she calls me beautiful
with quivering lips and trembling thighs;
the lipsticks’ smeared on the pig;
all dressed up in high heels with the smell of Vodka,
--a lingering taste of metal and sugar,
she calls me beautiful in her singsong voice—
a melody of engineered high-fashion and low self-worth.
ah, but don’t I crave the magical illusion
with the pretense, a definite faux pas, but who can blame—
of some surreal acceptance and in reality, just the opposite,
denial in the highest degree.
isn’t it ingénue, terribly cliché but horribly unadulterated?
this love of mine, unsubstantial and sporadic,
depending on my mood and how many Gins I’ve digested,
depending on the time of day and the time of approach;
could be a smorgasbord of hope or an epitome of failure.
she calls me beautiful with chipped teeth and a toupee
metaphorically bound to the life of the ordinary
formalities and normality filling the daily life with a dreaded bore
god save the queen and god save the world, and save me too, while you’re at it—
but I digress.
for with all the faults that mark her existence
she is still the Isis of my Greece, the Rệve in my Revolution,
and though her voice is shrilled to a painful pitch,
her mismatched eyeliner dripping into a pool of black, tears, and saliva,
she calls me beautiful.
