You stretch back my skin,
Facial tissue tightened,
Till thickness turns thin.
My face now in ribbons,
I wait for the sutury.
Amazing the results,
From voluntary butchery.
Neurotoxic infusion,
My flesh must remain firm,
Pour acid on my blemishes,
To beautify as I burn.
Forever to look youthful,
The rest matters not,
On the outside I am beautiful;
On the inside I rot.
Mood Music...
This blog post was part of a series of special posts for Halloween 2010.
Just something I wrote one night a few months ago. I never felt upto posting it but I thought with the day that's in it I might as well lash it out.
Just something I wrote one night a few months ago. I never felt upto posting it but I thought with the day that's in it I might as well lash it out.
Ah, but what if on the inside you feel 17, and all the butchery is just to make you into the person you think you really are?
ReplyDeleteVery nice choice of illustration.
One should never explain their poetry, however... my attempt here is not to condemn plastic surgery. Nor was my intention to necessarily imply that the "inside" was the personality. My view on the matter is that we spend much time and money on improving the flesh we can see, to keep it looking youthful while the flesh we can't see, continues to get old... heart valves wearing out, arteries hardening, DNA breaking down etc. That's the "reality" the title is in reference to.
ReplyDeleteThe working title of this poem was "Tempus Fugit" and I concentrated on the futility of attempting to halt the inevitably of physical old age, be that aging on the inside or on the outside. While I may have written the lines to flirt with the interpretation as you applied to it, my own personal opinions at the time of writing do not correlate.
Regarding the image. I'm quite a fan of Harry Clarke's work. I feel he's a very much under appreciated Irish artist. Outside hardcore art-circles at least.
Thanks for your feed back :)