I’m seeing those models,
All pretty faces and curves,
Like goddesses upon the screen,
And wonder how they do it,
What sorcery begets such angels,
The computer claims to know,
The beauty is simulated,
A conspiracy of tech and objectification,
A scalpel shaped like an arrow,
Pixilated nip and tuck,
It’s not real,
The screen mutates the image,
Warped for the male gaze
Imagined perfection,
At the click of a button.
We often put on temporary faces,
Papier-mâché masks just for the day,
Social engagement or spree of revelry,
It’s a game we play,
To fit in to the fold,
A little blush here,
A touch of mascara there,
Cologne and collared shirt and corset,
Making ourselves into little dolls,
GI Joe’s and Barbies,
It doesn’t last long,
A mask can’t be worn forever,
Our real face grows impatient,
We banish our disguise after the gala,
With the swish of a wet wipe.
There is indeed magic in this world,
Not of mana and incantations,
But the realm of nature,
Not of glyphs and sorcery,
But of our verdant mother,
The spells she wields,
Those helixes of code,
They are in perpetual flux,
Building blocks on an atomic scale,
Altered slightly in every iteration,
The marvels she summons are indeed magical,
Species and races and every tint of the rainbow,
Our mutations are the gifts she enchants us with,
Our differences are the witchcraft in our human coven,
In the magic of our DNA.
That glamourous material,
A full spectrum of colour in my hands,
Sand of the very stars,
Both kaleidoscopic and slapdash,
Beautiful but messy,
It reflects the light,
Turning the dull into prismatic disorder,
Rainbows in powder form,
Scaring away the droll,
It rains down upon my head,
It feels good,
And looks even better,
I have become an aurora borealis,
And my joy is flaunted in response.
The human race,
Society,
It’s all a pageant,
A beauty contest,
An insipid affair,
A masquerade on the streets,
We all put on glam dress faces,
Makeup over the tears,
A plastic smile for outside,
Who’s got the most beauteous mask?
The worlds a catwalk,
Fake visages,
Fake selves,
Objectifying each other,
Intoxicated on one anothers lies,
A smile on a polaroid,
Selfies with stupidity,
Interaction through a screen,
Charity for the likes,
Grovelling before the cyclopean god,
The human race,
A comedy,
A race we lose everyday.
Somedays I long to be a contortionist,
A performer,
A sculptor of the body,
Creating the impossible with their form,
A Durvasa pose of my own,
Remold the rubber,
To rearrange oneself,
From this hideous thing,
Into an enticing object,
Improvement through pain,
Dislocate the flaws,
Reset the bones,
Loose joints of a broken soul,
Put this to there,
And that to over yonder,
Part of this cirque du soleil,
I’d be a human anew,
A macabre sculpture,
Something magnitudes more alluring,
But would I be myself?
Or just part of the troupe?
WorldofHarley 