I
stare at your blood pink skin,
merging
into the structure of a face adored by millions (2.9 at least)
and
I think you look almost perfect
against
the Google image that caught my eye.
Self-styled
and sweet. Unique and chic;
the
toast of Instagram;
a
fashion reich of love heart likes,
but
now I wonder if perfection
can
be measured in a moment?
So
I stare some more at your blood pink skin,
and
punch your name into Google
again,
and again I think you seem almost perfect
against
the definition of “success.”
Self-styled
and fair. Threadbare prayed-prayers
sent
upwards from the couches,
and
train carriages,
and
restaurants,
across
the land;
wishing
only to be a modicum
of
your infinite splendour.
AND
then the questions flood
from
my mind;
they
bleed from my fingers;
what
is perfection scaled against a lifetime?
So
I stare once more.
I
STARE hard at your blood pink skin,
and
I light cheap expensive cigarettes,
and
I ask myself “is this my best work”,
and
I mourn the death of confidence;
and
I yearn for validation;
striving
to be self-styled and brave,
un-slaved
and to pave
paths,
righteous and true,
to
un-stick pages of glue,
release
works of note to un-bloat this bleak-freak world
of
dopamine crazed stooges
and
affiliates of the time wasting machine
of
social media.
I
stare at her blood pink skin,
now
content I’ve selected the perfect filter.
Tomas Bird - Apple Fire 2018
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