, and other devices
prescribed
by an ambitious manager
she
is six, might as well be twenty.
She
travelled many ages and numerous cities
on
luxury transport and first line air
sniffing
caviar, Havana's, and cocaine
forms
preserved by chemicals and a little touch up.
She
recalls those days when it felt so good
to
show angular curves bathed in two pieces
of
thousand-dollar fabrics per inch
before
the party to celebrate her twenties.
A
monument now she feels nothing
under
the artificial layers tailored for a future
walking
to cheer on her replacements
so
artificial the mirror reflects a stranger.
It
has been many visits to the sterile rooms
under
bright lights again and silent walls
as
she tried to recover a youth not her own
and
succeeded so in looking like another’s ghost.
Script 2021
They
fancy another story
true
to life or fairly close
ready
as always to pack it in
rooms
of thousands to bursting coffers.
Greed
in those squints
glaring
at the deserted horizon
how
to delight in this darkness
a
dream of Madame Tussaud’s.
If
only the rains could drain
every
particle of this misery
return
the giggles upon the fields
and
the sighs of lonely lovers.
But
the stage is set in waiting
while
they watch from their towers
feasting
on your raging tragedies
hyenas
in hiding they laugh.
While
in my bosom she dies
lost
in her youthful curls
my
sun unforgettable
her
heart caught in an evil embrace.
Sign of Being
I saw his fingers move in the breeze
inflexible reeds in a dying storm.
They hovered expecting a final gasp
eager to feast on the sorrow they needed.
A crowd gathered in invisible forms
boasting the dark hues of deep mourning.
Spectators they knew a show of grief to be
their due
a sixty second flash of vicarious loss.
Hoping for a tremor and a sonorous groan
they seemed to grow impatient with whispers.
What if it was yet another trick he played
on the human neighbours eager for a spectacle?
His toes twitched gleefully beneath the covers
a makeshift shroud made of precious silk.
He was not quite ready to journey on,
disappointed the growing herds.
Soon it would be time to return home
sombre as they were there was no reason to
cry.
I saw his fingers move and rejoiced at the hours
this man I never knew still cared to carry on.
True Believers
Sunday funnies are little compared to
the actors so well-rehearsed of
the long aisles to a dark altar.
The night before they drank on the gambling floor
hidden by neon colours and unlikely covers
home so late their eyelids still droop.
In suits fancier than on their wedding moments
meant to knock them dead on interview day
they seem strangers to themselves for an hour or so.
Mouthing words to century songs
their stomach scream for a break
soon lunch with temporary friends of the cross.
The dark armour and tie weigh heavy on the soul
as the summer dress is too tight on the breast
they cannot wait to shed what they call truth.
When the sun rises again, it will be an office
and memories of a sabbat well spent
while the giant screen screamed touchdown again.
For a moment they believed, and they swore
for another they almost were certain
that they gave the appearance of sincerity.
Shells for five days, hollow for the nights
sixty minutes of the week fixes all they claim
while corpses rot on the path to their redemption.
What if?
Leaning
upon the crannied wall of the castle
he
observes the stranger who crosses the bridge
light
as air in her long summer dress.
and
he wonders what if?
Fearful
to approach this lady above the clouds
might
he once even dare utter her name
as
she continues her noble steps
unaware
of the eyes attached to her motion.
But
what if she knew of him all along
and
dreamed as he did of a few stolen moments
under
the watchful eye of the guards
engaged
to spread rumours and crush children’s fantasies.
Perhaps
he should scream her name
see
it carried with a gentle breeze
to
deposit a light kiss on her crimson cheek
perhaps
then she would turn to him and smile.
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Fabrice Poussin
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