novella
Active Member
Though no one here seems interested in poetry or original writing very much at the moment, I shall post another poem.
Lipstick
Once upon a wish there was a star
glinting in the coin-filled fountain
casting shadows from the burial mountain
as the gypsy ran her hand along the scar
Does everyone wish to change
or just be more of what they are,
which, the more you know, the more grows strange
As strange as mother, strange as father was,
Though you pretended they were just their faces
their voices, the things they chose to tell
the ordinary surfaces and verbal carapaces
over the wet mouth of a dark and poisoned well.
In spite of that, the dark well seeped and stained it all.
At night father lay awake until he heard his wife
Finish her lipstick writing on the long white wall,
Which he painted over that very day: I hate this life.
We smelled the milk of paint and saw the white
And beneath, the oily red, trying to be heard
But it was best to say it looked fresh and bright
And mother went to bed without a word.
Lipstick
Once upon a wish there was a star
glinting in the coin-filled fountain
casting shadows from the burial mountain
as the gypsy ran her hand along the scar
Does everyone wish to change
or just be more of what they are,
which, the more you know, the more grows strange
As strange as mother, strange as father was,
Though you pretended they were just their faces
their voices, the things they chose to tell
the ordinary surfaces and verbal carapaces
over the wet mouth of a dark and poisoned well.
In spite of that, the dark well seeped and stained it all.
At night father lay awake until he heard his wife
Finish her lipstick writing on the long white wall,
Which he painted over that very day: I hate this life.
We smelled the milk of paint and saw the white
And beneath, the oily red, trying to be heard
But it was best to say it looked fresh and bright
And mother went to bed without a word.
